And so, he fell (through the cracks)

Chapter 1 Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Desmond wakes alone on cold asphalt, hard pebbles digging into his white hoodie.

It is pure, unadulterated shock lacing his system when his eyes snap open, and no, it wasn’t what he thought death would be like.

It isn’t the absence of heat, or decidedly not smooth stone that jolts him to attention: it is the dull ache lacing his right hand, burning where it touched the ground.

He grunts, using his good hand to prop his weak body up. All limbs seemed intact, omitting the arm. His hidden blades were still strapped to his arms, much to his relief.

Pale cream light glints softly against the wet stones of the asphalt, stretching far into the distance in a dark ribbon frosted in diamonds. The night is quiet, only faint whispers of grass threading through crisp midnight air, muted emerald and opal flickers in moonlight. There’s a tranquility much foreign in his own life in the moon.

As he does silent inventory, the magnitude of his situation makes itself known.

He is alive.

He shouldn’t be alive.

The Eye was supposed to kill him, leave his body burning in the temple. Not… not this. But the chill of the air on his skin, the stinging of the cuts on his face, was far from an illusion.

For three seconds, he lets himself hope, eyes pointing towards the shimmering light of the distant skyline.

Wait for me.

-----

sh*t, looks like there's no turning back.

As it turns out, Desmond isn’t going home. In New York city’s library, he combs through the internet with a finesse learned from—yours truly—Juno. Her attacks weren’t completely useless, at least.

Everything on the internet suggests this is a different dimension, if that was somehow possible. Abstergo, to his immense relief, does not exist here. Instead, there’s Stark Industries, a former weapons manufacturer turned eco-tech energy giant.

It doesn’t reassure him from what he found next: apparently, this dimension allowed heroes or vigilantes, idiotic people dressed in skintight spandex and breaking several hundred laws at once.

The Avengers, they called themselves.

He calls bullsh*t.

Desmond meets multiple firewalls in his inquiry, but they aren’t anything difficult to break and seal after. Apparently, there’s also a secret government organization called SHIELD, something about strategic homeland something something. The Avengers had been formed through their request.

It’s probably important, but he can’t find it in himself to delve deeper, mind spinning through scenario after scenario.

Desmond forges himself a shiny new identity through channeling his inner Shaun, keeping his original name (no one knew who he was anyway). It isn’t sound work, but it would hold against heavy digging. Now, he’s Desmond Miles, the runaway who became a bartender, his backstory an eerie parallel to his original life.

Here, there wasn’t anything to tie him. Anything to live for. If Abstergo doesn’t exist, then the Brotherhood most likely wouldn’t either—his searches for Rebecca, Shaun, and Lucy have come up inconclusive. Altair never existed, neither did Ezio. But Leonardo did, though he suspects the renaissance went slightly differently here, if it ever happened at all.

But for the most part, this world was almost the same as his old one.

‘Old one’, Desmond thinks, because this was the new, unsettling reality. He can't tell what he's feeling, but it's mainly resignation.

Shaking his head, he leaves the jittery scrutiny of the librarian (he couldn’t blame her: he must’ve looked like a half-crazed hobo) and steps into the midday sun, squinting slightly.

As Desmond pushes through the sparse, then milling crowds of the bustling city, people cast him strange looks. Following their eyesight, he looks down.

His pants are barely covering his modesty, jeans torn and ripped in ways unknown.

New dimension or not, pants came first.

-----

20 minutes later and a fair bit of pick pocketing, Desmond leaves the clothes store feeling refreshed in his new white hoodie and suspiciously tight jeans. Not that he had complained, but the sales lady was terrifying in a Rebecca way, forcing heaps of clothing on him to try. It was hard not the notice the constant gaze at his butt, and harder not to notice how the pants got tighter and tighter.

Thank God Desmond was able to escape, even if it meant sacrificing mobility.

His hand trembled the slightest as he pulled a leather glove over it as an afterthought, walking slowly along the streets. Next logical course of action seemed to be getting a job: pick-pocketing and stealing were only short-term methods.

It was time to go job hunting again.

It is as painful as he remembered it.

-----

It’s almost nostalgic when Desmond ends up a bartender again, in the big apple.

Naturally, he had tried to find Bad Weather again, but…it didn’t exist. So he had tried to ignore the pain in his chest, and asked around the sketchier parts of town. Ezio’s experience in dealing with shady figures came in handy, and he landed a job in a somehow shadier bar called “Bad-ish Weather”.

What the f*ck is this plagiarism. But it’s completely different, Asiatic themed rather than smooth leather, and he thought he’d deal.

The manager of the bar (big Japanese guy, with yakuza style tattoos) had taken one look at him, before hiring him no questions asked. By now, his hand is healing nicely, and while it hurt, it wouldn’t affect his productivity. shouldn't.

Desmond should probably be suspicious, but after a demo that refreshed his memory, the manager stopped looking at him with scornful eyes. He was hired an hour ago.

An hour ago, he was an idiot.

It’s kind of stupid, how he didn’t bother with any background checks to the place. As it turns out, it’s a damn daycare for mercenaries and mafia. In Eagle vision, almost every ‘patron’ glows a blinding red, or at least a pale red. His eyes catch money(gold?) discreetly changing hands, code disguised in conversation, and he wants to f*cking die.

Right when he’s escaped his world, he’s in another.

At least being a bartender often means being invisible, as well as a messenger. Even though he hasn’t been here long, the amount of information he’s gleaned is fairly sizable.

The loud, extravagant-looking man in the far booth is the heir of the largest drug-dealer in America. That sly-looking Chinese woman in silk is the daughter of the man who owns a massive part of the black market. Those twins in the back corner are about die from overdose.

He can’t help but wonder the shoddy taste of these big-shots, if they hang out in a place called Bad-ish Weather. Maybe it’s because of the trash name they stay, because no one expects them here. He forces himself into mingling with some of them, picking up bits and pieces of scattered information.

He’s so f*cking tired.

Desmond slams a drink (a co*cktail of who-knows-what, an apparent specialty) in front of this lady who’s making disturbing eyes at him and sets to work mixing a drink for the sketchy looking man at the far end of the bar. Granted, everyone here looks sketchy, but at least he shows white. For the most part.

In fact, the man looks disturbingly nervous, which, while the normal reaction to the murders and soul-selling in the background, is frankly suspicious in this setting. His expensive, well-pressed suit is worn confidently, and the luxury watch on his wrist isn’t touched: he is obviously used to the money he owns.

One of the upper-class families or businesses in New York, then, judging by the accent. This certainly narrowed things down. And from his discomfort, the legal side. There are also many wary eyes pinned on the man, subtle shifts in the atmosphere at any move he made—so maybe a righteous, crime fighting (ew, as Rebecca would say) rich family.

Desmond’s starting to feel familiar, and he doesn’t like it.

The man slowly eases into the mood but is still tense. It doesn’t show well, but Desmond can catch the frenetic tapping of his fingers, and the frequent adjustment of his glasses past his smile.

The middle-aged man is also mumbling something and gesticulating into thin air, but it’s not Desmond’s business.

Until it is.

Notes:

I've never actually played the games though, so some suggestions would be great.

Chapter 2 Notes:

kept thinking my work was trash, so kept revising it. hopefully, it's not as trashy.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

One second Desmond’s tossing co*cktail shakers into the air, and the next the entire wall to his right has collapsed, a massive green thing that could be Abstergo’s wet dream for domination crushing furniture like paper. An arrow lodges itself next to the exit, stopping the fleeing socialites, screaming and dust filling the air.

Desmond takes a second to appreciate the skill of the archer (thanks, Connor), before the rich-but-nervous guy is suddenly encased in blinding red and yellow metal, pale glow at the chest. The armour fires nets, as a red-headed blur shoots past them to easily dispatch the thugs protecting those rich kids with efficient, clean moves.

Desmond watches it all with a bland expression, body shifting the slightest if only to dodge rubble. In minutes, the battle is over. The cops arrive with flashing lights, and with saddening ease that only comes through practice, arrests the flailing victims trapped under nets.

He doesn’t flinch as a man dressed in black comes swinging through, shooting arrows with pinpoint accuracy. A walking flag charges past him, further blocking the exit that is not a caved wall with a stupidly eye-catching shield.

He wonders briefly how many laws are being broken, not that he can judge.

He takes advantage of the chaos to pickpocket trinkets and cash worth thousands in dollars and slips easily through the crowd while plastering a look of fake terror. He’s out of the pub quick, and the second he’s out of sight his face turns bland again. The alleyway is nicely quiet and had a fantastic view of the operation happening not far away.

Desmond watches with interest as the police break out handcuffs, dragging the now disgraced rich people into cars. He doesn’t doubt they’ll be out of jail in hours, what with their backgrounds anyway, so why are they struggling?

He shrugs, preparing to go back to job hunting. This must be a new record.

Then nervous guy (Iron Man) flies back next to him, and hands him a business card.

“Um.” Desmond says, eloquently, hand automatically receiving the card.

“Gotta say,” the voice filters through metal, “That was a sh*tty good drink. If you’re looking for work, which I don’t doubt,” He casts a pointed look (not that Desmond could actually see his eyes) around him, “You’re always welcome at Stark Tower.”

Iron Man gives a lazy salute, before flying off to join his friends(?). The red one gives Desmond a wary look and tells nervous guy what seems to be a warning that is brushed off with uncanny ease.

Desmond stares blankly at the card in his hand, surrounded by broken rubble, sparking wires, and dust. The Avengers shrink into the distance, leaving the poor local authorities to deal with the mess. At least they showed blue, though Iron Man was a blinding gold, which was useless. At most, Eagle Sense was telling him he could trust these idiots.

Just his luck.

(part of his brain wonders why the Avengers would be handling something so small, while the other half refuses to work.)

He cracks open the co*cktail shaker that is still miraculously in his hand and chugs it.

-----

Avengers Tower

“So, what do you think?” Tony smacks his hands on the table, pulling up the admittedly tiny file of the ‘person of interest’. There’s really nothing in it: just a name (Desmond Miles) and a flimsy and vague summary of his life. There are no school records, so he must have been homeschooled. Isn't that suspicious.

He’s clean, eerily so, with not even a speeding ticket to his name. No driver’s license, though there’s a motorcycle one.

The picture it makes isn’t particularly reassuring, combined with the fact the he didn’t exist before yesterday. Sure, the records are there, but there’s not even security footage dating before. Tony had already checked for tampering, but there’s none there either other than some unnatural movement that Jarvis pinged him on.

It’s a damn mystery, and he’s sure the kid must’ve lived like a naturalist or something. Cue flashbacks of attempted ‘family camping trips’ with Howard, and cringe. No Howard, it’s not camping with a yacht.

At times like this, he wishes the Force can speak to him, like it does with Luke or Anakin. Not that he needed more emotional baggage.

“All in all, he’s a ghost.” Clint breaks the contemplative silence. None of them fear this kid (“he’s 25!” “…still a kid.”), but rather what he can become. They’re all wound tight after Loki, and the knowledge settles deceptively heavy over them all. “I didn’t see him disappear during the fight.”

Despite shield’s access to traffic and security cams, they still were not able to track him. It was as if he had vanished off the face of the Earth. Or he knew where the cams were. Ooo, conspiracy within shield?

Natasha nods, eyes sharp. “He can fight. There were at least two knives on his body, within reach.” She ticks them off on her fingers. “His stance is balanced, and he didn’t seem the worried that he was outnumbered, if he saw us as enemies at all. He blended easily in the crowds. Definitely trained in combat and possibly espionage.”

Tony nods, pulling up footage from his suit. Their suspect stands in the middle of the carnage, looking extremely chill, if not annoyed, of all things. When he moves, it’s blink or you miss it—one second he’s there, and then he’s not, weaving through crowds.

“He was charismatic too.” Tony mumbles, thinking of the idle chatting Desmond was in with certain customers. “If he was pissed at any point, he didn’t show it.”

Bruce, in the back, seemed vaguely disoriented (he almost falls off his chair) but is quiet. Cap gives Tony a helpless look, and they all heave a collective sigh. Fury had come through not hours ago with a mission: an info collection disguised as a drug bust. Great job it did.

Clint looks appropriately grim, and Natasha is unusually quiet in the face of their wasted attempt. He doesn’t know what’s going on in their brains, but it can’t be pretty.

Tony isn’t really sure what he’s feeling. He’s met the guy, after all, and he seemed decent. A little distant maybe, but it all came with the job: you had to be to survive in a business like that.

Tony knows people, how they think and act from a lifetime of discreet grooming from Howard, ever the loving father. The loving father who took his 5-year-old son within him to talk illegal weapons trade.

This man, Desmond, may have not been pissed, but he was plenty annoyed, yet dealt with each patron with enough respect and flattery to make happy with even the moodiest of stupid rich brats. Or it was the good booze, but whatever.

Tony, dare he say it, likes this man because anyone who can watch the Natasha triangle choke mafia men and look bored of all things is terrifying. He almost hopes there isn’t anything incriminating, except this is so interesting.

Far more interesting than threatening DUM-E with recycling, and okay, not as much as inventing, but still. It can’t be interesting without leads, and there’s none beyond the obvious unless they knew where he was—

Tony slams his face onto the table.

The Avengers stand, alarmed, and Tony feels a little warm for the concern. But mostly amused.

“I almost forgot! The business card I gave him is bugged!” Tony feels supremely smug, reveling in the almost admiration from his teammates. Almost, because all of them look dead on the inside at this point.

Natasha hits him on the side of the arm. “Not bad.”

Ow. That really shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did.

A map appears on the translucent screen, a blinking red dot indication of location. It’s comfortably in the darker parts of New York, stationary among glowing blue. They all stare at the dot for an uncomfortably long time, and Tony realizes they’ve somehow managed to go back to the beginning.

As in, they’ve got nothing. The bug function on the card would be useless, unless the kid talked to himself or something. Maybe next time he could ‘coincidentally’ meet the kid on the street or fire up his experimental drone/satellite monitoring software--

Then Fury has to call.

“Sir, incoming call from Director Fury.” Jarvis intones, voice somehow annoyed. Tony doesn’t remember programming that, but he approves.

Tony scrubs a hand down his face. “Pull him up.”

A high-definition image (too high for comfort) of Fury’s face layers on top of the map, red dot blinking through Fury’s nose. Clint snickers behind Tony, and he takes a second to marshal his face.

“Stark. What do you have on our person of interest?”

“Nothing, Rudolph.” There’s a definite laugh behind him.

“Don’t make me go there myself.”

“Wait wait wait! I….hiredhimasmybartender.” Shocked silence reigns behind him, and Tony realizes he hasn’t told them yet. He turns around and spreads his hands helplessly. “My perfectly nice bar was just gathering dust.” Like Fury’s sense of humour, he tries not to say.

“He’s a person of interest, and you hire him as your bartender.”

“Yup.” Tony pops the ‘p’. “Well, technically no. I gave him an offer he can’t refuse. Besides, he makes a damn good drink—” at Fury’s Look, he tacks on, “and we can track him if he’s close. It wasn’t one of my best ideas, but a better one.” He makes finger guns.

Clint seems reluctantly impressed, slipping him a discreet thumbs-up.

“Great. Job.” Natasha says blandly behind him, as if talking to an idiot. He can almost hear her eyeroll.

They don’t help Fury, despite him being their ultimate superior. Tony can’t read much into it, won’t, but somehow feels better with Friends. Friends, and isn’t that a foreign concept? As foreign as a proud Howard.

Tony’s gotten used to the murmurs behind his back, his playboy, weapons dealer reputation—after all, it deprived him of people he could truly trust, barring Pepper because he never regrets her. It’s strange, but he likes this new dynamic and feeling.

And now Fury’s staring at him, as if trying to fry him with his eyes. If Tony was a lesser man, he would have quailed.

There’s a muffled sigh, and the call ends abruptly. Tony gives himself a mental fist bump, because Fury forgot to give him instructions, which meant improvisation. A lot of it.

“Hmm. I think I’ve leveled up my ‘Pissing off Fury’ skill to max, now.” This time, Tony gets hit by Clint, who claps him on the back harder than strictly necessary, while leaving the room with Natasha.

“Tony,” Capsicle admonishes, though there’s no heat behind it. He leaves the room quickly as well, heading for the Training rooms because he’s that predictable. And lonely, Tony’s brain says, but he pushes it away.

It’s just the Big Guy and Tony left.

“So. We just have to wait for him to take up your offer?”

“Yeah.”

I don’t know what to say.” Bruce uncharacteristically makes a violent sound Tony’s never heard before, and he wonders vaguely if Bruce knows he’s a little green.

“You and me, buddy.”

You and me.

-----

Desmond wakes on a ratty mattress, stray springs and acrid smell stinging. He bolts up, suddenly disoriented, because why was he alive where’s the Eye Juno—

To make it worse, the world starts to blur and waver, the old mattress he’s on flickering to prickly hay and his hand is in another’s, stars in the night sky glowing marbles, as Altair turns and looks into Maria’s beautiful eyes and tells her he loves hersmileeyesbladeshatterscreamswhywhyWHY

He takes deep breaths, focusing on the suspicious stains on the mattress. Hay can’t have clear stains. Mattresses don’t exist in Masyaf. His name is Desmond Miles, he’s 25 and lost in another universe. Desmond Miles, not Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad.

The world realigns, and he falls back reeling from the Bleed, heart pounding a desperately and more unsettled than he should be. Strangely, he’s gone a whole day in this world without the Bleeding Effect, and it chooses to show up now.

He also hasn’t seen hide or hair of Ezio, which is slightly disturbing. It feels strange, without his sly commentary on the various attractive females around him. Not that he missed it or anything.

And now he’s pitying himself for feeling weak, which somehow creates even more pity for the pity. Then again, he does have justification, albeit simple.

He’s lost, and f*ck, he’s lonely.

Shaking his head, he flicks on Eagle Vision, feeling bored (and hungry, but he’d rather not open that can of worms). There are figures of neutral white-grey above him and to his right, separate rooms in the decrepit building, glowing clearly through walls. The sparse pedestrians outside are also white, but since he knew almost nothing about this dimension, everyone showed white.

There are also patches of potential hiding spots scattered here and there, but he filters them out with a little concentration.

Desmond idly watches one of the figures, a tall, lanky man painted in blinding white, hunch over a desk. He knows that this man can help him find a decent forger for his yet-to-be-printed-almost-legit documents, though will charge a pretty penny.

The man above him, also a white, will be among the first of his information network, and one of the most important though will also charge him far too much. Why can’t it be as simple as Florence? A couple of coins and a nudge was enough for any.

Sometimes it really hits hard, how useful and uncanny Eagle Sense is.

He isn’t quite sure why Stark’s business card was glowing incandescent gold though. Obviously, Stark is important, but how? Should he assassinate him or something? It feels world shaking, profound, and deeply interconnected with who knows what. Something dangerous, probably.

The murky grey begins to distort slightly, darkness shifting the moving shadows cast by a fire, faint light shining on clay pots and animal furs. The scene twists, then it’s his(?) Blade embedded in the neck of a gold silhouette, then flicking blood off the blade as the target falls limp. Desmond slams his eyes shut, breathing shaky as cold sweat lines his back.

Dammit, Ratonhnhaké:ton. He rises from the mattress before stumbling into the not-kitchen, because calling it a kitchen would be a travesty. The entire place is grimy and dusty, but it's not like he hasn't lived in worse.

Quickly munching on an apple he’d stolen from the bar earlier (oh, the irony) that was still intact, he (metaphorically) rolls up his sleeves.

If Desmond is going to stay here, he’s going to have to establish himself (then f*cking buy an apartment or something, this place really triggers a lot-).

This is going to be a long ride.

Notes:

sorry guys, the face to face confrontation's going to be in a while. I have no update schedule, so.
until next time?

Chapter 3 Notes:

I have low self-confidence and no idea how the world works
please help

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

“I need information.” sh*t, he never was good at code.

The man edges further from the door, unkempt and feral. He licks his lips.

“What kind of information?” his voice is raspy from disuse and who-knows-what.

“All of it.”

“…I can’t do that.” They both know that’s not true.

“I want to know the major groups around here, their leaders, intentions. I want to know.” Desmond decides to add a little more incentive, idly taking out his wallet. When he says those rich kids were rich, they were rich. The man’s eyes follow the wallet, before stating a number.

“5,000.”

“Deal.” Desmond says. Haggling with this man would only drive him away, as much as it cost. He supposes he can think of it as an investment. “Tell your friends.”

The man waves him into his room, and spills.

Well, not all of it, because lives are on the line, but Holy sh*t. Who knew there were so many circles underground, tucked away through precarious tower of bribes and dirty money.

And he’s going to have to visit every single one of them.

-----

They start noticing after 4^th drug dealer he talks with (re: beats up).

“Who the hell are you?!” A thug shouts, holding a feeble hand over a bleeding eye.

“Someone who will kill you,” Desmond says, staring at his nails in a totally not bratty at all Altair move. Of all things he picks up from his ancestors, Shawn says he's picked up the worst (he said it fondly? Maybe?).

He kicks one of the unconscious bodies away, before moving forward, heedless of the face he just stepped on. f*cking with people was surprisingly fun. He’s sure one of his ancestors had it as a pastime, but the animus filters out so much of the interesting parts.

“You should start running.”

The thug whimpers.

Three hours later, the thug comes back with a veritable army of men and women, armed to the teeth with cold weapons as to not attract attention. Tensed muscles, tightly clenched weapons, they seem to be most the shady people in the area banded together under the banner of Revenge.

It’s still unbearably crude—there’s a thousand ways they could take him down without lifting a finger, but he approves. The assassin genes in him agrees better safe than sorry, better alive than the job done. (not that you shouldn’t take risks, but the general idea is there.)

They herd him into a suspiciously empty warehouse, and he lets them. he’s still not keen on law enforcement finding him.

The criminals charge, and Desmond meets them head-on. He kicks the bat out of a woman’s hands, knocks her out with a quick punch to the temple, then grabs the bat to block the sloppy swing to his chest, before bringing him down with a sharp jab in the gut.

It’s all harmlessly non-lethal, leaving the unconscious bodies with complimentary bruises and a gift-wrapped nightmare. After all, it’s better to leave witnesses, and dead bodies were a hassle to clean up.

With every person that goes down, Desmond feels lighter. It’s been so long since he could push like this, flow from move to move without thinking in the density of bodies, feeling the puff of breath and bones give under his fists. They’re nowhere as skilled as even a basic, ‘I was recruited 5 minutes ago’ Templar lackey, but they make it up with ample numbers that he’s happy to cut down.

The lights flicker off, and Desmond flicks on Eagle vision, clear as ever even in the dark. All of a sudden, palpable fear leeches into the tension of the remaining fighters, which is less than a handful.

“Demon.” The word echoes, bouncing off the walls in an eerie whisper, clouds obscuring the moon. Desmond grins wide. The men, terrified and cold, latch onto the word like drowning men to a lifeboat.

“Demon!” one of them shouts, then darts to the escape. Like water breaking though a dam, they scramble backwards and over their fallen comrades. Desmond is left surrounded by prone forms, with only moonlight spilling past dusty windows.

kill them, a voice that sounds remarkably like Altaïr hisses. Traitors. Like Al Mualim. Like—

the rays of moonlight flicker and wane, and he sees flashes of open ocean, shifting sands, clogged streets. Altaïr stands beside him, proud and pained, before turning to him with an unreadable look in his eyes and flickering away.

A snort barely makes it past his lips, and his fists clench over hidden blades.

They don’t bother him after that.

-----

“1000.” Wow, that was a lot cheaper than he thought, and it must have shown on his face.

The guy? Girl? Makes him a face and snaps their overly stickered laptop closed with a click of nails. Man, Eagle Vision was vague about this.

“I can get you what you want, and it’ll be quality.” They say, mistaking the look on his face for disdain. Their roommate, a college kid who looks like he’s going to die slumps into the room for a midnight snack.

“The cookies are in the fridge,” forger person murmurs without looking away from Desmond, “Put it back, dipsh*t.”

There’s a grunt, and a muffled “love you too” before the shuffling silhouette disappears into one of the rooms.

Glad he’s never had to go to college. From what he can pick from Clay’s Adderall-crazed rants, college is as fun as getting hit by a truck. Every single day, for years, until the truck turns into a train.

Desmond reclines on the ratty couch, relaxed, having already checked for threats. They’re glowing white with tentative blue, and Desmond and sense their cooperation isn’t going to be a one-time thing.

“When can I have it?” Desmond asks, picking at a stray thread on the couch.

“Soon enough.” They roll their eyes, somehow looking annoyed even when half of their face is discreetly covered.

After leaving his contact information, (say, “everything is permitted” to the man in the brick building 3 blocks away, then hand over message. “What the f*ck is this? And why is it so damn extra? I know you live right under me.” “…Oh yeah.”)

Desmond also buys a possibly stolen laptop off of forger person and a very very modified stark phone. Sure, apple was trash, but at least he was used to it. All these holograms and whatnot drudged up some really bad memories.

Like there’s not enough of those.

Speaking of apple, somehow, Nokia exists here too. He’s toying with the idea of getting one, ‘cause a good reliable Nokia phone is like a brick he can carry around without looking suspicious. Wait no, he still doesn’t have physical id yet. What a shame.

He climbs down the stairs silently, slipping easily into shadows before quickly entering his room and laying, for good measure, a wire trap. Who knew Connor’s snares would have such practical use.

He collapses on the musty mattress, pulling the ragged curtains closed and casting a brief glance over his untampered belongings, the business card where he left it. Finally, for some real research, if sleep doesn’t get him first.

Impatient, Desmond cracks the laptop open.

Then slams it shut, grimacing.

Thanks, forger person for the now confirmed stolen unwiped laptop. He never wanted to know that human bodies could bend that way. At all.

With lightening speed, he closes the desecration of humanity playing loudly, and scans through the laptop feeling scandalized, something he’s never felt nor wanted to feel before.

Who the hell saved 70 folders of p*rn?

Combing quickly through the files, he finds a strange folder intelligently labeled ‘passwords’. Sure enough, there’s passwords to every single account listed on it, and he spots many passwords that are ‘password’. How… incredibly stupid. He can almost hear Shawn having a seizure, and then the hourlong lecture that comes after. It’s really a new level of idiocy.

Desmond wipes the computer, thoroughly. Then does it again for good measure.

Finally sound in heart and mind, he forays into the wonders of the internet, searching for anything that might concern Abstergo and the templars and his friends though there’s really no point in trying as they’re a dimension away—

He might as well finish what he started.

The search, just as he expects, comes up inconclusive with the extremely thorough digging. But even if he knows it’s not possible, it doesn’t hurt any less. Desmond scrolls through articles about the crusaders and the Templars, of the Hashashins that were wiped off the map in a long, arduous war. Everything was the same, yet different, and the parallel rips him apart. No. This is all wrong.

He tilts his head back against the ratty mattress, feeling world weary. There’s Rebecca in his ear, voice on the edge of her classic, unconscious nag.

“Don’t worry about it too much. You always bounce back.”

It’s not much of a choice, is it?

-----

It’s days when he scrounged up enough courage to go back to the computer, which in hindsight seemed silly: he’s fought lifetimes of crooks, sad*stic bastards and the unscrupulous corrupt yet a machine scares him a little.

He has a good reason though. There’s so much he wants to know…and doesn’t.

As he begins building a digital network, his budding physical information network brings him information, a tiny woman almost choked by the wiretrap at his doorway right when he forgot it was there. Oops.

Establishing himself digitally, writing programs… it’s ridiculously easy for him. Now, he’s pretty sure the apple gave him more than he wanted, and he’s not sure if he likes it. Desmond’s even catching himself absentmindedly calculating the trajectory of a stray rock, and no. That’s Clay’s or even Leonardo’s territory, and there’s enough sh*t in his life without wondering what responsibility the information gives him.

Call Desmond a coward, but he really doesn’t want to think about it.

He spends days buzzing up in that stuffy room, eating his slowly dwindling stores of snacks and doing the classic unofficial Assassin training regimen.

Even Eagle Vision can’t save his computer-blinded eyes now.

When he gets too stuffy holed up in his (temporary) den, he goes running. Which happens to be a lot. The thugs who used to routinely jump him has stopped, and he almost misses them.

As he jumps from roof top to roof top, security cameras neon flashes in his eagle vision, he focuses on the earthly things. Long times on the chase with Abstergo and frenzied animus trips has taught him to enjoy the little things: the fact that he’s alive. He’s even slightly better than okay. It’s a little suspicious, because nothing ever goes right in his life.

Sometimes he encounters crime on his runs, and briefly dispatches them before continuing his run. Naturally, because of the area, this meant many, many stops.

There’s so much desolation here. If he was still in his dimension, this would be what the world would be like, after he saved it. If he saved it. Still strife with crime, with death and sin: sometimes he wonders if it was even worth it, fighting the same war as all those before him. Working from the shadows, fighting, dying and never receiving recognition.

It’s fine. Desmond never did it for the recognition anyway.

He doesn’t know what he did it for.

By the time he shoves his 6^th thief against the wall, the sky is already fading into inky blue, streetlamps casting a shady glow right outside the dark alley, like a light at the end of the tunnel.

He looks regretfully at the thief cowering against the wall, shrinking away from him. Too bad there wasn’t a guild of thieves like there was in Ezio’s time. Pickpockets and such were often the most desperate of people, and a little trust and coin can go a long way with them. (if they didn’t backstab you first.)

Desmond leans against the damp stone of the alleyway, eyes piercing through the glare of light pollution into the night sky above.

Maybe he’ll finally take up Stark’s offer.

…nah.

Notes:

I think it'll happen next chapter? Maybe?

Chapter 4 Notes:

haha, I'm not dead, though I wish
I've been procrastinating, so here's an extra-long chapter (was supposed to be two, but...)

Chapter Text

It’s quiet. Too quiet, and all they’ve gotten was a highly suspicious anonymous tip to the police that led to a warehouse of stirring men, many of which were on NY police department’s wanted list and seemed to be half of the underground scene.

By the time Tony makes useless upgrades to his suit, programs the Elvis dance into iron legion, and tries to equip rocket thrusters onto Clint’s bow (“I’m taking this.” “Why, Nat!? Why do you do this to me?” Clint whines.) the Captain decides it’s time for a distraction.

“We, as a team, are going on an excursion.” Cap declares to where Tony is scribbling something on a sleeping Bruce’s face. Tony looks up, with a look that couldn’t be anything but frazzled.

“Sorry to break it to you, Cap, but no one uses ‘excursion’ anymore.” Tony smacks Bruce, and the man wakes with a mumble and groan. Cap’s eyebrows lift, and his face takes an expression Tony’s never seen before. Nat, who feeds of off suffering, pokes her head into the room, looking disinterested. But Tony knows that glint in her eye better than his suit’s programming.

Steve clears his throat. “I use excursion.” He says defensively. “Jarvis, could you please notify Fury of our trip? It’s going to be fun.”

“The Nation’s Darling my ass.” Tony drawls, but gets up all the same. “It’s getting stuffy in here anyway.” Damn, who knew Captain America could be threatening. This is surreal.

But hey, if you live with a Norse god, 2 assassins, and a green rage monster, a 97 year-old cryogenically preserved symbol of America can be scary.

-----

Desmond runs out of hoodies. And food, but that’s not important.

He runs out of hoodies and it’s not okay. Part of his brain tells him it’s a good chance to go back into the world when it’s not in the middle of the night, and the other half wants to bury itself back into the computer that he’s practically attached to.

For his sanity, he goes for the first option, reluctantly.

He leaves the dank building. The light outside is…bright. Brighter than the Eye, brighter than his soul.

It feels vulnerable, somehow, without his hoodie, even in the first breaths of clean air (as clean as NYC can be). This is proof he’s really not okay and he really needs another one as soon as possible—Rebecca had always called his hoodie addiction dangerous. With quick mental calibration, he heads to the closest clothes store.

The bell jingles when he enters, and the young store clerk mumbles a quick welcome, before she stares at him with a laser interest.

“It’s been a while!” she says, a terrible look in her eyes. Desmond draws a blank, until it hits him. This was the lady that traumatized him enough to thank God, of all celestial apparitions, and again, God, help him.

He feels the blood drain out his face, and he thumbs the knife in his pocket. The saleslady is now staring at him like a fanatic and he needs to leave—now.

(He’s heard from Rebecca, before she was recruited into the assassins. The onslaught of sales quotas, nagging customers, and protocol that endorsed borderline stalking is still echoing in his ears.)

Who cares about his hoodies, his life is more important. Distantly, he hears Connor agree.

“I’ve got just the perfect thing for you!” she chirps, her blond hair bobbing with her toxic enthusiasm as she begins to stride towards the back room. Her gait is noticeably faster than what is considered appropriate indoors. “Wait here!”

Desmond would be stupid if he didn’t try to escape. Apparently, master assassin speed can’t match up to a woman on a mission, and with a foot out the door, eagle sense tells him of the threat right behind him. He turns and sees the demonic light in her eyes, flashing with a type of terrifying glee. Desmond suddenly understands what it feels like to be a Templar crony getting beaten up by a master assassin.

It’s not a good feeling.

“Where do you think you’re going?” The cheery voice came straight from hell.

Why did the hell did the Isu invent mankind?

-----

Tony strolls across the well-worn paths of central park, beside Bruce and Clint. They’re all wearing some form of disguise, though Tony’s is a simple baseball cap pulled low. He’s pretty sure he wears his signature sunglasses so much that people won’t even recognize him without it.

He’s right.

Out of all them, Bruce is somehow the most suspicious, sporting smeared marker tattoos scrawled on his face. Tony’s proud of that one.

“Wow!” he says, clapping his hands. “D’you think we’ll meet our mysterious friend?”

Bruce seems too engrossed with the prospect of actually being outside to answer, while Clint shrugs. “I dunno. His MO is all over the place. There’s a higher chance Nat and Steve will meet him, and I’m only here because you promised me that you would buy me some of them delicious donuts.” His eyebrows tick. In annoyance or anticipation, Tony can’t tell.

Tony squints, because he can’t remember making that promise. Then again, Pepper always says there is nothing but questionable things and technology floating in his brain. He objects, because there’s definitely food somewhere in that mess.

“I thought we still had three boxes?” he deflects, because he most certainly did not eat any of those donuts. Jarvis will back him up when worst comes to worst; he’s programmed to be the best bro out of best bros.

“I used one for archery practice, and the last two are AWOL.”

Tony opens his mouth to defend his honour and to ask why donuts are necessary for archery, when a quiet voice interjects.

Chapter 5 Notes:

has it been an entire year? Not going to lie, i really forgot about this.
some notes: very unedited, i confuse myself, where is this story even going you tell me and whoa 10,000 views wtf im famous
thanks guys.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

In retrospect, Desmond should have expected it. His entire life is basically the universe’s joke, a perverse screen play of some major motion picture he doesn’t know. Now, thanks to fate (or some equally unmerciful being), he’s standing right in front of the people he wants to see the least. Tony Stark gapes at him, mouth flapping uselessly, while an agent with blonde hair is reaching behind his back for a weapon. Bruce Banner looks close to fainting, turning a distinct shade of…green? Also, was that a mustache? Is this some new diversionary tactic?

Quickly, Desmond considers his sparse options.

Go with them. Ask them what they want from him; maybe stop by for some scones and tea for good measure. Free food is good food.
Parkour the f*ck out of here. The store front looks easy enough to scale, and the range of the security cameras seem limited enough. This is clearly the priority—oh wait, who’s that red haired lady coming towards him and why does she have that look on her face--

(Please note that none of these options involve dropping the bags, because they are precious and he’s gone through hell to get his hoodies.)

He’s trapped. He shifts his bags to one hand, and subtly shifts legs just enough to be ready at a moment’s notice. As if she knows what Desmond is thinking, the red head shouts at him, loud in the silence. The blond man behind her (is that f*cking Captain America???) readies his fists.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” Desmond takes the pause to trigger Eagle Vision.

Huh.

The gold blinds him, saturating the Avengers mercilessly, beacons that almost pierces straight through Desmond’s eyelids. Eagle Vision always had told him who to assassinate, and some basic critical thinking shows that it clearly doesn’t apply in this situation. He’s in new territory, and he doesn’t like it one bit. At least they’re not hostile—for now.

A very familiar voice interrupts his train of thought.

“Dude, have you thought about my offer? Stark industries has great insurance and job benefits. If there’s a job benefit you want, I’ll give it to you. If there’s a job benefit you want that doesn’t exist, I’ll make it for you. What do you think?”

A long silence, then the dirty blond beside Stark chokes.

“Tony! We can’t do that! He’s being monitored by them and you just offer him a job position?!”

“I told you I would hire him already!”

“I thought you were joking!”

“You don’t take anything that comes out of my mouth seriously?”

“Are you seriously asking me that question—”

All I wanted, Desmond thinks through the din, was my damn hoodies. f*ck this.

“I’ll go with you.” Stark and the blonde stops fighting, glancing at him with wide eyes. The redhead only narrows her eyes at him, while Captain America (what the actual f*ck) stares in confusion.

“You’re sure?” Captain America asks, sounding genuinely concerned. It throws Desmond off, facing a potential enemy who might care about his wellbeing. Most Templar bastards would spit on his corpse then do some satanic ritual over it to cleanse the world of Assassin scum or something.

“I’m sure.” Desmond repeats, and the Avengers finally put down their weapons. Stark waves and shouts at the spectating crowd, shooing them away. It does nothing to deter the reporters beginning to swarm the scene, climbing over one another to get the perfect shot like a swarm of templar lackeys. Ah, the good ol’ days.

Stark shoots Desmond a sh*t eating grin. “Let’s get out of here before the police arrives.”

Desmond agrees.

-----

Desmond arranges his affairs.

He leaves a note for his baby network thing along the lines of ‘hi, so I’m getting hired by tony stark, hang tight, I’ll still pay you’. After solemnly crouching in front of the pile of ashes that used to be his beloved hoodies, Desmond ends up following Stark and his posse(?) straight into the fancy tower smack dab in the middle of New York, after a quick detour to shove his things into a bag.

The tower, disgustingly obvious among concrete and glass, is luckily within walking distance even when taking the scenic route. Desmond has only ever seen the thing in images, and it doesn’t do the behemoth justice. They pass through the front doors, where Tony very naturally wiggles his eyebrows at the pretty receptionist, and head into the elevator. Only half of them fit at once, and Desmond ends up sandwiched between murderous lady, Captain America (he’s never getting used to this), blond dude, and Tony Stark himself, who whistles as if he can’t feel the tension at all.

The position…is not ideal. He carefully checks the whole elevator with a couple of casual glances. There are no visible cameras, but the technological level of this place is so out of wack to him he wouldn’t put it past them. If the Avengers wanted to corner Desmond, kill him or break him, this place would be it, if it wasn’t for their gold glow. Desmond stares through the glass, distracted.

They’re near the top of the tower by now, so far above he can see the entirety of the city in dizzying clarity. Desmond’s never been afraid of heights—if he ever was, the Animus beat it out of him—but this view is so nostalgic it hurts. Tony follows Desmond’s gaze, breaking the fragile silence.

“Nice view, huh? Nice thing you’ll be seeing it often.” Tony waggles his eyebrows again, and the murderous lady (Natalie or something) rolls her eyes. It’s a very practiced motion.

Desmond snorts.

“You say it like I’m already hired.” The avengers exchange a look that Desmond recognizes. It’s the one Rebecca sometimes wears when she hisses at Desmond to not f*ck up. He’s always been a little offended by those: Desmond Miles rarely loses his fights. That why he’s still alive and not a bunch of body parts in jars somewhere in Abstergo.

But God, does this place look like the Abstergo building. Tony Stark’s office building is all sleek edges and glass, giving way to a world class view. The sterile white of the halls, the many glass panels, figures in white labcoats milling around…it hurts, like some living reminder of his depressing, non-existent normal adulthood. What were the odds that Avengers Tower looks like Abstergo’s? Desmond takes a deep breath, ignoring the faint silhouette that flits at the edge of his vision. Not now.

“—we’ll do your job interview in a bit, so just wait in this room,” Tony is saying without a care. Desmond is thankful Tony has the attention span of a five-year-old, because everyone else clearly noticed Desmond having a quiet aneurism. The redhead looks like she’s ready to stab him at a hair trigger, and he really doesn’t want to test that hypothesis when he knows there’s at least seventeen knives on her person (or sixteen? There’s a vague shadow that’s confusing but thinks he’s better off not knowing).

Desmond settles himself within the walls of frosted glass, immediately feeling supremely uncomfortable. The redhead smirks at him like she knows this, then pushes the rest of the Avengers out of the room, until there’s only Tony and she left behind.

She leans forward across the shiny metal table, with a smile that doesn’t reach her cold, dead eyes.

“Welcome, new employee.”

Desmond is very screwed.

----

“he’s so screwed.” Clint says with no little amount of schadenfreude, settling into the lush seats of their common room. Live footage of the interrogation room (because that’s what it is) is hovering in a glowing panel, the quality high enough that Clint feels like he’s watching a movie, combined with Jarvis’s tasteful hidden camera angle transitions.

“he’s still an unknown variable,” Bruce interjects, ever the downer. “what if he attacks them?”

Clint watches Nat’s eyes gleam, Tony’s little smile grow. “He won’t,” he answers, almost absentmindedly. He’s happy not to be the sorry bastard on Nat’s warpath.

They fall into silence, three pairs of eyes glued to the screen. Clint frowns, slightly. Nat’s already finished her intimidation song and dance, and he knows from personal experience that it’s lethal. And yet, Desmond Miles hasn’t caved. He’s squinting at the table with this odd look in his eyes, and the very helpful close-up Jarvis provides shows traces of anger, frustration, and…sadness on his face. His body is positioned defensively regardless of the fact he clearly isn’t present in mind.

If Clint didn’t know better, he would say Desmond’s having an out of body experience. Or worse, possession. He takes a deep breath, rubbing a rough hand over his face.

“Jarvis, pull up Miles’s vitals.”

“Displaying Mr. Miles’s vitals.”

A part of the screen expands to show a heart monitor, and well as several bars labelled adrenaline, cortisol, and a bunch of other fancy words Clint has long forgotten from his agent initiation training.

Clint scans through the values. “is…the heart rate supposed to be that high?”

“No. The normal range is 60 to 100 beats per minute, though a well-trained heart is often around 40.” Bruce startles at Cap’s blank stare, a rare indignation replacing his habitual nervousness. “I’m technically still a doctor too! I have several PhDs!”

“I understand,” Cap says, in the same way he tells Clint to stop climbing into the vents or to stop stealing Tony’s screwdrivers. It’s a little humiliating.

“Yeah, yeah,” Bruce huffs, obviously thinking the same thing.

He probably says something else after that, but Clint’s only half listening at this point. for what reason would Miles be so nervous? A bad experience during a job interview? No, his intuition tells him it’s darker than that.

By now, Desmond’s snapped out of whatever that was and is now flipping through the contract with an interesting amount of scrutiny, stopping to parse through each word. His stats are back in what Clint assumes is the normal range.

Clint’s reluctantly impressed. Knowing Tony, he probably made it as long and as rambling as he legally could so that Miles would just sign it without looking at the contents. Judging by Tony’s dismay, it clearly didn’t go as he thought it would. Clint suppresses a smirk.

Tony takes the stage after Nat retreats, speaking with his usual amount of flair. Unlike Nat, who is all insidious smiles and hidden threats combined with a dose of seduction, Tony is…not. He’s misdirection, manipulation veiled by bumbling humor and erratic behavior. As much as the team teases Tony for his (non-existent) maturity, Tony isn’t a billionaire without a reason. How he’s managed to survive for so long, alone and surrounded by wolves inside and outside of his company says a lot about his skills.

There’s something going on with Desmond Miles, and they can’t risk anything else. Clint has to reluctantly admit keeping Miles under surveillance is the best course of action. And if Miles really is an enemy…well, another one for target practice.

On the screen, Miles reluctantly picks up the pen and signs his name. Jarvis zooms in close enough to show the ink drying, letters sinking into the paper.

Hook, line, and sinker.

-----

Desmond gets a tour of the Tower immediately after becoming an employee at Stark Industries, led by a very professional woman who tells him to call her Pepper, though Desmond calls her Ms. Potts anyway. He’s not entirely sure what her role in the company is, but whatever it is seems important. She also seems to have a vested interest in Stark, because her lips had immediately thinned in disapproval when he told her he was Stark’s new bartender.

A great many people drop by their tour, showing Pepper reports and plans, even as she taps away at her Stark pad and introduces their surroundings.

“Here is the common area,” she says, directing a hand towards a lavish living room. There’s fancy marble, light leathers, and futuristic light fixtures. Light streams in from the floor to ceiling windows, giving way to a million (billion) dollar view. There’s also at least 10 cameras and microphones installed throughout the room, flashing in his Eagle Vision. Great.

The other employees seeking Pepper’s attention have mostly petered off by now, except for a single persistent woman in a business suit, tucking dark curls behind her ear and pointing insistently at a chart.

“Ms. Potts, the spending of Tony Stark this quarter is ludicrous. It’s company policy that it’s fine if it comes out of his own pocket, but the expenditure is purely from the company’s coffers! We give him leeway for his ‘inventions’,” her face twists, “but he’s spending all of R&D’s budget on alcohol, no less—”

“Laura, I would be happy to schedule a meeting for you with Mr. Stark. This is, after all, his company. If you have any complaints, please bring it to him. I’m sure he would be happy to oblige.” Pepper smiles, perfectly polite and yet somehow steely. The woman, Laura, balks slightly, then grits her teeth.

“This is no laughing matter, Ms. Potts. If we don’t secure this, the shareholders--!”

“I know,” Pepper says, not unkindly. “but as you can see, I am currently busy guiding our newest employee.”

Laura starts slightly, squinting at Desmond like it’s the first time she notices him. He doesn’t blame her—he finds he sometimes accidentally blends into the background when he’s in thought. Hazards of being an assassin.

“I…fine.” She casts one last stink eye at Desmond’s back, then stomps her way back into the elevators. Pepper and Desmond watch her in silence.

“Don’t mind Laura. She’s quite stressed these days. We all are.” Pepper’s lips twist slightly, and her grip on her Stark pad tightens imperceptibly. “Though I suppose you will soon find out why yourself.”

She then takes off at a brisk pace, striding through the circular formation of lounge chairs to a bar. Desmond hurries to catch up, which is a pretty impressive feat if he says so himself.

“Here is where you will be working. The contract we gave you also includes residence, which is on the floor below us.” Pepper hands Desmond a set of keys, presumably to his room and to where the alcohol is kept, but Desmond is too busy staring at the bar.

Okay, the thing is that Desmond likes working as a bartender. Sure, he may have ended up with a job in Bad Weather the first time around due to pure luck and desperation, but he’s found that it’s freeing being behind the bar, just being. Desmond’s personality has always leaned towards between passive and fair, a perfect mix for someone who must listen and deescalate, sometimes at the same time.

There’s a reason the first job he tried to find (and didn’t hold) in this new world was in a f*cking bar.

“Here’s a list of people you can talk to if you find the shelves or the cellars empty,” Pepper is saying. Desmond runs a hand over the smooth, dark marble of the countertop, only half listening. Pepper sighs.

“Desmond.” Desmond looks up. “You’ll be primarily mixing only for the Avengers. This also means there are rules you have to know.”

She puts up 4 fingers. “Just because Captain America can’t get drunk doesn’t mean he can’t get alcohol poisoning. He knows his limits.”

She puts down a finger. “No matter how much Dr. Banner and Mr. Barton whines, go light on them. liquor isn’t good for recovery. Especially for Dr. Banner.” Desmond thinks he knows why.

She puts down another finger. “For your own safety, don’t assume drink choices.” He senses a story behind that one.

She waggles the last finger at Desmond. “Most importantly, Tony is not to get access to the scotch cabinet. I gave you the keys. Please limit his alcohol intake. If possible, don’t give him any at all. If he tries to fire you, don’t worry. I made sure your contract cannot be terminated.” Pepper flicks through her Stark pad, matter of fact. “It’s for his own good.” She says this with the same expression one might use to say ‘suffer’.

Desmond really wants to know why he keeps meeting these terrifying women. He then follows his preservation instincts, the same millennium old ones, to nod vehemently.

“Yessir.”

Pepper nods back, turning on her heels to make her way back to her office, where she presumably continues to terrify new recruits.

This was not a good idea.

Ezio, seated next to him at the bar, laughs in his face.

Idiota.

Notes:

oh yeah, Desmond /technically/ joins the avengers because he wants some purpose, figure out what's happening, and for once earn a legal salary
p.s. he realizes he's sh*t at acting, nothing new
please comment. i live off of comments. and books, but mostly comments.

Chapter 6: Interlude

Notes:

I feel really bad for leaving this again, so i whipped this up within the last two days in searing, godawful heat, so please excuse the terrible writing.
also, i'm really unsure where the main story is going, so here are some crumbs while i think it over (or try to, i never get anything done)

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Episode 1:

The Devil and the Angel:

Matt hears of him in hushed whispers, in the receding tide of criminal activity—previously the buzzing of an ant hive, curbed to a trickle of worker ants. It’s the Devil! One thug screeches, when Matt confronts him (re: jumps him) in a nearby alley. Not the Angel. And then, his heart rate drops the slightest, as if in...relief. Huh.

“And who is this ‘Angel’?” Matt hisses, and the thug’s heart rate ticks up again. He smells like fear.

“They whisper about him, y-you know,” he stutters in a way that suggests he’s more terrified of what he’s talking about than Matt. “The Angel in white. The one against injustice.”

“Do they say who he is?”

The thug cackles, the expression pulling at his split lip (courtesy of Matt, of course).

“What will you do now, Devil, when there’s an Angel in hell’s kitchen? Fight—” Matt knocks him out with a punch. What a terribly cliché thing to say, he thinks. It’s like he’s asking for a beating. Oh well.

Matt looks at the unconscious thug, flexing his wrist. Interesting.

Then he puts it out of mind for a good two weeks.

---

Matt hears him. Or rather, he doesn’t—underneath the breath and sound of the flowing crowd, there’s a steady heartbeat moving. It wouldn’t be out of place, except Matt can’t hear his footsteps. Merely an intriguing fact, for sure, when Matt has already caught onto his scent.

Matt subtly shifts his movement path, making sure to keep a distance away from the man. Although his footsteps are silent, his steadier heart and controlled breathing sets him apart. Trained, for sure. A ninja or an assassin, maybe. Nothing can be out of place these days.

Matt adjusts his cane and trails the man until they reach the deli. The man ducks into the alley next to it, stopping at the end.

“Please don’t follow me.” Matt’s not surprised. He’s made no attempt to conceal his steps. But what does surprise him is the sheepish tone the man speaks in.

“I, uh, get twitchy and sometimes the people who follow me…um.”

“Die?” Matt suggests, amused. The air shifts, and Matt can tell he’s stepped closer, but doesn’t make a move to defend himself. He’s always been good at discerning intention (he has to be), and this man only feels wary, not hostile.

“Will you hit me if I say yes?” There’s dry humor lacing his words.

Matt cracks a wry smile in return. “I’ve got no grounds to say.”

They stand in silence for a couple of seconds, until Matt realizes the man is preparing to bolt.

“Are you the Angel?” He asks on impulse. It’s slipped his mind for the last week, but the appearance of a quietly skilled man out of nowhere reminds him of the words spoken by that thug. He’s late for a meeting with Foggy, but Foggy will forgive him like he always does. This is more important.

“Angel?” The man’s tone is so skeptical Matt can almost imagine the furrow in his brow. “Like, the ‘I have wings and a halo look at me’ angel?”

“I mean the guy that’s been saving people in this neighborhood,” Matt amends. “They say he’s wears white and comes from the sky.” Matt would say it’s hearsay, but he comes from the sky too when he’s the Devil, so there’s no judgement here. None. (Where else is he supposed to come from? Crawling out of the ground?)

Either way, this man is inoffensive and very, very, physically fit. And his heart when Matt explained? Bingo.

“And you got all of that from the fact I’m wearing white.”

What? Matt wordlessly gestures to his cane. How this guy hasn’t noticed, he doesn’t know.

“Oh damn. Sorry.” Matt raises his eyebrows, surprised. The apology sounds genuine, which is more than he can ask from the man he just stalked. “Hmm. Okay.” The man continues thoughtfully.

“You’re not surprised?”

“Well, a lot of assassins are still in the job after a wound that should put them out of commission. Some of the sh*t they can d—f*ck.”

Assassin?

“Assassin?”

“Um. f*ck. This is why I don’t take undercover jobs. wait. ” The man says with great remorse, punctuated by another, heartfelt “f*ck”. His heart, for the first time, stutters. He shifts his weight, widening his stance for ease of escape. He’s a breath of fresh air after those grim criminal syndicates Matt’s been tracking down.

“—I don’t kill, if that makes you feel better.” The man’s saying, edging towards the end of the alley. Matt should be angry—Karen tells him he’s got a chip on his shoulder the size of the Hudson River when it comes to justice. And yet, something about this conversation is so surreal Matt’s moral code suddenly feels more like a roulette wheel at the moment.

“Wait, why am I telling you this? Aren’t you Daredevil or something?” Matt’s smile freezes on his face.

“What?” What the f*ck?

“I mean, this is your area right? I can’t think of anyone else.”

Matt coughs into his fist. God, Foggy is going to kill him, but there’s no turning back.

“I am Daredevil.” God, Foggy and Karen are going to string him up. “Matt Murdock.” Matt nods in greeting.

“Desmond Miles, at your service.” Desmond nods back through Matt’s feedback. “Or the Angel.” He huffs a laugh.

“The Devil and the Angel. We make quite the pair.”

“Indeed.” Something in his voice tells Matt Desmond’s smirking.

“Are you going to be staying here?” As much as Matt would like a friendly, the idea of someone he doesn’t know and understand, reputation notwithstanding, gets on his nerves a little. The Devil is territorial, and a potential loose cannon in his house is asking for disaster.

“I’m just looking around here, won’t be long. But I’ll swing around if I need some help.” Desmond shrugs, crossing his arms.

“And I as well,” Matt smiles, holding out his hand. Desmond’s hand is calloused and strong. Reassuring, oddly enough, despite the blade strapped to his arm. Matt hopes he doesn’t have to use it.

“Happy cooperation.” They shake, firm.

It’s a gamble, Matt knows. Desmond might not even be the Angel. He could be anyone, anything, in a place like Hell’s kitchen. But he’s really the Angel (and all signs point to yes)…he wouldn’t mind working together.

It’s a partnership from hell (and heaven).

Episode 2:

The christening of Gen Z

Tony’s day is not going well. For one, DUM-E tried to drink another motor oil smoothie, when he’s clearly a mechanical arm without a port. Tony didn’t build a port or program him like that. Secondly, his donuts are still missing, and for some reason all the donut stores in the city are closed.

And also, the receptors for his damn suit won’t connect—!

“Sir, you have visitors.”

“Jarvis, I told you to restrict access to visitors today. Not even Pepper. You know what happens when I don’t get my alone time.” Tony makes a face at the ceiling. He tries, once again, to synch the receptors and the machinery only sparks sadly. Tony stares at it, contemplating death.

Jarvis sighs. It’s still the generic, stiff, ‘I’m better than you uncivilized creatures’ British sigh, and yet Tony can hear his palpable exasperation. He didn’t program this either.

“Sir, think carefully. Who else did you give permissions to?”

Tony thinks, wiping his hands on a very dirty cloth. DUM-E chirps and tries to offer him a screwdriver—Tony threatens to beat him with it.

“Why can’t you just tell me?” he whines, planting face down onto his work bench. His brain feels fried, and the normal cure-all for his troubles lies in the evil grips of Pepper. Nothing is going well.

“Sir, it’s—too late.”

The elevator chimes, and three sets of footsteps waltz in.

“OH MY GOD OH MY GOD I’m in Tony Stark’s tower?!”

“Took you long enough. Hey, can I keep this?”

“No, MJ, please put that down it’s not safe!”

“Wait till Flash sees this—"

All three freeze when they spot Tony in all his glory, covered in miscellaneous flakes of metal and a grease-stained t-shirt.

“What’s up with the visit, kiddo?”

“Mr. Stark,” Peter says, suddenly solemn. The boy (Ned?) behind him gasps in awe (as he should) and the girl (MJ?) looks him up and down and comes away unimpressed (as she shouldn’t). He doesn’t bother asking how they’re in his tower.

“Is something wrong?” Tony presses down his worry. Surely, Peter’s doing fine without him, and his school’s not going to explode. Peter and Ned exchange grave looks, and Tony braces for the worst.

“N-not exactly,” Peter mumbles. MJ sighs, coming up behind Tony.

“We have decided, through extremely thorough research and assessment, that you are worthy of the title.” Ned nods quickly, and MJ drops a plastic laurel wreath (where did it come from??) like it’s trash on Tony’s head.

Peter takes a steadying breath. “I dub thee--

--honorary Gen Z.”

MJ plays a meme song with a deadpan face, and Ned and Peter high five each other like it’s a job well done.

Tony looks at the three and their expectant faces, caught between a sigh and a laugh.

He laughs. Maybe something went right today.

Episode 3:

Where the donuts went:

“Father!” A booming voice shouts, echoing across the marble floor of the throne room. It is, without a doubt, the lungs of dear Thor. Next to Frigga, Odin scrubs a long-suffering hand down his jaw. She hides her grin with a well-placed cough.

“Father!” Thor shouts again, jogging easily into the throne room. Frigga watches him dearly. He’s doing well on Earth, skin tanned and hair bleached by the sun in a way Asgard’s eternally perfect weather would never allow. More than that, he’s glowing with content. She’d always thought his violent proclivities would help him somehow. Her son, a hero of the realms. Her other son…

“Mother!” Thor shouts this time, despite the fact he’s merely a couple of feet from his mother. Odin grunts, impatient, but Frigga knows he’s secretly happy for the interruption from listening to his ministers argue about partying budgets.

When Thor doesn’t do much other than vibrate in his boots, Frigga laughs, the reaches out to brush sandy-blond hair out of Thor’s eyes. “What is it, my son?”

“I have brought an offering from Midgard!” Thor shouts, though he whispers the last half of the sentence when Frigga gently shushes him.

“Oh? Let us see,” Frigga says, quietly delighted. Thor and Loki used to bring all kinds of gifts, back when they were young. Thor still does, just never as frequently as before. Odin hums, his face radiating boredom.

Thor shuffles around, then reaches into his cape to pull out two boxes. Fascinatingly, they had the same logo emblazoned upon them, a clever painting of a pastry without a center. It is always interesting to see the inventions of the Midgardians. As long as Asgardians live longer than Midgardians, Frigga knows they lack the same drive to create.

“The Midgardians call this delicacy a ‘donut’! It is a beloved invention among my friends, and I urge you to try.”

Frigga opens the box, glancing over the rounded shapes of shiny, brown glaze and rings of puffed pastry. She curiously takes out a single ring, biting delicately into the glaze. The texture is light and fluffy, unlike the milled rye bread they often have on Asgard, with bright sweetness from the sugar.

She knows her husband will never say explicitly, but he hates Midgardian influence. Afterall, as bloody as Asgard’s past conquests were, they can’t compare to the chaos of Midgard at any time.

“My, this is delicious! Odin have you tried—" Odin turns around, flecks of white powdered sugar in his beard.

Frigga chokes on her donut.

“Hmm,” Odin says, looking pointedly displeased. “This is disgraceful.” His lips twitch.

His hand reaches for the box, and Frigga snaps it on his hand. “Well, dear husband, more for me.”

They then engage in a heated staring contest, until Thor, tactless as ever, interrupts with a loud “well, I’m returning to Midgard”.

He turns to stride out of the entrance hall, whistling cheerfully.

“Wait.”

Thor beams at the sound of Odin’s voice. “What is it, Father?”

Odin coughs into his hand, then strokes his beard. Frigga very kindly decides not to tell him there’s still sugar in his beard.

“Please…bring some more. When you come visit.”

Frigga’s son bobs his head, so much like a…what do the Midgardians call them? Golden retriever. Oh, her adorable, dumb son.

Frigga sneaks a glance at Odin, smiling behind a sleeve.

Her adorable, dumb husband.

Notes:

I have a bunch of these somewhere in my drafts, tell me if you'd like to see more of them!

Chapter 7 Notes:

im so sorry everyone. This is not dropped, just on a very, very sporadic update schedule. thank you to everyone who has supported me so far! i made this fic so long ago that i doubt any of the original readers are here haha but thank you all so much. to be honest, my writing from before is kinda sh*t, so i've been considering a rewrite, but take this 3.8k chapter i found somewhere and give me all your comments

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

The first thing Desmond does when he gets his room is to lock the door and fall onto the bed. It’s the softest thing he’s ever felt, with what must be a bajillion thread count and other luxuries he’s never had the time to enjoy. Living with Rebecca and Shaun wasn’t the worst, but it also meant rickety cots and a bed that was the floor enough times to hurt his spine just thinking about it. Also, privacy.

And, well, this room certainly isn’t private (he’s looking at you, glowy microphones and cameras) the illusion is enough. Besides, it’s not like he’ll be doing anything incriminating, like writing on the walls with his own blood. Haha..ha…ha.

He should probably take a shower, freshen up. Instead, paragon of procrastination he is, he lays back down to think. His arm has healed enough that the residual injuries from his arrival look more like tattoos, so he can ditch the annoying gloves. He’s now secured a stable (ish) job for the foreseeable future, though in exchange for freedom. Then again, nothing is ever free—he’s lucky he hadn’t accidentally consented to genetic mindf*ckery this time (not that he consented last time). The risk of being caught hacking in Stark’s tower is too high for comfort, so he’ll have to contact his network in person. Easy enough as far as asks go.

The real issue is acting like a civilian.

Desmond thinks he’s actually done as best of a job as he could’ve, which is another way of saying not at all. It’s no secret he’s absolute sh*t at acting when it’s been the butt of jokes far too many times. He’s going to be living with two superspies, two scientific geniuses, a national symbol, and a Norse god.

(One thing Desmond can never get used to is how unrepentantly weird this dimension is. Yeah, he can handle skin-tight-spandex-clad vigilantes operating out of the scope of the law, but Norse Gods? Norse gods that no one bothered telling him about? What the f*ck.

Desmond’s always had a pretty good bullsh*t threshold, but this is pushing it.)

He’s fooling nobody into thinking he’ll get away scot-free. This. This is exactly why he’s not allowed to go off on his own without supervision, because he’ll make rash decisions he’ll regret. Forcing Desmond to make snap decisions is like shoving a five-year-old in front of, like, eighty different ice cream flavors and asking them to choose without melting down.

He’ll think about the consequences later. And wow, isn’t that a foreign thought.

Pushing away all thoughts for later…it feels odd, without the same obligations and duties to hold him back. All his life he’s been touted as the end all for suffering, a magical culmination of the assassin bloodline. Maybe he’d agreed with it because he’d wanted to be valued all his life—and in the end, they did value him, just not as a person. William had made it clear that a weapon was all he was and would ever be as last hope of the modern world.

It’s nice to have others carry that responsibility instead.

Working as an assassin is a thankless job, and he’s unashamedly happy that part of him is left behind in his world. His world, which he loves and hates with burning regret.

In the end, Desmond wasn’t able to breach that empty distance between him and his partners, burdened by their beliefs and his own reluctance. Shaun never truly accepted him, even during the hunt for those accursed pieces of Eden. If Rebecca was a distant friend, Shaun was more of a colleague than anything. An acerbic, Brit colleague who was blunt at best and savage at worst, words designed to hurt.

Desmond didn’t expect much else. After all, he had only known the two of them for months, and the one thing they had in common was their goal.

He knows Shaun was bitter about a lot of things concerning Desmond. Shaun and Rebecca must have been initiated and trained by the Brotherhood, despite their roles as support, enduring hours of cutthroat spars and endless fatigue. He would know.

A lifetime of training achieved in a couple of weeks, and anyone would be bitter. f*cking pseudo-science couldn’t even stay pseudo. In hindsight, they had taken it as well as they could have, in a situation like that.

Shaun and Rebecca were a lot of things to him, looking back. Jailors. Coworkers. Comrades. And, somewhere along the line, family-- the one thing he’s never had and will likely never have again.

The three of them became close in those last couple of weeks, when Desmond figures they’d finally caught on that Desmond never wanted this life—growing up on the farm, Abstergo’s pivotal kidnapping, adventuring to save the world bullsh*t.

(There’s a reason he flew under the radar for so long.)

The brotherhood was willing to do anything to thwart the templars, even if it meant breaking one of their own. And if that’s what the Assassin Brotherhood is, Desmond doesn’t want to be a part of it.

Desmond doesn’t want a lot of things he has and wants everything he can never have.

Maybe this place will be better, Desmond manages to think, before he drifts away into sleep.

---

Desmond’s first day starts normally. He finds his way back to the bar, marveling at the sheer luxury of it—there’s this ash tray that he thinks might be solid diamond that he eyes for probably too long. The part of him that’s shady kind of wants to nick it, but it’s a poor trade for his job.

Desmond spends a couple more minutes enjoying the ambiance before resolving to break into the alcohol. He’s not much of an alcohol snob (not as much as some other bartenders, at least) but that doesn’t mean he’s not curious about what Tony Stark, billionaire extraordinaire, might stock in his personal stash.

His personal stash that Desmond can’t find. Most bars have an array of spirits they keep on display on the back wall, a bit like a status symbol and very much a reminder; Tony Stark, instead, has a wall of grey, opaque glass that feels solid when he touches it.

“Um,” Desmond says, feeling very stupid. He looks over the wall again, then checks under the counter, behind the rows of shining, crystal (!!) glasses, under the sinks—nothing. Desmond sighs.

“This is why I’m not the smart one,” he grumbles, shutting his eyes and letting his forehead touch cool marble. He briefly considers using Eagle Vision to find whatever hidden mechanism there is, then immediately tosses the idea. His ancestors will roll in their graves if they ever knew that their vaunted ability is being used to look for alcohol. Actually, scratch that. He knows several of his ancestors would…approve. Ugh.

Just as he’s prepared to give up the last vestiges of his pride and start smashing his head on the glass, a pleasant voice chimes in.

“Mr. Miles, would you like some assistance?” Desmond’s head shoots up. It takes a couple of seconds, but Desmond eventually recognizes Jarvis (another entity he’s not sure what to feel about) in his frustrated haze.

Stark had mentioned Jarvis, somewhere in his speed tour of the tower, but Desmond wasn’t able hold conversation with him like he is now. Jarvis is like some vaguely omniscient butler, and although Desmond can’t tell he’s anything other than human, the mere suggestion of it reminds him too much of Juno and her callous otherness. He’s not Juno, Desmond thinks, silently steeling himself for the conversation ahead. Just…British. Not much better.

“Yes,” He finally answers, unpeeling himself from the counter. “I’m not really used to all these bells and whistles.”

And, well…Abstergo may had been ahead by decades, but the rest of his world wasn’t.

Jarvis hums, a note of consideration in his voice. “Sir does like to make things more complicated than they should be. Like me.”

Desmond stares into empty air. Did the AI just…crack a joke? Did he die and enter another parallel dimension again?

“I see,” he finally says after trying to find another innocuous answer and giving up almost immediately. The combination of new, foreign environment and stranger isn’t helping his nerves either.

“Can you…” He gestures vaguely at the array of glass in front of him.

“If you would, please touch the glass. Two fingers should suffice.” Curiously, Desmond does as Jarvis asks. He should be more wary, but Desmond’s secretly convinced that assassin genes also carry a form of feline curiosity. None of his ancestors were able to resist poking something with a stick, and Desmond is no different.

The moment his fingers touch the glass, a shimmer extends outwards, crawling across the opaque grey in ripples of clarity, revealing an arsenal of whiskeys, rums, gins—an alcoholic’s paradise trapped in a prison of crystal.

“A tap reveals the glass. Another tap hides it. To open, swipe either side with your fingers, and you will be able to access the stock easily.”

With a swipe, the glass wall slides away silently, and Desmond is left staring at bottles of alcohol more expensive than himself. “I’ve peaked,” he says, without context.

A soft chuckle over the intercom.

“I’m glad to see that, Mr. Miles.”

Desmond pauses, considering.

It doesn’t really matter to Desmond whether Jarvis is human or not (even if some part of him is almost juno, with her omniscient gaze and all-seeing smile), but he figures if it acts like a duck and sounds like a duck, it might as well be a duck.

(Juno, on the other hand, would never be human in Desmond’s eyes no matter how much she looks like one.)

He’s talking to a functional, cognizant AI, and, conversations with a humanoid godlike humanity precursor non-withstanding, that’s pretty amazing. Even if he doesn’t know what to think of Jarvis as an entity beyond what he is, Desmond’s willing to turn a blind eye for his own sanity.

(Sometimes, the correct answer was to stop thinking. He is an avid practitioner of that.)

Jarvis is also not killing Desmond, and that’s enough ground for him to think ‘friendly’ or at least ‘neutral’. It’s a hard knock life, when people who aren’t out to get you are automatically friends because there’s so little of them.

“Thanks, Jarvis.”

“You are very welcome, Mr. Miles.”

They fall into a content silence, then, even though it’s mostly just Desmond awkwardly wracking his brain for something to say.

Desmond is returning to his perusal of the drinks, having given up small talk, when the thought strikes him. He freezes, hand outstretched. With great enlightenment, he turns back slowly, squinting towards the ceiling where Jarvis is likely watching.

“Wait, so when Pepper said don’t let Stark into the cabinet—”

“She meant it literally, yes. The system is keyed to your biometrics, and yours only; this was a failsafe added to the contract without Sir’s explicit permission. Unfortunately, as much as I look out for Sir, I must have glitched as she was adding such a clause.” Desmond raises a brow at the amused lilt in Jarvis’s voice.

Damn. Stone-cold, Jarvis. Maybe Desmond should be feeling more alarmed at the prospect of an AI operating beyond their orders, but all it really does is humanize him. As for his biometrics…well. By coming here, he’s basically already given up anonymity, as his paltry attempts to stay anonymous had clearly not ended well.

He’s a trouble magnet, he’s accepted, because that’s the only logical explanation for staying years under the radar and getting caught because of something so dumb like a motorcycle license. The other explanation is that he’s stupid, which, at this point, he’s willing to admit. Why else would he, on his own two legs, walk to ground zero?

“I would like to ask, Mr. Miles…” Jarvis says suddenly, startling Desmond out of his reverie. He jolts, nearly dropping the glass he’s been absent mindedly wiping despite the fact that it’s clean. He sets it down carefully, warily folding the rag.

“Yeah?”

“I doubt you are here to harm the Avengers--” what?? “—but would you take care of them?”

The request is so shocking Desmond briefly forgets he’s supposed to be a civilian and looks directly at one of Jarvis’s cameras.

“What?” by now, Jarvis must know that Desmond is sketchy. Even Desmond thinks he’s sketchy as hell. And here he is, asking an unknown threat to take care of the earth’s mightiest heroes. What the f*ck.

“I mean,” Desmond’s mouth flaps open, wordless and numb. “Uh, why me?”

“We both know you’re more than meets the eye, Mr. Miles. I do not know why or how you are here, but I do know that you are not one for evil or havoc. Crime, perhaps, but in the interest of good.”

Desmond chokes on air. It’s one thing to keep things like this unspoken, but another to just…air it out like that. Jarvis must really care, because he’s not even bothering with a semblance of ignorance the way the rest of the Avengers are (yeah, he’s noticed. They’re not subtle). He shakes his head. He’s not even surprised they know so much about his activities.

“So? I could still be a spy or an enemy agent looking to hurt the avengers. You certainly have enough enemies. What makes me so different?”

Jarvis’s voice is patient and a touch humorous. “Not helping your case, are you?”

Desmond sighs. “It’s not my fault all your superhero types are suicidal. Gotta look after my paycheck,” Desmond tacks on the end after a pause, for fear of sounding like he cares too much. There goes my ‘none of my business’ attitude. Though perhaps it was already gone the moment he fought off that ugly guy assaulting a lady in an alley. Desmond hates this f*cking place.

“There is your answer, Desmond Miles. You do not stand and look the other way, no matter how much you want to; I trust that the same applies to Sir and his allies. Heroes or not, they’re only human.”

They’re only human. That stops Desmond’s protest of “I don’t think they need my protection” from leaving his throat.

Desmond runs a weary hand through his long-ish hair. (he needs a haircut, soon, if he doesn’t want to start looking like Ezio. But it’s sexy—shut up, Ezio.) Considers his options. He’s here to stay, that much he knows. There are other people around to save the world now, so he doesn’t need to do that. He doesn’t have an obligation, not even a forced one, to help people here. Sure, he’s done what he can when it’s convenient, but with something like the world on the line? Desmond is tired of being part of something bigger than he is, and he plans to enjoy this place as much as he can before it inevitably goes to sh*t.

For the first time, he has freedom here, to a certain degree. SHIELD and the Avengers can’t touch him if they don’t have proof, if Desmond stays careful.

But how long can he truly hide? With Desmond, it’s never an if—it’s a when. The realization, the thought he’s been deliberately ignoring, slams into him like a spiked mace to the chest. A hidden knife to the gut.

Running from his responsibility has always been a disaster in the making, as much as he’s reluctant to admit it; he’s learned this the hard way. If he agrees to this, he’s letting those glimpses of ordinary life, barely experienced at Bad Weather, slip away from his fingers permanently. Never again would he be unburdened by the lives of others the way he’s been living in this world.

It should be what he wants. He wants it to be what he wants.

But what Jarvis is asking of him…to protect the protectors…sounds an awful lot like something the Brotherhood would agree with. To become that last line of defence between destruction and order, evil and good. Trust the Creed to romanticize sacrifice andstill call themselves a brotherhood when there were plenty of non-male assassins.

Desmond’s not exactly one to subscribe to those beliefs after the manipulation and trauma he’s suffered, but there are parts of him—Ezio, Kenway, Altair—who do. He loves the Brotherhood but hates what it has become in equal measure. The Brotherhood was different, back then, and those massive chunks of Desmond want to believe in the good, even through the pain.

There is no Brotherhood here. But there can be, on his terms. The one imagined by Adam and Eve so many years ago, when they saw injustice and sparked rebellion.

Desmond is a weapon, whether he likes it or not, and weapons are designed to be used. Pointing at a world so strife with suffering and evil…Desmond can imagine worse ways to spend his time.

Desmond closes his eyes and mourns his future.

“Fine.”

---

Contrary to Desmond’s expectations, there’s no massive shift in the universe or some sign that signifies his newfound purpose (or alternately, stupid decision), though he can’t be faulted for thinking so. Enough of his life is a sh*tshow already—what else would more do?

Nothing changes either. He’s still an ordinary bartender at a billionaire’s bar, humbly doing his job. Yep, nothing to see here.

It’s with this mindset that he welcomes his first customer of the day: Natasha Romanov, looking as sprightly as ever despite the fact it’s 3 AM in the morning. Not that Desmond can say anything about that.

She stalks in like a force of nature, water sluicing off her skin-tight catsuit into puddles on the expensive floor. Her footsteps are silent as she steps towards him, slipping primly into a bar stool. She’s beautiful, still, even as she tucks a lock of red hair wetly plastered to her forehead behind her ear.

“four shots of tequila.” It’s not a question. Wordlessly, Desmond pours her her choice of drink, sliding them one by one across the counter. She catches them easily, downing one as she catches it. When she’s done, the only evidence left is the empty shot glass that Desmond places underneath the counter.

As she picks up the next shot, she looks up over it, her lashes low over her eyes. “Desmond Miles. Age, 25. Holds a motorcycle license, and not much else. SHIELD knows nothing beyond your birthday, your fake records. Interpol, the FBI, MI6—not a single one has heard of you. You are a ghost.”

Desmond had expected the records to be found out eventually, but not this quickly.

“So, Desmond Miles, who are you?”

He blinks. How…direct, coming from a super spy.

“I’m a bartender.” Desmond says, which is the truth. Just not all of it. Natasha downs the shot, slamming the glass onto the counter.

“I don’t believe you.” She thumbs the glass, her eyes intense and burning. “You’re hiding something.”

Her posture is lax and uninterested, but only a fool would think her harmless. There’s at least eight blades on her now, Desmond knows, even without Eagle Vision paving the way.

(The first time he met her, she had fifteen—it really makes one wonder where the seven blades went.)

The way she’s holding the glass, now, tells him that she doesn’t need her blades to be lethal. That, and the taser-wristband thing he’s seen her use to take down foes three times her size.

Desmond thinks it’s smarter here to tell the truth. She’s stopped being that blinding assassination gold and is a neutral white now, which is slightly reassuring. Good to know he doesn’t have to kill her later.

“I am,” he agrees mildly. “but it’s none of your business.” Natasha’s eyes sharpen at that, prompting her to lean forward.

“Isn’t it? It’s only right to get to know your neighbor.”

“I thought no one knew their neighbors anymore in New York. Isn’t it, like, a global epidemic?” Natasha takes this without a single hint of irritation. She merely looks at him like she’s observing a particularly amusing ant. The only look that comes close was the look Daniel Cross wore, gun pointed at Desmond while Bill was in Vidic’s hands. A look one wears when watching the throes of a rat caught by the tail.

“Much like crime. Good thing your nightly escapades are keeping our streets clean.” Natasha knocks back another shot. “Prowling the streets.” Of course she knows.

Desmond can’t help it, past a tiny thread of panic. “Aren’t we a little too early in the relationship to talk about my sex life?”

Natasha stares at him. Silent. Then—

Desmond’s hand whips out, the ashtray he’d snatched off the counter shielding his head from the impact of glass. Definitely diamond, he thinks. Bourgeoisie. The tinkling of shards falling to the ground is startling.

Relief turns into resignation, as he realizes he’s just revealed a card he’s not supposed to have.

Absentmindedly, he looks at the shattered remains of the shot glass, then back at the Black Widow, who looks entirely blameless. Maybe not entirely—there’s a tiny smirk ghosting the edges of her lips. f*ck.

It’s not a mistake, exactly. The glass, this close, might’ve given him a real, nearly lethal blow if he hadn’t blocked. A blow that would be real annoying, and decidedly not worth his cover, given his lack of resources and current surveillance. Yeah, his contract has health insurance. Does he want strangers poking around in his head while he’s out? Emphatic no. It was either suffer terribly or reveal his skills and suffer a little less.

She’s cornered him here, and she knows it. He hates her so much.

“That’s not coming out of my paycheck,” Desmond says after a couple of seconds, gingerly placing the ashtray back onto the counter. Natasha tilts her head, still giving off an air of amusem*nt despite her expressionless face.

“Put it on my tab,” she says, before pushing her last, fourth shot towards him. “I’ll make it up to you.”

Desmond stares at the tiny glass, belatedly realizing he’d forgotten the salt. sh*t bartender, sh*t assassin. By the end of today, he’ll only be one of those.

The olive branch she’s holding out is, in truth, a gun. Another test. A challenge. If Desmond doesn’t drink this, he’ll be point blank admitting his identity as an assassin. Not an Assassin, but still someone lethal—perhaps too lethal to leave alone. It’s one thing to imply, and a whole other beast to confirm.

If he does drink it, he’s risking poison. While logic dictates that the black widow wouldn’t poison an employee of a teammate, Desmond wouldn’t bet on it. This was the woman who is willing to shoot through people to get to her target. There is, at most, a pyrrhic victory in store for him. Desmond glances at her again with Eagle Vision. She’s still a neutral white. Fat load of good that did.

The glass is unimaginably heavy in his hand as he raises it—as is the weight of Natasha’s gaze.

f*ck it.

Despite the screeching of every single instinct, Desmond knocks the shot back, enjoying the burn racing down his throat.

The game’s on.

Notes:

Jarvis: please protect a quasi-immortal norse god, a green rage monster, a terrifyingly skilled assassin, a master archer, an enhanced cryogenically preserved symbol of america and my cute little Sir for me
Desmond: what
—-
Natasha: youre hiding something
Desmond: no sh*t sherlock
--
In desmond’s head
Desmond: sometimes the right answer is to drink the poison
Clay: what the f*ck is wrong with you
Desmond: i dont want to hear that from you
Ezio:...no no clay's right
if i had a nickel for every time a chapter ended with desmond imbibing alcohol, i'd have two nickels. which isn't a lot, but it's weird that it happened twice. im back folks!!! don't expect too much, because i'll be going to uni soon in a really intense program. next chapter is where the plot actually happens (Plot happens here too but it's not exciting, is it?). thanks for sticking with this stupid fic for nearly 4 years! sending lots of love :0
Also, I probably won’t be responding to comments, bc Things are getting hectic, but thank you in advance <3
(also i realized Natasha and Desmond's childhoods might actually be pretty similar, what with the red room and the farm, afterall)

Chapter 8 Notes:

Happy holidays!
take this extra long chapter as an apology for the obscene amount of time i spent away. it's another one without plot because i get distracted, sorry

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Desmond goes straight back to bed after sweeping up the glass. Yeah, screw work for ten minutes—he’s sure Tony Stark can pour his own carbonated water.

He flops onto the bed, half-expecting the burn of poison to begin encroaching on his limbs, waiting for his breath to strangle and twist. He’s not that familiar with poison, his preferred method of assassination slitting someone’s throat from behind, but that doesn’t mean he’s ignorant of poisons. Altair, in particular, knew quite a bit about them; so did Connor. By that logic, he should too.

There’s no poison in the glass, both of them say. Desmond stares at the ceiling, trying to parse through the tangle of thoughts crushed into his skull. A feeling, nearly disappointment, festers between his eyes, and he lets it.

What is he doing? It had seemed like a good idea at the time to play the Black Widow’s game. She’s waiting for his move, and that gives him some breathing space to plan and to think. And yet, it’s one thing to play a game of assassin’s chess, and another to play chess without knowing the rules. It’s Natasha’s home ground, and she has the upper hand here. Even if she’s thrown in her gamble too, drinking his vodka without checking for poison as well.

Desmond’s no mind reader, but he’s seen assassins like her before, through the eyes of Altair. Desmond’s seen people like her, back in his New York. Vicious. Angry. Settled, perhaps, in a way any war veteran is.

A survivor.

And, perhaps in direct opposition to that, proud. She won’t ask for help on this, so that means SHIELD and the Avengers are out of the equation. It’ll be another story if she gets desperate, though. However, that doesn’t mean she won’t be sharing her findings with her teammates, though SHIELD is still confusing to Desmond. Against all odds, he can tell they’ve earned her loyalty—why else would she go for straight confrontation when the logical route is to wait and gather information? At least that’s something he can hold above her head. He knows her goals; she doesn’t know his.

Without Shaun or Rebecca or…Bill, there’s no one to use against him beyond the tangential acquaintances he’s made either. Acquaintances who are vulnerable without him.

Desmond does believe in protecting the weak and all, but he can’t save everyone. He’s saved the world; he gets to be selfish now, with his new start.

He’s not like Natasha, who, against her very nature, has found friendship and family in the Avengers.

Desmond would leverage that, if it weren’t for the promise he’s made to Jarvis.

And that’s another can of worms altogether. It’s stupid, it’s insane, and it’s everything that Desmond should be against, tying himself to another group of people with foolish, impossibly idealistic goals. And yet, it feels…right. Desmond can’t call himself a good person, exactly. Maybe a good person would have stayed in the farm, even after they’d realized their father held expectations unspoken but loud in every look of disappointment, their life destined to end like any used tool: discarded and thrown away. When Desmond had abandoned his life behind him at sixteen, he done more than ruin decades-old plans—he had stolen their hope too.

Perhaps it was partially this misplaced sense of guilt that made him follow Shaun and Rebecca around like a dog on a leash.

And yet, it was far more than guilt that spurred him to take blows meant for his comrades, to throw himself into the line of fire first. To make that final, disastrous sacrifice in front of the Eye. Somewhere along the way, the creed had resonated with him too.

Desmond’s instincts are pretty reliable, and has gotten him out of many, many deaths. The dissonance between his logical mind and his heart stings. He rolls over, pressing his face into the pillow. How is it that Desmond can plan and infiltrate any secure facility on the planet, and still can’t plan his way out of an empty trashcan. Irrefutable proof he’s been ruined by his death. 0/10, would not recommend.

Desmond spends ten more minutes lying there like a dead potato. By the end of it, he feels barely more human. Sighing, he hops off the bed and heads for the bathroom. Maybe a shower will help cool him down.

----

Desmond’s working hours are…irregular, to say the least. This is largely because the Avengers don’t have designated ‘off’ days the same way an office worker might. Lulls in crime, sure, but weekends are a pipe dream for many of them. Desmond gets to know this very intimately, after Hawkeye trudges in after a drug ring takedown at two in the morning and Captain America nurses a glass of beer seven in the evening. He notices pretty quickly that they rarely get dispatched as a team.

It makes sense—no point in setting off a bomb when a couple of well guided blades will do the job. It doesn’t make his life any easier though, but Desmond can’t find it in himself to be bitter. They’re keeping him on his toes, and some part of him appreciates that. But after whatever happened with the Black Widow, Desmond’s tossed his usual work ethic to the dogs and f*cks off as soon as the full glass leaves his hands.

Because he’s always there only when they’re there, the Avengers are starting to think he’s some sort of cryptid. Good for them. He’d like to stay that way. Normally, Desmond’s not above making some conversation or getting to know his clients better, but here…it’s not worth it. He does the bare minimum (pouring drinks, making sure they don’t have too much), then leaves.

Luckily, Eagle Vision pings him whenever someone is approaching the bar (Eagle Vision becoming strangely sentient, now of all times), and Desmond makes it his job to be there, no more, no less. It gets to the point where he’s spent more nights in the wine cellars than his own bed, but it’s still better than getting stuck in his own head. Or, God forbid, making small talk with the other suspicious assassins. Not that he’s ever done much of that, even in the Brotherhood.

It’s a good thing Desmond is used to power napping, or he wouldn’t be able to keep up. In fact, his working hours are already beyond the realm of normal man. They span effectively 24/5, with his weekends off only through the virtue of Pepper, whose glare is enough to vaporize any lesser human being. Desmond likes being busy with normal things that aren’t necessarily killing and running for his life, so this came as a minor disappointment. The pay still f*cks anyway, so he’s not complaining. Much.

Tony Stark is actually a decent employer despite being an anthropomorphized symbol of capitalism, in all its glory. Most rich people Desmond’s met (re: killed) fluctuate wildly between penny-pinching worse than a mother feeding a family of twelve and spending money like it’s air.

Surprisingly, Tony Stark is neither.

He’s very generous with his money, that much is obvious. The open tab at the bar says enough about that.

Desmond is not, in fact, a hermit, and has also spoken to some of Stark’s other employees. They’ve all given him glowing reviews, which is as good a character endorsem*nt as any. From his own experience, Stark is as polite as the next guy. He’s also probably ten in mental age and addicted to scotch. Not exactly the best combination, but it somehow works.

Oddly enough, Stark’s the one with the weirdest hours of all the Avengers. Jarvis was more than willing to explain “his Sir’s self-destructive, self-sacrificial” ways, as well as his “trauma from an insufficient childhood strife with daddy issues and way too much responsibility for such a young boy”. Desmond has the feeling Jarvis had been holding that one in for a long time. So yeah, screw him if he’s buddy buddy with the AI.

To be honest, Jarvis is accurate, blunt as his words may be. Stark likes to present himself as some kind of playboy billionaire personality, but it’s obvious to any close to him that it’s as much a smoke screen as his tinted shades are. He’s laissez faire only to hide that he cares, because if whoever is trying to get close to doesn’t bother to see anything other than appearances, they’re not worth his attention. The difference between Tony Stark and Anthony Stark is staggering.

So yeah, Desmond can’t bring himself to hate him, no matter how much he splays himself over the counter and begs Desmond for alcohol. He’s certainly a man worth trust.

Hawkeye is…harder to put a finger on, even worse than Natasha. He seems an average, well-adjusted person, but Desmond doubts any average, well-adjusted person would work for the Avengers. He’s the best of the best and being the best of anything requires serious mental health problems. And then there’s his proclivity for hanging out in the vents, which is annoying and very concerning.

Like now, actually. Clint Barton is a crouching, glowing silhouette of pale blue (why) right above him. Desmond can read his intentions a mile away even without his magical assassin abilities.

The vent right above the bar bursts open, and a black blur descends with a cheerful shout. The shout turns rather strangled when Desmond sidesteps neatly.

Without a suitable landing pad (Desmond), Clint executes a hasty but precise roll to muffle the blow of the floor. Impressive, considering the bow currently strapped to his back. Desmond knows what it feels like to roll with a bow. It’s not particularly fun, most of the time.

“C’mon man! Why’d you move?” Like what happens whenever Stark opens his mouth, Desmond feels the beginnings of a headache start behind his eyes.

“And let myself get crushed by you? No thanks,” Desmond returns, adjusting some of the bottles that had shifted from the impact of one (1) man playing grown-up hide and seek.

Barton pouts, which isn’t as forgiving of an expression on an adult vs a child. He makes his way out of the bar, leveraging himself cleanly over the counter to seat himself on one of the stools.

“We’ve met, but I haven’t introduced myself yet. Clint Barton, aka Hawkeye, at your service.”

“Ah,” Desmond responds intelligently, ignoring Barton’s outstretched hand for personal safety reasons. “You’re the one with the 70-pound bow.” Probably more, honestly, given how well they’d managed to punch through alien armour and the sheer distance they fly. Fancy arrows can only get you so far.

Barton’s face lights up like Christmas, raised hand forgotten. “You could tell? Some people think my draw weight’s 250, which is way too much to be useful. But no one really cares about my baby next to Stark’s human Lamborghini suit.” His tone is only marginally bitter. “

Desmond hums, non-committal. “Well, they’re both good for different things, I guess. Sometimes a human tank isn’t needed you’re sniping someone from afar. Sometimes random gadgets defeat the purpose of the object.”

Barton stares at Desmond, wide eyed.

“You get it!” He crows, pointing at Desmond. “Even Nat won’t listen to me when I say it. There’s a purity to a bow that isn’t homing or automatic. My arrows might be tasers and bombs, but I still have to aim. Pulling the string is different, you know?”

“For sure,” Desmond agrees, Connor coming to the forefront of his mind with interest. “Guns don’t cut it when you’re really looking for thrill.” Desmond shuts his mouth when he realizes no normal bartender should know this much. His knowledge is still in the range of a very dedicated hobbyist, right? Right?? “Or so I’ve heard,” he adds on, hoping Barton doesn’t notice. There. Totally unsuspicious.

Barton doesn’t seem to care, to his credit. “I don’t know who told you that, but they’ve got it down pat. I’m good with sniper rifles, alright, but it’s still the bow that’s my baby. An arrow hitting the mark…that’s a different kind of beauty.”

Barton reaches backwards to grab his bow, swinging it onto the bar counter with complete disregard for table manners. Whatever Desmond’s about to say, some mild admonishment or wry comment, evaporates at the sight of the bow before him.

Foldable limbs, ergonomic grip, alloy riser. It’s among the sexiest bows Desmond has seen in a long time, which is saying something given Connor’s bow standards. Even with all the gizmos and doodads littered all over it, Desmond thinks he could probably die happy knowing he’s owned something like that.

“A beauty, isn’t she?” Barton puffs up in pride, cradling the bow to his chest with the same tenderness of a mother with her newborn child. “No other bow like her. Tony gave her some serious upgrades. I was happy with the run-of-the-mill stuff SHIELD gives out like candy to the agents, but damn if that man doesn’t know how to make an agent feel special.”

Wordlessly, Desmond gestures. Like a man presenting another with the holy grail, Barton hands the bow to Desmond above his lowered head. Any sort of hesitation forgotten, Desmond holds it up, pushing away from the counter to assume proper posture with a chuckle.

“You can try, but it’s probably too much for a—” whatever Barton is trying to say dies, because Desmond is pulling back the string easily, testing the waters.

“It has nice tension,” Desmond says, pulling it back once more to a background of Barton’s silent existential crisis. “Makes you really work for it, huh.”

“…Yeah. Now you’re just making me look stupid.”

Desmond turns back to see Barton grinning wryly, a hint of appraisal in his gaze. He self-consciously puts down the bow before he starts doing something stupid like practice his shooting forms in front of a SHIELD agent. The resistance he gets from Connor is unreal.

The curve of Barton’s mouth turns a tad sharp. Probing, in a different manner than the Widow’s. Barton’s not like Natasha, who is all sharp edges and blood-stained thorns; he’s someone who lets a grain of himself run true in any disguise he makes, even in the one presented to the enemy. Presented to Desmond. He acts like someone without anything to lose when he has everything to lose. Desmond’s read his file.

“How about swinging by the training rooms over here next week? I’m a little tired of getting thrashed by Nat.” Desmond blinks, coming back to the present. That sounds like…a bad idea. A terrible, terrible idea.

But he wants to do it, there’s no question about that.

It’s been so long since the last time he touched a bow, composite fiber or wood. After what the animus has made him, Desmond is a creature of movement, and as nice as the tower is, it’s still a very fancy cage.

“No thanks,” Desmond says, pushing down dangerous thoughts. “I don’t fancy getting thrashed by the Black Widow either.”

Something flickers in Barton’s eyes. “Shame. And here I was thinking of using you as a scapegoat and making my escape.”

“Then who would pour your drinks?” Desmond grabs a glass, eyeing the bottles behind him. “Besides, I doubt the Widow would find me more interesting than you. Going for the bigger kill, and all that.”

At this, Barton smiles. It settles familiarly on his face, with just a hint of edge. “I don’t know about that. Something about our new bartender is different…hunter’s intuition.”

Desmond pushes down his unease with a laugh. “Let’s hope that intuition is enough to escape the web of the Widow. Now, how about some gin?”

“Dammit,” Barton bemoans, dramatically resigned to his fate. “With what’s coming, you don’t even have to ask.”

Their conversation comes a bit more naturally after that, before Barton takes a look at his phone, lets out a “f*ck! Oops, sorry Laura” and slips away, presumably to do some avengering things.

It’s only later when Desmond’s cleaning up for the day does his notice the slip of paper tucked underneath the counter, of all places. It’s a twenty-dollar tip with a note: invitation’s still open :)

In the grand scheme of things, Barton’s not bad.

----

Banner’s not bad either. He comes in only once, ordering some seltzer water, you do you sir. He spends most of the time Desmond uses to pour the water fidgeting and adjusting his glasses, glancing at Desmond like he’s the big bad wolf. The assessment isn’t entirely off the mark.

It’s only later when Desmond recalls Banner’s file does he realize that Desmond is the one off the mark. At first glance, it’s easy to label a man like Banner housing a rage monster as cowardly, contrary as it seems, or simply mentally fragile. He imagines it must be hard, living a life treading on eggshells around civilians.

Maybe that was the real reason he joined the Avengers; to befriend people he knows can stop him, protect themselves too, if need be. Sure, Banner acts scared of his shadow around Desmond, but it’s only because he’s more scared of what he might do than Desmond himself. It’s an interesting thought.

All in all, a wickedly sharp man under his mousy exterior, cautious as he may be. Afterall, that PhD level intelligence must come from somewhere.

He also shares some of Desmond’s brand of wry, nihilistic humor, which is a plus in his books. Desmond might like him a lot more if Eagle vision isn’t screaming each time Banner enters the range of his senses.

There’s got to be cons to everything, he figures. Banner’s character flaw is that he can turn into an uncontrollable creature of pure destruction. Must be a riot at parties.

On the other hand, it’s Thor who’s bad.

Thor, the legitimate Norse god Thor, comes bursting in Friday morning, arm slung over the shoulder of a woman very deep in the throes of all nighters. Behind them trots in another woman, glancing around curiously behind her glasses.

“Man of Iron and the Avengers! I have returned!”

No one responds, because they’re not there. The Black Widow’s out on some espionage mission from SHIELD, Barton’s shooting things up in the training rooms, Captain America’s out on some PR thing that spurred him to drink three beers before he left. Stark and Banner are, as far as Desmond is concerned, left alone in their respective labs, doing big-brained things he has no part of. In fact, there hasn’t been a single instance in the week where all the Avengers were gathered together. This leaves Desmond alone, the way he mostly likes it. Life is easier when he’s not surrounded by people who can kill him.

“Son of Stark? Captain of America?”

Desmond’s first impression is that Thor is…interesting. Striding confidently into the common area facing Desmond’s bar, Thor looks around, greatly succeeding in his ‘lost golden retriever puppy’ imitation. When he spots Desmond, he beams. The force of it makes Desmond feel like he should be shielding his eyes or something.

The woman in Thor’s arms sighs, fond but mostly exasperated. She steps up, offering her hand. Desmond feels better about taking it this time compared to Barton, at least.

“I’m Jane Foster. Astrophysicist and scientist.” Jane pauses in faux thought. “And this is my boyfriend.” She waves a casual hand at Thor, who receives the title with immense pride.

Behind her, the other lady chokes on a laugh. Desmond arches a brow, fighting to keep the smirk off his lips. Professional, he tells himself.

“Nice to meet you, Jane Foster’s boyfriend.” Desmond tells Thor with a straight face, offering a handshake. If Thor wanted to rip his arm off, there’s nothing he can do about it anyway. The other lady begins full out wheezing.

“I am Thor Odinson of Asgard, God of Thunder,” Thor says enthusiastically, shaking Desmond’s hand up and down. The way he talks makes everything seem capitalized. “You must be the new barman son of Stark mentioned! Welcome, welcome! So long have we had fresh blood!” with a booming laugh, he slaps Desmond’s back so hard he feels three years of his life leave his body.

If Desmond wasn’t reinforced to nearly inhuman levels by the animus and subsequent use of precursor artifacts, he suspects his eyeballs might have decided to vacate his body and provide the next horrific spectacle of the year.

“I’m Desmond Miles,” Desmond manages, subtly checking to make sure his throwing knives are still stashed where they should be. They are, if he ignores the one that’s migrated uncomfortably near his ass crack. “Yeah, I started working here on Monday.”

At this, Jane’s presumed friend jumps up, raising her hand like a kid in elementary school. “Ooh, then can I order a drink!” then, before Desmond can respond, she says, “Can I have a drink with vermouth, maraschino, two shots of vodka, a shot of tequila, three squeezes of lemon, cherry juice, apple juice, celery, five pumps of vanilla syrup, milk foam, whipped topping with drizzled chocolate, cinnamon sugar, three pumps of caramel syrup, and eight shots of expresso? In a venti cup, please!”

Desmond lets that sink in for a couple of seconds.

“This isn’t Starbucks,” he settles on. Jane chuckles behind her hand, amusem*nt alight on her face. The gaze of adoration Thor uses to look at her is so sappy that Desmond feels like he’s intruding just for existing. Ew, PDA.

“Boo,” Darcy says, sticking out her tongue with a faint look of disgust that Desmond is pretty sure mirrored on his own face. “I’m Darcy, by the way.” At a temporary loss for words, Desmond just nods at her warily.

“Hey, no need to look at me like that. How about a Shirley Temple? Been craving some pomegranate, lately.”

“Sure. Alcoholic or classic?”

“I thought there was only non-alcoholic?”

Desmond lets some mischief leak into his smile. “It’s my specialty, except I call it Shirley Templar.” It takes him back, to make a Shirley Templar once again. The last time was…he doesn’t actually remember. Bad Weather, maybe, or somewhere in the blur of his desperate journey.

Darcy taps her lips with a finger. “I’ll take that then. Thanks!” She pushes over a tip. “Jane and Thor would like some beer, I’m sure.” Jane makes a face but doesn’t refuse.

Desmond sinks into the background as Jane, Thor, and Darcy meander over to Tony Stark’s thousand-dollar couches in the seating area, the ones Desmond refuses to sit on because he feels like he’s being eaten alive by the chair. Perks of being both a bartender and an Assassin; they both have incredible blending abilities when needed.

“I didn’t know Tony hired a new bartender,” Jane muses. She pulls out her phone, tapping it absently. “I thought he was halting hires after…after that.” How interesting. It only further confirms what Desmond already knows—his entire employment is a roundabout sting operation. Nice.

“Ha.ha..ha.” Thor says. He’s an absolutely terrible liar, and it shows. “Perhaps the man of iron desired drink made by a master’s hand. It is not the same.”

Jane’s voice is distinctly confused. “But I thought Tony doesn’t drink anymore? Pepper told me all about it the other day. And it’s not like Jarvis doesn’t know how to mix drinks either.”

“Ah. Yes. What an admirable choice! I, myself, would not able to live without mead and certainly it is brave of him to change his ways and to invite temptation in the form of a barman into his home which is not unusual at all—"

Perhaps taking pity on Thor, Jane changes the subject. “If your team isn’t here, why don’t we head back after we finish our drinks? I think I’ve finally nailed down that theory.”

“Of course, lady Jane. But perhaps after we visit a fellow bowman who is nearby. I am sure he will be willing to test his mettle against me. My time on Asgard has been relaxing but uneventful.” Thor says, with an air of great relief. I doubt Barton would be willing at all, Desmond idly thinks as he’s pouring grenadine over ice.

Thor is such a sh*t liar for someone hundreds of years old. Then again, Desmond realizes, he doubts Thor really needs to lie at all, when he has Mjolnir to smash the problem away.

“Clint is here?” Jane asks.

“Indeed. I have heard he is training diligently in preparation for our rematch!”

Desmond silently prays for Barton’s soul.

“A match between Thor and Hawkeye? This, I gotta see,” Darcy chimes in. “And you have to come with, Jane. No more hiding in your lab like some hermit.”

Desmond’s superior hearing catches Jane’s quiet grumble, “I am a hermit.” Then, speaking up, “Fine, fine. I guess a break—even though I’ve been on vacation for the last month—is necessary.”

Darcy squawks in outrage. “Stopping every five steps to edit your thesis is not a break, Jane! Thor, tell her!”

Thor hums in agreement as Desmond heads over with their drinks, setting them down with the tray on the coffee table.

He hands Jane and Thor theirs (Thor’s in a massive tankard labeled conveniently ‘THOR :D’ in Stark’s handwriting), then turns to Darcy.

“Here’s your drink.”

“Oh, it’s for you.” She pushes the glass towards him. Desmond blinks down at it, only startling when Darcy shoves the cold glass into his hands. “You looked like you could use a drink.”

“…thanks.” Desmond replies, wondering what about him looks so bad that this complete stranger would take pity on him. There’s plenty of reasons, actually, but Desmond is very determined not to think about it. Wandering back to the bar, he takes a sip of the drink, enjoying the sweetness and the tang. Shirley Templars are a little too sweet for his taste, but he finishes it all the same.

Jane, Darcy, and Thor hang around for about an hour longer, before Jane decides to head down first with Darcy. This leaves Thor uncomfortably alone with Desmond. Desmond looks at Thor. Thor beams back at Desmond. Of course, it’s Thor who breaks the silence first.

“Ah yes, Barman of the Avengers. As Midgardian mead, not without its own beauty, is too light for my palate, I have brought plenty mead from Asgard for your safekeeping!” by virtue of some kind of magic, Thor flares his cape. There’s a rumble, a column of light—and suddenly seven massive barrels of mead are sitting in the middle of room. “I would be happy to see my comrades enjoy such a thing.”

Desmond stares at it, trying to reconcile the fact that Thor had just opened the gateway between realms for alcohol, “…thanks.” This is f*cking space magic, Desmond decides. No point in thinking further.

Thor preens under the attention, not unlike a man with shockingly low social intelligence. “You are welcome, new friend.”

Thor glances at Desmond, then, and for the first time since they’ve met, doesn’t have a smile in his eyes.

He frowns, slightly, indecision written all over his face. Normally, Desmond would be glad for an opponent he can read (i.e. can tell whether they’re contemplating his death or next meal) but he doubts it would be any help if they ended up in battle. Regardless, Desmond clenches his hand around that diamond ashtray under the bar, shifting his weight—to fight or flee, he doesn’t know himself.

Desmond is prepared to kill, but what Thor says next says next is even worse than Desmond’s odds of winning. Thor leans in, and unbidden, Desmond leans in too. It turns out the action is wholly unnecessary, as Thor’s whisper is as loud as normal speaking volume for anyone else, but does not register past the pounding in Desmond’s head.

“Your secret is safe with me, Assassin.”

Assassin.

Assassin.

“What?”

Notes:

once again, happy holidays!
this is my gift to all of you who spend the time reading my drivel
i wish you all a great year in advance!
(if you see random changes in writing quality, no you didn't. i totally did not write this when i was supposed to be working. nope.)

Chapter 9 Notes:

I'M BACK GUYS
uni was hell and i have learned nothing
i've reread some of what i wrote and i'm like what was i on??? it makes no sense?? a rewrite may be on the horizon (!!)
anyway, take this chapter. alternate chapter title: desmond does some introspection (TM) and gets lit
yeah this is 8K idk either

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

“What?”

Desmond chokes out, his face frozen. The only reason he’s not running away right now is because Thor is a deep blue, and even that is barely enough to override every cell in his body screaming to run. It sounds like just the word assassin, but that emphasis, that odd weight to that first syllable makes it known Thor knows exactly what he’s saying.

And has no clue that he’s singlehandedly shredding Desmond’s already tissue-thin cover, undoing all of Desmond’s sh*tty spy work. All of a sudden, every single camera and mic in the room seems to glow in a dizzying, blinding white, so bright that Desmond wants to squeeze his eyes shut. But he can’t, and so Desmond’s panic remains trapped behind his skull, while his face smooths into the genial, dead-inside smile of any experienced service industry worker.

He can still save this. He can still save this.

The pounding in Desmond’s ears slowly becomes deafening, and it’s as if the world is folding inwards until it’s only him and Thor in the room, warped and twisted like gazing through an old spyglass lens. It’s getting difficult to breathe, he notes, trying to cling to the sensation of his fingertips on cool marble, the bright shine of the pendant lights above the bar. It’s not much, but it does center him enough to let his thoughts barely form.

What if the Assassins Thor is talking about isn’t his Assassins? What if—what if they are? What does Desmond even want to believe?

What does he know? And what is Desmond willing to give up to learn?

The mass of threads in his chest strangles every which way, each thread a longing and emotion Desmond thought he had buried but in truth only hid in the sand. No secret remains hidden forever, Altair whispers in the back Desmond’s mind, barely there. Time shifts the sands of the past, and what used to be gone will always resurface.

His mind whirls, a chaotic mess and echoing, empty silence all at once.

“Excuse me?” Desmond asks brightly, trying to crush the overwhelming turbulence of his emotions.

“Your legendary Brotherhood of hashashins,” Thor responds, sounding hesitant now. Desmond doesn’t know him at all, but even he can tell Thor wears uncertainty like an ill-tailored jacket. “I heard they feast with Asgard’s finest in the halls of Valhalla. My br-Loki knew them well. Are you well? Shall I call a healer—”

“No,” Desmond snaps, fierce enough to startle himself. He shakes his head, hoping to clear it. Coughs once, a feeble attempt to smooth past his slip. It’s wishful thinking by now, he knows, but he’s not ready to let go of the façade yet. Not until he’s sure.

“No, I’m just a little under the weather today. I don’t know what brotherhood you are talking about, but I’m sure you can tell me about them another time. Don’t you have Hawkeye to fight?”

Thor pauses at this. “Aye, but…you are not one of the Brotherhood? Alas, it has been decades…perhaps my eyes have become unskilled in the absence. Regardless, you must be a great man if I have mistaken you to be one.”

Desmond smiles, conflicted. On one hand, this is the first lead on the Brotherhood he’s encountered since arriving. On the other, he still has a cover to maintain, even if it’s in tatters by now.

“A great man…” Desmond repeats to hide his turmoil, rolling the words around his mouth. They taste like ash. Like blood. Desmond’s father was a great man, but was never a good man. Desmond doesn’t want to be great, even though he knows he might already be him.

“That’s definitely not me,” his mouth says anyway. “Maybe you can ask Loki about it another time.”

At this, Thor’s face crumples from the jovial geniality he’d been wearing the entire conversation to something more weary, more worn. “Perhaps I will. It…has been long since I visited.”

Desmond smiles, silently manic. There’s definitely some kind of history between the two, and while the name Loki is vaguely familiar in a context beyond Norse mythos, he can’t seem to recall. Loki….Thor….New York…

Wait. sh*t.

Loki is the brother, isn’t he? The brother who went megalomaniac and decided NY was fair game in a rigged game of Alien monopoly? Desmond had only skimmed the file at the time, too preoccupied with coming to terms with his apparent existence in another dimension. And stepped right onto a landmine, it seems.

“I’m sorry,” he says, lamely. It’s a terrible emotional faux pas, but even worse, as Desmond realizes with sinking dread, the worst slip Desmond has made to date. His birth records and residence records say he’s lived in New York all his life. There’s no way a New Yorker would forget the name and face of the man who had singlehandedly destroyed their beloved city.

“My brother has tried to kill me often, but we’re still on good terms.” Desmond tries to amend, only to freeze again.

He scrambles for another answer. “I mean, I’ve tried to kill him too, so it’s fine.” f*ck, that’s worse.

sh*t sh*t sh*t. f*ck. Desmond doesn’t even have a brother in this dimension in the first place. It’s Federico he’s thinking of, who used enjoy flicking a knife at Ezio’s vitals whenever he entered the room, then scurrying off with a jovial “just checking your reflexes!” as if what he did wouldn’t have killed any lesser man.

They have tried to kill each other—entirely for fun and games as is the Assassin way. He’s pretty sure that’s not how it works here; from what he can tell, his childhood was atypical.

He knows he should’ve spent more of an effort compartmentalizing the jumbled realities of his bleeds. f*cking hell.

How’s he going to explain this?

Thor is staring at him now, a deer in headlights look that only accentuates the absolute emptiness behind his eyes. Then Desmond watches as, almost audibly, the rusty gears in Thor’s head begin to turn. This is the part where he dies, isn’t it? Smashed to death by the hammer? Struck by lightning? Sent off to the halls of Valhalla to meet his absentee ancestors? The irony of the thought nearly makes a manic laugh bubble in his throat.

Then, like a train veering straight off a cliff, Desmond watches the look of alarm shift quickly into….sympathy? what the f*ck?

Thor reaches forward, clasping Desmond’s hands in his. They’re uncomfortably warm, and his grip is like an iron vice. Fuuuuuuck.

“I am sorry to hear that as well, Desmond Miles. You are a true warrior, for besting the matters of the heart. I shall heed your advice.”

Desmond feels faint. Thor’s just…going to ignore the whole “yeah my bro tried to kill me” thing? And has the capacity to feel sorry for Desmond? After he’d given him the objectively tone-deaf advice of “talk to your bro who just destroyed a city and tried to kill you and all your friends”?

(All of a sudden, Desmond feels a brief pity for the Avengers, who have to deal with this overgrown golden retriever of a man.)

Still, better for him anyway. The rest of the Avengers will probably be going nuts soon over his admission, but Desmond doesn’t have the capacity to care at the moment.

He needs to retreat right now, before he says something incriminating again. He needs to think.

“Don’t you have a match to get to with Hawkeye?” he tries again. “I’m sure Jane and Darcy are waiting for you.”

“Ah yes. It has been a pleasure to meet you, Desmond Miles. I hope when we meet again, I have found the same magnanimity and courage that you possess, Assassin.”

And with that, Thor is gone.

Desmond holds the smile on his face for a couple of seconds before letting it drop, his fingers curling into fists.

Okay. Don’t panic. Thor thinking Desmond is an emotionally stable person is fine (barely). Accidentally giving catastrophically bad advice is fine. Even slipping up is…probably fine. For now.

Thor revealing that the Brotherhood exists? Not fine. Not fine at all.

He should have known things weren’t so simple. For an ancient organization like the Brotherhood to just disappear at the same time as the Templars is beyond suspicious. The Brotherhood has always been adept at hiding in plain sight, and it makes sense that they might still be hidden now. In his world, it was the Templars and Assassins that found him first; in this one….

He has to find them first. It feels wrong, somehow, that it’s Desmond that has to dog their steps, beg for their appearance, drag them out of hiding. He’d spent so much of his life running from the brotherhood and his blood and yet, it is to them he always returns. The irony of this fate nearly forces a bitter laugh out of him, but it only catches in his throat, bitter and dry and empty.

There’s hope budding in his chest again, and Desmond should strangle it before it consumes him and holds him hostage. He’s getting ahead of himself already. Thor had said it had been decades since he last saw an Assassin. It’s not much time in the scope of the brotherhood, having existed for hundreds of years; but the brotherhood has always been active in the shadows—averting disasters and maintaining a modicum of world order.

Desmond knows their techniques and style, and there’s little of it in the history of this world. The Brotherhood he knows would not have stood in silence while aliens attacked and let the rot of the city spread as much as it has. The organization is vast and terribly ancient, and while Desmond would normally have faith in its resilience, the complete void of information is not instilling him with much confidence. All Thor’s words do—if, and only if he’s not lying, but why would he lie in the first place—is confirm that there have been Assassins (maybe not even his assassins, but assassins nonetheless). It says nothing about the Brotherhood of the present, leaving Desmond right where he started.

But not quite. The Brotherhood must have left a legacy of some kind, a trail of breadcrumbs that Desmond’s Eagle Vision is sure to catch. And…

Where the Brotherhood exists, so do the Templars; one side of a coin cannot exist without the other. Given the chaotic state of this universe, it’s plausible that the Brotherhood is missing, and even more plausible that the Templars are still active. They hide in an abjectly different way compared to the Brotherhood, slithering into the cracks of government and corporations until they are one and the same. To the Brotherhood, if the corrupt exists, so do the Templars.

(it’s always been ironic to Desmond; out of them both, it is the Templars who embody hiding in plain sight the most. See: Abstergo.)

This is objectively bad news.

And yet, as much as Desmond wants to deny it, the feeling budding in his chest isn’t fear or anger, though yes, both are present. It’s relief, setting his blood aflame, rearing its head like a wolf catching the scent of prey. Like a puzzle piece clicking into place. he reviles the Templars, no doubt about it; but he hadn’t realized how high-strung he’s been until he’s been handed this tiny shard of familiarity.

This world is…wrong. There’s no way around it. There are thousands of things around him that seem fine at first glance, but only gives Desmond a (Juno induced? Why not, everything’s her fault) headache. The phones people use aren’t Abstergo, but Stark. The clothing brand of the clothes he’s wearing differs in name by one letter. The faces staring out of his dollar bills are placed in different locations, bearing oddly similar names. Even the people—the people of Desmond’s New York have seen sh*t, but here? They’ve suffered. They’ve lost. They’re…not stronger per se, but more weathered. All of it adds up to unsettle him in blow after blow of culture shock that threatens the already fragile foundations of his reality.

Desmond doesn’t lose sleep over it, because he’s an assassin and he’s trained to sleep at a snap, but that doesn’t stop the feeling of pervasive rejection from invading his dreams. He sleeps but wakes up ultimately tired, which is arguably the same thing as not sleeping at all. Being on guard against the Avengers and constantly pretending he’s not suspicious has taken its toll on him too.

Desmond breathes through his nose, picking up a glass to wipe on autopilot. The revelations of the day make a mess of his mind. Forget finding the Brotherhood. Can he even conceivably fight the Templars and protect the Avengers all at once? Can he even stay under the radar and protect himself after all that’s been said and done? all while holding a full-time job?

If he had to choose between the saving the Avengers and the final vanquishing of the Templars, who is he to choose? A week ago, the answer would be easy. Now, he’s not so sure.

(he’s made a promise, and even thieves have honor.)

He wants to leave the tower and disappear, maybe for several years or decades. His damned logic with the voice of Shaun is the only thing keeping him rooted to the spot. He runs now, and it’s a confirmation of more than what he’s comfortable sharing with his watchers. More than what he’s already shared anyway, he thinks wryly.

And…the Avengers are a lot of things. A disaster in the making, some say. Heroes. Villains. A mess, even. Desmond’s never been the best judge of character, but he knows enough about them to say that what they are, in the end, is stupidly stubborn. With this shred of confirmation, they’ll sink their teeth into Desmond and never let go. He’ll have to run.

Desmond’s done running. He’s run all his life. He can make it to the rest of the day without crying (thank god it’s Friday).

New world, he thinks wryly, setting down the glass to begin wiping down the counter. New me.

---

Desmond spends the last bit of his shift absolutely vibrating. It’s a relief that no one arrives after Thor because anyone with eyes would be able to tell something’s wrong with him. But going through the motions of rearranging the spirits and checking the bar has given him some semblance of privacy, even if the multitude of surveillance technology in the room says otherwise.

The time has allowed him to at least organize his thoughts into as close as what is order he can get. Thor seems to be the kind of person incapable of lying. Desmond would be a fool to wholeheartedly trust him on basis of gut-feeling alone, but Eagle Vision is honest enough about what his intentions are. Intention isn’t everything though; there’s always the possibility that Thor is wrong without knowing it.

It still won’t hurt to check. This is the first real lead that Desmond’s come across so far. The history here differs, and many of the figures Desmond remembers aren’t there. However, Desmond is. Desmond is an anomaly, and if he can exist, what are the odds that history can be different too?

He’s willing to cling to that hope now, with the foundation of a firm purpose to stand on. He’d been too scared to hope when he’d first arrived, sure it would shatter everything he knew. It’s better now. He has allies, albeit tentative, and a purpose.

Not bad for a wayward Assassin.

---

The weekend is utter liberation. He gets to leave that blasted tower filled to the brim with eyes everywhere, setting off every instinct in his body. Knowing that Jarvis is willing to overlook many of his… pastimes is all and well, but its not like he can just. Whip out his throwing knives and start sharpening them. The itch is getting to him.

And, frankly, his wardrobe needs a serious overhaul. Desmond gives little care about his appearance, to be honest. When he was on the run, oftentimes miles from running water, Desmond’s learned to simply stop caring. Sure, he still shaves, showers, and moisturizes (against his will, for the record—all Ezio there), but beyond slipping on a pair of jeans and his white hoodie, Desmond doesn’t do much else.

But while Desmond might not care, he can tell others do. Stark has been pretty benevolent about his nearly endless collection of identical white hoodies (probably because he himself walks around in day-old t-shirts stained with motor oil on a daily basis), but Stark is also the kind of guy to own white t-shirts worth $500 dollars, so his opinion is invalid as per usual.

It’s Pepper who’s been giving him the stink eye about his professionalism. “You represent us, being an employee here,” she had said one day, over a sip of martini. “Be aware of that. Be proud.”

Desmond had hmm’d and ok’d his way out of the conversation, and only in retrospect realized it was probably a gentle warning of a kind. Oh well, he’s solving the problem soon anyways.

He’s also starting to realize that although his job is a merely a cover and an excuse, it’s still a job that pays, and he likes the Avengers enough to make some concessions. And maybe just to stop stressing Pepper out; she looks like she has enough on her plate already.

He’s heard good things about this one suit maker from that devil lawyer dude he’d met the other day, so that’s another thing on his list.

Next on the agenda is getting in touch with his small informant network, mainly to inject some funds after having ghosted them for a couple of weeks. He’s made a promise to Jarvis, after all, and knowledge is power. Without the Brotherhood backing him, Desmond is one man in a sea of millions. The city moves fast and brutal, and Desmond likes keeping up with the local gossip and going-ons of the city to at least level the playing field.

With this, he’s casting a wide net. His information network is good at getting fast and relevant information, but can only reveal the echoes of the international landscape. That’s where Jarvis comes in; he’d sent Desmond a dossier some time ago, left unread until Desmond can find a secure place to parse through it. Jarvis has been pretty chill, actually, after the Promise. He lets Desmond use the internet freely, sometimes even “leaving” files suspiciously out in the open. It’s real convenient when that happens, so Desmond makes sure to throw a thumbs up at him each time Jarvis does it. Man, robot overlords are cool.

Other than that, Desmond also has plans on checking out some strange spots he’d sensed with Eagle Vision had hit him with the last time he’d climb some absurdly tall building at unholy speed. It’d be nice to roam too. The Assassin in him is eager to beat sh*t up and ‘get lit’ (thank you, Clay) and Desmond’s too much of his ancestors to refuse.

But most of all, he can finally start looking for the Assassins in earnest, starting with legends of the hashashins on Asgard. Thinking about it is equally exhilarating and terrifying. The allies he’s made so far will be a massive help.

Busy weekend.

Mind set, the first thing he does is getting the f*ck out of the tower. This is the easiest and most satisfying part.

Desmond braves the disturbingly fast elevator down and speed-walks at the limit of what is socially acceptable to the door, giving a speedy nod to the two women (the older, clearly more experienced; the younger, packing up to leave) operating the reception at this late time of day.

When the glass doors of the tower slam shut behind him, Desmond takes a moment, inhaling three years of smog and burning trash into his lungs. Ah. New York.

He wanders around downtown Manhattan for a while, then heads first to Hell’s Kitchen, where he’d last met that interesting, crime-fighting lawyer. Murdock is luckily free when he hits him up, and they share a drink and beat up a couple of criminals (mostly for fun). When they keep score, Murdock keeps winning (but only because he knows the scene than Desmond).

Murdock brings him in for a suit fitting at the delightful time of 10:00 pm, and he gets all kinds of uncomfortable parts of his body measured and groped by this old dude covered in wicked tattoos that glow suspiciously in Eagle Vision. Not any colour in particular. Just. Glows.

Matt (“call me Matt,”) laughs at him the entire time before taking over and spewing out a bunch of specifications that Desmond does not want to know or remember. Matt winks at him though (or Desmond thinks he does; it’s hard to tell behind those glasses) when they settle the bill, where Matt whispers something into the old dude’s ear and there’s a lot of laughing and smacking each other’s backs and ends in Desmond paying $20 for “appearance fees” (?). All in all, a thoroughly relaxing Friday night.

But his trip is far from over.

Hopping onto a cab, it takes just a couple of blocks from the tourist attractions for everything to…melt away. As Desmond makes his way into East New York, into the Bronx, there’s less glass and more brick, the buildings surrounding him growing weathered and stooped with age. He spots makeshift abodes of tarp and cardboard piled on the sides of streets. The sidewalks here are cracked and untended, weeds overgrown and spilling onto the road. The thing is, New York is one of those cities that only seem glamorous on the surface. And yeah, Desmond gets the appeal, even if most of it has worn off in his years there. He supposes most cities are like that, all gilded edges and urban refinery to the wayward observer beyond a screen. But the real city, Desmond believes, is the underbelly of it.

It’s dark enough now that the darkness beyond the flickering circles created by the streetlights is inscrutable and forbidding. There’s not much in the way of surveillance, but it never hurts to be careful.

Even under the blanket of night, eyes still prickle against the back of his neck. Some are curious, and more than a few remain malicious. Desmond pays them little heed.

The city here is a far cry from the glimmering hedony of downtown Manhattan, but Desmond finds himself more at home here, where wolves do not wear the skins of sheep and play dramas of false civility. As an Assassin, he’s always been more suited to the shadows anyway.

Desmond slips from shadow to shadow, maintaining a leisurely pace. Then, abruptly, he swerves into a dark side alley, breaking into a running start that gives him the momentum to vault over the high brick wall at the end. Scanning the area quickly, he quickly leaps onto a windowsill of the building on his right connected to the wall (bad design, honestly), scales up the side, and flattens himself on the flat roof.

Footsteps patter below, none too soon.

“Where did he go? I’m sure he was here!” one unfamiliar voice complains.

“We lost him,” another voice answers. “sh*t, we’re going to get flayed over this.”

There’s the low sigh of a nine to five worker on the brink of overtime. “let’s do a scan of the area then regroup. He can’t have gotten too far.”

Desmond listens until the low voices recede, only sitting up when he’s sure the footsteps have turned the corner. SHIELD, probably. The Avengers have taken a largely hands-off approach when monitoring him, likely waiting for his first move. SHIELD is the opposite; they’ve had little chance to monitor him while he’s in the tower (Stark being rather particular about where SHIELD’s jurisdiction begins), so his trip would be the perfect opportunity to gather intelligence on him. Too bad they’re so bad at their jobs Desmond feels bad for them. Like taking candy from a baby.

Now that he thinks about it, being able to lose these government-sanctioned tails also says a great deal about his abilities and his identity. He allows himself a moment of panic, then brushes it away. Cat’s already out of the bag already anyway. Desmond has slipped so much over the course of the last couple of weeks that everyone and their mom probably knows that he’s some kind of assassin with a fabricated past. This much won’t change anything.

In hindsight, he wouldn’t have let SHIELD follow him to his network even if his cover wasn’t already blown. Keeping cards close to the chest is part of the Assassin doctrine. With a shiver (man, it’s getting cold), Desmond quickly slides down the side of the building on a pipe, treading with silent steps on the asphalt. He misses the wool-lined cloaks his ancestors used to use. And the smiths too, who’d always been willing to make throwing knives and daggers and wires at ungodly hours for their most loyal and wealthy customers. Desmond has the money, but nowhere to spend it which another frustrating thing to add to his insanely long (and growing) list.

He’d normally take to the roofs the way he prefers, but the risk of drones is too high. It’s a shame, because that was the best part of any hit, in his opinion. It was funny watching consistently people fail to look up.

Mood slightly soured, he glances at the address written on the crumpled slip of paper the informal leader of his informant network had pushed into his hands before his leave, bawling a tad overdramatically over his departure. He doesn’t have his phone because that would be stupid, so he has to use Eagle Vision to pave the way. He ends up in front of this small building that looks like it’s on the brink of collapse, and strangely familiar.

It takes a couple seconds of flickering awareness, until Desmond realizes it’s the building he’s shut himself in when he’d first arrived in this janky-ass universe. Huh. Home sweet home.

The front doors are barricaded with old wooden planks Desmond doesn’t feel like touching, so he loops behind the building to the fire escape staircase behind. The ladder leading to it is retracted and on the verge of falling apart, but it poses little issue to Desmond. He steps backward several paces, then leaps upwards with a running start. The bricks are slightly slick from the evening rain, slipping slightly underfoot as Desmond uses a crevice to propel himself upwards.

He's high enough that his fingers catch on the windowsill of a darkened, broken window, leaving his legs swinging several feet above the ground. He pulls himself up with his fingertips and the help of the wall, shifting into a crouch. His white hoodie would normally be a massive giveaway of his location, but it’s dark enough now that visibility is limited to the untrained eye. And his hoodie isn’t so white anymore, which would’ve been a shame if it weren’t for his earlier shopping spree.

Eagle Vision tells him there’s eight bodies on this floor alone, clustered methodically and an odd blue. That’s what makes him pause; blue means friendly, and although these people may be part of his informant network, he hasn’t done anything worth making that blue so dark and deeply rooted. The inhabitants of the entire building are blue, and friendly or not, it’s setting off red flags in Desmond’s head.

Desmond squints at it once more, weighing his options. f*ck it. Thinking before acting is overrated anyway.

He leaps into the window with a twist, straightening himself up to dust off some of the glass caught in his entrance. Immediately, there’s seven guns in his face and a host of unfriendly, hostile faces. Desmond makes a note to himself. People are friendly to Desmond Miles, only if they know who Desmond Miles is.

Desmond raises his hands, quickly pulling off his hood. “Um…don’t shoot?”

“Who are you? How did you find us?” A woman in a leather jacket (classy) hisses, taking the safety off her gun. The man beside her shifts nervously, fingering the white band wrapped around his right arm. They’re all wearing something of the sort, Desmond notices, ranging from a silk handkerchief to white gauze. And all staring at him with a concerning degree of suspicion. Fair, actually. The last person who’d climbed through Desmond’s window got stabbed.

Desmond is thankfully relieved of the chance to answer (and inevitably put his foot in his mouth) by another voice, harried and panting as it approaches.

“Christine, what did I tell you about waving around that gun of yours?”

Christine doesn’t look away from Desmond, lifting a hand to throw their new person the middle finger.

“To only use it in extenuating circ*mstances? I think this counts. He came in through the fourth-floor window.”

The figure straightens at that, adjusting the frames of his glasses. His gaze, sharp in contrast to his sloppy outfit of a wrinkled shirt and sweats (not that Desmond can judge though) scans Desmond from head to toe. Desmond shifts his weight from foot to foot, feeling uncomfortably like a student waiting for the teacher to finish looking over their essay.

His essay---no, whatever he sees is good, apparently, because his face lights up in recognition.

“Ah, welcome back, Boss!”

“Boss?!” Christine (and half of the room) shouts.

“…Boss?” Desmond echoes, a beat late.

“He looks exactly like what Amy said he’d look like. White hoodie, wall-climbing, these tired, soulless eyes—oh.” The man glances around, realization dawning on his face as Christine closes in on him, gun still in hand.

Desmond doesn’t speak Christine, but it’s obvious enough what she means. Explain.

“Haha, I must’ve forgotten to tell you. Our organization began as an, term loosely used, intelligence agency for Boss here.”

Christine closes her eyes like she’s suppressing her murderous desires. Valid, with whatever the f*ck is happening right now.

“So you’re saying…He’s the guy we’ve all been looking for? That one?”

The man has the gall to look sheepish. “Yep.”

“And you’re only telling me this now?”

“…yep.”

Given the look in Christine’s eyes, if Desmond doesn’t die first, this dude is definitely next. With a deep inhale that spoke of barely suppressed violence, Christine pointedly moves her finger off of the trigger and brings it down. The crowd around them follows, eyes still darting nervously between the three protagonists of the scene.

“You have a lot of explaining to do, Allen.”

That, Desmond agrees.

---

Five minutes later, Desmond has the misfortune of understanding several things.

His informant network is now somehow a vigilante peacekeeping organization of volunteers.
They’re doing a lot of charity work. Which is always nice.
The guy with glasses is named Allen, and is not the de facto leader. Christine is.
Allen likes yoghurt (?)
They’ve been looking for him and tracking him for weeks now, to no success.
They’re really grateful about something, but the answer keeps changing whenever Desmond asks.
They won’t stop calling him Boss.
He has a cult now.

“I have a cult now?” Desmond says, pressing his temples. The people around him (members of his cult, what the hell) keep glancing at him with these uselessly shiny eyes, and it’s making his ears itch. Where is the wariness from before? Where are their survival instincts???

Sitting across from him, Allen laughs. “I wouldn’t call it a cult, Boss. Maybe… fan club?”

“That’s not any better,” Christine grumbles, quite personable when she’s not being faced with strange wall-scaling people. She takes a sip of her tea before placing it on the rickety, half-broken table between them. In fact, everything here is some variation of rickety or broken, but none of them pay any heed.

“We’re a non-profit volunteer-based charity organization dedicated to safety within the community.” It’s said with an air of great experience.

“We beat sh*t up and get lit,” Allen helpfully adds, earning himself a smack from Christine. “I mean, we help the community. And get lit.”

Desmond squints, choosing to ignore the last part. He’s known Allen for the greater part of five minutes, but that’s already enough to know that he spews more bullsh*t than Stark. Kind of impressive, actually. “Help the community how?”

“Like you have,” another man chimes in, faintly accented, looking up from his card game. He’s seated across the room where a miniature recreation room has been set up; two sad, saggy couches surrounding a barely surviving plastic folding table in one corner, a redneck version of a foosball table in the other. Surrounding him is a brunette woman, seated beside a couch on a wheelchair, and a blonde guy still squinting at his cards.

“You saved my Grandma the other day. You didn’t have to, man, but you did. I won’t forget something like that.”

The woman sitting next to him nods, placing down another card (to the dismay of blondie on her right). “My mother owned a grocer here. When you taught those sharks that lesson That Night, mom could finally pay her bills on time. She could finally sleep at night, even if it was for a few days. It might not be much, but it meant a lot to me.”

A young woman pokes her head out from behind a desk. “I can finally go out with my girls for a late night out without always looking behind.”

“My brother didn’t get shot because of you.”

“When I was robbed, you snuck back into my house to return the things that were missing. One of those things was my mother’s watch.”

“You took down the people trying to destroy the safe injection site here. That’s enough for me.”

“You’ve helped all of us, one way or another,” Christine says. Her tone is brusque but not unkind. “we’re simply returning the favour.”

And Desmond’s….he’s not sure what to feel about that.

“I didn’t do all of it just to help,” Desmond answers reflexively, because it’s true. He’d fought crime in those early few weeks for the feeling of purpose and adrenaline it gave; for the tiny shards of familiarity that came from moving his body and chasing enemies like an eagle hunting prey. It was selfish, inherently.

These people, they’re not grateful to him. They’re grateful to some idealistic apparition of him, the one they call their saviour.

Desmond’s saved the world, but he’s not a saviour. He’ll never be one.

“Are you f*cking stupid?” a familiar voice barks, and a small form shoulders their way through the throng of people somehow gathered around Desmond. Desmond nearly does a double take. It’s hacker-person, the one who got Desmond his fake identity.

“You’re here too?” he asks dumbly.

“Unfortunately.” They roll their eyes. “I work for you once, and all of a sudden it’s all ‘oh, you’ve seen the Angel? Please help us’. But whatever. Do you really think that just because your intentions weren’t pure, all of the good you’ve done doesn’t exist? That’s pretty condescending to all of us.”

“Well, no, but—"

“Regardless of what you were thinking or why you did it, you did it in the end, dipsh*t. That’s all that matters to us. Take it or leave it.”

“I…” Desmond says, his words caught in his throat. He tries again. “I…”

I’m not who you think I am, he’s going to say. He has blood on his hands. He’s not good. He’s killed so many…in this lifetime and a millennium of others.

But then he looks at all their faces. People from an array of places, a plethora of experiences, sporting different languages and cultures—people with little in common, except for him. These people look at him with such expectation in their eyes, such welcome and hope that it scares him. The light in their eyes tells him that nothing he says will make them change their minds.

Desmond has never been one to shoulder responsibility when he could run.

The first time at sixteen, fleeing from the burden of a hero. Then again at twenty-five, running from Abstergo. And now, he feels that urge too. It’s a different kind of responsibility than the one he has taken up with the Avengers to protect their mission. Here, it’s a promise to the people, the ones knowing and unknown, present and absent. He wants to refuse. He wants to run.

And yet…

Their happiness, their gratitude, is mirrored in the faces of those in Masyaf, serene with the faint knowledge that they would never live under any oppressor for as long as the hashashins lurked in the shadows. Content in the knowledge that injustice will be met with the kiss of a blade, that the innocent would forever live as innocent.

Altair hums in the back of his mind, quiet but firm, and all at once, the resistance he’s mustered falls away.

“Thank you,” he says, after a long moment. For trusting. For believing.

Hacker-person’s face lights up in triumph. “Took you long enough, Boss. Welcome to the team.”

---

“But why am I your Boss?” At this, everyone turns to stare. Hacker-person (Desmond really has to ask for a name sometime) facepalms.

“You saved my life,” A man with locks says, like explaining something to a particularly stubborn five-year-old.

“Saved my girl,” A middle aged woman says, deadpan.

“Saved my ass,” Allen chimes in, apropos of nothing.

“can you please stop calling me Boss?”

“””No.””” everyone in the room pauses to say, before continuing doing whatever they’re doing. Creepy. And very unfair.

“…yeah, that’s enough.” He expected too much of these people.

---

When everyone’s wandered away and Desmond’s managed to reclaim some semblance of composure, a thought strikes him as he’s sitting on the couch, absentmindedly watching the card game that has resumed without much fanfare.

“But what do you actually do? Are you like a neighbourhood watch or something?”

Allen looks at him with pity, which is especially insulting coming from him. “I told you, getting li—"

“Chasing off petty crime and presenting a united front against gang violence. Distributing food. That kind of stuff.” a petite girl who couldn’t be older than 15 answers for Allen. She plops down beside him on the couch, dumping a sheaf of paper into Desmond’s lap unceremoniously. “We help out the neighbourhood, and in return, they report to us any gossip or info they come across. It’s a win-win for everyone.

Desmond leafs through it. It’s handwritten and messy, dogeared and ripped. But the information within the pages…it’s unorganized, unfiltered, and unprofessional. Certainly no intelligence agency material, yet…

“Impressive,” he says. The girl puffs up with pride. When he doesn’t say anything else, she casts him a sideways glance.

“You’re not going to harp on me for my age?”

Desmond stares at her blankly. “Why would I?”

“Christine and Allen did, when I first joined. Said I was too young for this kind of stuff.”

“I still think you are, Lucy,” Christine says, poking the girl on her side. “Just because you’re here doesn’t mean we approve of all your activities.” Allen nods.

The girl, Lucy, rolls her eyes. “I’ve heard it all before. What’s your excuse, old man?”

It takes Desmond a second to realize she’s referring to him. “Well, I trust that you know how to keep yourself safe. And I know that if you really wanted to be here, you would be, and I would rather it be on my terms than yours. So I’m fine with it. Just don’t do anything I won’t do and gamble your life.”

Desmond tilts his head. “Actually, scratch that. Do the opposite of what you think I might do.”

She looks at him with disbelief. “That’s it?”

“That’s it. When I was your age, I knew what I wanted, and I went out and got it. You’re smart enough to know what you want. Just don’t be stupid about it.” Advice 100, everyone. It’s been five seconds but he’s already a better father figure than Bill.

Then Lucy’s open mouth snaps shut. “As expected of Boss, I guess.”

f*ck.

---

After Desmond has accepted his fate, everything flows a lot more smoothly. Allen leads him on a brief tour of their headquarters, which, while falling apart, does well to disguise their activities. Apparently Desmond got lucky when he’d entered through the window, because most windows are covered with thick tarps ‘to keep dickhe*ds from seeing the light from outside’. He hadn’t noticed before, but it is unusually dark inside, lit only by a couple of lamps hooked to generators from who knows where and fire-hazard candles.

He's informed that they only meet at night, because they all have lives outside of the work they do here. Without specific meeting times, people drop by to leave a tip or to hang around, resulting in a building that is more often than not full. The environment here is less work and more family, and the thought of it reminds him painfully of Altair’s brotherhood.

The first floor of the building is disguised as a place for squatters and homeless, should anyone enter to check. They’re part of the organization too, who are willing to provide supplies, money, and shelter to anyone with information. There is in fact a backdoor entrance that Desmond had ignored when he’d first scaled the building. Allen is unapologetically gleeful about it.

Allen also tells him that leaving a message with one of the inhabitants of the first floor would be enough to reach either him or Christine in the case of emergencies. Information dossiers will come routinely once a week in some secure dropoff location that will change each week, known only through a note in the previous dossier. It suits Desmond’s plans just fine.

(it’s with disappointment when he finds that there’s no mention of assassins anywhere in this week’s report.)

It’s nearly 1:00 AM when he bids farewell to all of them, who wish him well (with the exception of Allen, who is fake bawling, and Christine, who has him in a headlock). He still has one item on his to-do list, but that can wait until tomorrow.

As Desmond trudges back to Avengers Tower (because not sleeping there is extremely suspicious when he’s already accepted their accommodation offer), he realizes what a day it’s been. In a mere six or so hours, he’s found out that the Brotherhood may or may not be present in this dimension, ordered several sets of suits for work with Murdock (and had some light exercise), broke into a building, and found out he has a cult.

Yeah, good night. Desmond falls face first into the duvet, barely registering the way the lights dim slowly and the whispered goodnight from Jarvis.

---

The day of Sunday is spent remarkably relaxed, because everything Desmond has planned is clandestine and more than a little illegal and therefore must be done at night, just the way he likes it. After getting tired of sharpening his throwing knives and daggers, he scours the internet (using a device firewalled by hacker-person and his own tinkering) for any more traces of the Brotherhood. He visits New York Public Library again, digging through dusty volumes for any shadow of the assassins. Ironically, they’re impossible to find. Before, he would’ve simply assumed they didn’t exist at all; now, after Thor, even their absence seems to mean something. It drives him mad.

When it’s clear he can’t rely on public sources for this search, he takes a break to stroll through central park, just because he can, idly basking in the nice weather.

That doesn’t last long, as expected.

“Thief!” a woman screeches, as she runs towards him, remarkably fast despite her heels. Looking around, Desmond does notice a man running in front of her, a designer handbag in his grasp. There goes his peace and quiet, Desmond thinks, idly sticking out a foot.

The thief trips, flying forward onto his face. Desmond snags the handbag, sent airborne by his tumble, out of the air and hands it to the harried woman. “Thanks,” she says, dazed.

“You’re welcome,” Desmond replies, snagging the hood of the thief desperately trying to get away. Before he can start swearing or begging for his life, Desmond gives him a good blow to the temple. It knocks him out cold. The trick always works.

“You might want to call 911, ma’am,” he says, before putting his own hood on and getting the f*ck out of there. Normalcy was too much to ask, apparently.

Hopefully no one got that on camera.

---

Nighttime falls quickly enough. The moment the sky begins to darken with dusk, casting a purple hue onto the glistening facades of the glass behemoths of New York, Desmond heads for a tall building. Not the Empire State Building, because it has too many eyes on it, but some other suitably tall one. Streetlights begin to flicker on as Desmond heads there, one part of the city falling to sleep while another one awakens, playful yet ravenous.

He could actually do what he wants to do on the Avengers Tower. It’s no fun without the climb or the fall after though, and he doubts Stark would appreciate a human spider climbing the side of his building barehanded. This will have to do.

It’s almost calming, as he heaves himself up from ledge to ledge, digging his toes into the stringcourses that wrap in bands around the weathered brick of the building. The one he’s chosen is of medium height and neoclassical, which makes it more amusing to climb. With the grace and silence of a cat, he scales the side of all 75 meters of building, reveling in the burn of his muscles. The roof of the place provides a nice enough view of the city, even if it isn’t even close to the tallest of buildings in New York.

The city is aglow at from this height, all glittering pillars of glass and light that flicker. The low thrum of traffic buzzes by his ears, and Desmond takes a moment to dangle his feet off the roof. From here, it’s almost like he’s home. As if any second now, Rebecca and Shaun will come bursting in to join him, bickering about some odd thing or another. It even smells the same. New York, revolting as ever.

But by god, it’s not the same.

The illusion is destroyed by the A glowing in the distance—the wrong A, an incandescent beacon in the dark.

Nostalgic mood thoroughly destroyed, Desmond steps onto the ledge, peering down. Once, he might have felt some trepidation or fear. Not anymore.

Sucking in a deep breath, he activates Eagle Vision. In an instant, the world is awash in black and white, information surging and tearing at the barriers of his mind to the point of exhilarating pain. He knows, all of a sudden, a thousand things he should not; the intricacies of a young girl’s coding project; the worries of an aging mother; the fear that lies within Tony Stark’s heart.

It’s…too much. Desmond squeezes his eyes shut, trying to alleviate the pounding in his head, wrapping a hand around one of his hidden knife bracers in a death grip. It’s never done that before, and it certainly didn’t do that the last time he’d used it. What had changed? His involvement with the Avengers? His time with his baby cult? No answer comes to him.

When he opens his eyes again in what feels to be an eternity later, there’s someone else crouched next to him. He hadn’t realized he’d did that.

“I don’t think that’s Eagle Vision anymore,” Clever eyes flicker over a smile of easy mischief. Ezio, young and spry (unburdened without the ravages of his mentorship, by the death of Federico), gives him a wry look. “We call that Eagle Sense. He has passed the threshold long ago, has he not? Oh, don’t look at me like that.”

Desmond follows his gaze to another echo of an ancestor. Altair scowls silently, turning his sight back to the skyline of New York. “Much has changed, Desmond Miles. Be wary. Be swift.”

“He means, don’t do anything I would do,” Ezio amends when Altair deigns to explain himself, as per usual. Ezio crouches in front of Desmond, meeting his gaze with sudden severity. “Remember, nothing is true.”

Desmond closes his eyes once again. Tries to corral the mess in his head.

“And everything is permitted.” When he opens them, both of them are gone.

Well.

Desmond’s going crazy, what’s new. He stares at where Altair once stood, still frozen in monochrome. it’d be so easy to just dismiss these bleeds as his subconscious warring with his mind. But something else—ironically the sixth sense he’s inherited from them---screams otherwise. Stupid f*cking genetic PTSD. Stupid ancestors who won’t tell Desmond what’s wrong.

“Telling me something like that is like telling me nothing,” he tells the air.

He swears he hears a faint laugh in the breeze in return.

Helpful.

---

Eagle Vision (Sense, he reminds himself) lights up the city when he tries again, this time without the useless input of his nosy ancestors. With a lot of concentration, he manages to block out most of the information, narrowing it down into three beacons that burns itself into his retinas. He’d seen them before, when he’d first arrived in the city, but they weren’t nearly as eye searingly bright. They’re spread out across the city; one is Harlem, the other in Brooklyn, the last in lower Manhattan, screaming a pounding beat of IMPORTANT IMPORTANT IMPORTANT behind his eyes so loudly he wonders how he’s managed to block them out until now.

They’re the last leads he has (until he dredges up the resolve to shake down Thor) to find the Assassin Brotherhood.

Desmond sighs. This was going to be a long night.

He hits the first one easy enough, dodging security and traffic cams as he goes by foot. It’s an old storage unit tucked between two buildings, the steel shutter graffitied to hell and back and the metal dented like someone had taken a baseball bat to it. Desmond lockpicks it easy enough, and the shutters slide up with a wheezing, dusty wail that has probably alerted everyone within a five-mile radius. Oh well, better make this fast.

The light switch turns on a single, flickering bulb that illuminates the room in a pale wash of yellow. There’s not much to see, with a wall of stacked boxes that glow a faint yellow. What Desmond really cares about, however, is the singular cassette tape placed on the ground, shining a perfect gold. IMPORTANT, Eagle Sense shouts again, conveniently leaving out why.

Desmond slips it into his pocket, having gotten what he’d come for. But something else pricks the back of his mind, stopping him in his tracks.

Unbidden, he turns his gaze to the boxes remaining, still faintly gold. If anyone were to come looking, they would have come already. Might as well.

The first box contains, rather strangely, a set of military grade electric batons. They’re useful and foldable, so he tucks a couple away. The second box holds a set of tasers and several handguns. This is America; not all too odd. The last box.

The last box has throwing knives.

In disbelief, Desmond turns one over in his hands, holding it to the flickering light to observe that needle sharp point. He knows these knives like the back of his own hand. Like they way Kenway did, and Altair, and Ezio, and Connor.

These are Assassin make.

The Brotherhood has used the same design for centuries, perfected in the hands of master after master. It’s unmistakable. Trembling, Desmond drops the knife back into the box, flicks off the lights, locks the shutters, and tears to the next golden light.

His surroundings pass by in a blur, and he barely registers the burning of his lungs and the pounding in his chest. There’s nothing in his eyes except that light as he climbs over anything in his way.

The second beacon is in an abandoned building, hidden under a floorboard that is easily pried away with a dagger. This one is a small, thumb sized USB. When he trails a finger over it, there is a raised decal of a familiar logo on it. He nearly drops it, as if scalded.

This is proof—concrete, irrefutable proof that the Brotherhood exists here too. Has existed. Has survived until now.

But the realization is only followed by more questions. Why had they not contacted Desmond? He’s been anything but subtle about his activities. If anything, what he’s doing is worth punishment. Why can’t he find anything about them? Why is their history different from his?

Where are they now?

With each new question comes another sinking stone in his gut, weighing heavily with every breath he takes. He wants nothing more than to plug the USB in, check the cassette. But there’s still one more place. One more infuriating piece to the puzzle.

The last beacon.

---

It leads him to an old electronics shop, closed. But no matter. Desmond breaks into it in seconds, jiggling the old lock open and locking it again behind him. Rows of blank, grey screens line the walls, and Desmond follows their faces until he lands on the singular one shining. The ancient TV is covered in dust, tucked into a corner. A wipe against the side reveals the same logo, carved into the cheap plastic.

Knowing there’s no security cams within the shop, Desmond plugs it in and, when it miraculously flickers on, feeds it the cassette almost violently.

For a couple of heart-rending seconds, nothing happens. Then the screen flashes, once. Twice. From a black background slowly fades in the pale symbol of the Brotherhood.

And then it solidifies, once again, into a grainy visage of an aged man.

His hair is matted to his forehead, his eyes sunken, and his back bowed under some invisible weight. He looks gaunt and thin, burdened and suffering for it. Desmond’s never seen him like this; he’s always been the untouchable mentor, the indomitable leader of the modern Brotherhood. Even as a father, he had never once shown weakness, as if it had been bled out of him.

Seeing him like this is…wrong.

The man in the screen frowns, haggard and defeated.

With a tired sigh, William Miles meets Desmond’s eyes.

“If you are seeing this, then I am dead.”

Notes:

this is like the end of my planned chapters. given the rate in which i write, this does not bode well. wishing us all luck bc i sure need it
Desmond: *frantically connecting the dots inside his head with a constipated expression*
Thor, internally: what a wise and great man! He has seen my conflict and has pushed me to be the better man. I must thank him with the aid of Mjolnir!
—-
Thor, standing outside of Loki’s cell: I miss my brother terribly. I have been reminded of his absence, and it is a gaping hole in my heart
Loki: you saw me two days ago
Thor: I wish he were here
Loki: Thor, I’m not dead
Thor: sometimes I can still hear his voice

And so, he fell (through the cracks) - AshLantern (2024)

Chapter 1

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Chapter 2

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Chapter 3

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Chapter 4

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Chapter 5

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Chapter 6: Interlude

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Chapter 7

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Chapter 8

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Chapter 9

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