Let Me Be Your Wings
Aug. 19th, 2025 05:28 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
madimpossibledreamerMain Points:
Buffy the Vampire Slayer/Assassin's Creed (Beginning's End)
Summary: Shaun and Xander are still navigating a new relationship, but they're both good at making each other feel needed and getting each other through the bad days.
Word Count: 1754
Rating: Teen
It’s not particularly surprising. She’s always been better at reading people, even if she likes to hide the ability behind being a jock and a nerd. Part of it, of course, is that he finds it significantly easier to discuss historical atrocities than his own emotions.
“You know what? My games backlog is calling my name,” she announces, utterly transparent. Unfortunately, long acquaintance has rendered her immune to such things as his (practiced) unimpressed stare. “Seriously, Shaun, I’ll be a lot more relaxed if you’re more relaxed. You want to go see loverboy, go see him.”
He swallows. True, he had learned...quite a lot, actually, about his time as a wolf. One of the clearest is that he does not take well to breaks or sitting on his hands (or, at times, paws), but, and this is the revelation, he desperately needs them. He’d had so much taken away (old news) he desperately wants the same to be true of absolutely nothing else, hence his stint as a clingy lap-wolf (news that actually happens to be new). And his attachment is not just due to the sex, though it is, admittedly, rather excellent. Even so, none of this comes easily, nor naturally, and he’ll readily admit that even if he can’t speak on many other related subjects.
She narrows her eyes at his reluctance. “Don’t tell me you’re still worried about being unwanted. Do I need to pull out the psychoanalysis again?”
Shaun mock-shudders. “No need to pull out the threats, woman, I’m going.” It would be redundant in any case. He knows exactly what she’ll say, that it’s not as if he’d been handed this magical key on a lark. It had been a declaration and an invitation, all rolled into one. But he knows Xander, too, disturbingly not a little by smell. Knows that the man still has reservations, that the key was a sort of...Leap of Faith.
Desmond would do the same, occasionally, just force himself to do something to be perceived, even though he seemed to feel that something as small as stating a personal preference was a failure for an Assassin. That being noticed, even among other Assassins, demonstrated why he was nothing but a failure of an Assassin, another sin, Shaun guesses, to lay at Bill’s feet. That is why, Shaun expects, the tattoo, and probably a few other things besides. Even at the end, Shaun hadn’t understood, entirely. Not until he had nothing else to do other than re-examine every moment, every interaction, in the neverending quest for self-flagellation. Shaun could, of course, ask, but no matter how not knowing things haunts him, he can’t bring himself to ask. Not when Xander would take it as a failure, a sign that he cannot measure up. Perhaps later, much later, but not yet.
Some, he deduces, are traditional Catholic Guilt, to be ignored by all parties, perhaps tempered slightly by the knowledge of how Ezio dealt with reconciling extracurriculars and his own faith. There is, however, more, anxieties Xander has that Shaun can’t even begin to name or banish without knowing the cause, and yet gaining that knowledge would require a rather painful and awkward conversation about feelings. A problem, perhaps, for another time, he thinks, knowing full well he’ll probably continue to postpone said conversation if he can possibly help it. Even if he’ll just continue to be unhappy watching Xander feel unhappy.
One property of the key they all neglected to mention is that it does not entirely serve as a one-way door. Handy, that. It takes a Witch to reconnect the two, but if Shaun understands the basics, it can serve as a focus to ensure the accurate connection between portals, so that they’re not just dropping him in the lobby of a hotel or other possibilities that might involve witnesses. Given that Xander travels with one regularly enough, and if that fails has several on speed dial, it’s good enough to ensure that if something happens Shaun can be on hand without much in the way of delay.
Except this time, it’s nothing so cozy as the cabins, or the usual hotel room. No, he’s come out of a door on the street, and startled Xander in the meantime, because he reflexively swears, “Jesus Christ, Shaun.”
The tone is entirely Desmond’s. The wince afterward is all Xander, proving once again (as if Shaun needed any proof) that similarities do not the exact same person make. Sadly, he’s not the one that needs convincing. And then Shaun notices the blood.
“Where are you hurt?” he asks urgently, and Xander just blinks at him, then follows his gaze to his own sleeve.
“Oh. Not mine, but I liked this hoodie,” the man whines, the overreaction indicating that whatever he’d just been through, he needs rest. Shaun feels the sudden urge to claw something preferably living up, but instead he moves forward, offering his arm for stability.
“Did you wander off on your own again?” he asks a little urgently, letting Xander steer them.
The pout tugs at the heartstrings, but is otherwise ineffective. “We took care of the latest Big Bad, but also it wasn’t too far to the hotel and everyone else was busy with cleanup. They told me to go catch some z’s.” The multiple yawns also indicate that the man’s probably been up for far longer than he should, not that that’s a situation Shaun’s familiar with, of course. “You’re lucky I was still in Eagle Vision and knew you were a friendly,” he mumbles.
That rings clear alarm bells. “That’s not good, is it?”
“I mean, no, but normal vision hurts worse at the moment. I think my eye’s screaming for a break, and limited color is better,” Xander admits.
He probably wouldn’t be admitting this, normally. Shaun doesn’t draw attention to it, though, gathering it in close. He’s never been much of a caretaker, but he can make an effort, for Xander’s sake, if only because he’s enjoying this demonstration that yes, Xander truly does trust him, underneath everything. “Migraine? It’s a documented side effect of overuse of the Eagle Vision for at least a thousand years.”
“Except for Altaïr, because he’s the general exception to everything.” He’s usually cagier about this, too. He waves at the woman at the front desk as they pass.
“You must be Shaun. Thank you for looking after him,” she calls.
“You’re welcome,” Shaun responds automatically before turning a mix of a quizzical and unimpressed stare at Xander, who, unlike Rebecca, is far from immune, fidgeting slightly.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so polite,” he points out feebly, turning his attention to the door, probably only half as an escape from Shaun’s gaze.
“I’m a Brit. We’re polite to strangers and rude to acquaintances,” Shaun answers, before taking the key from shaking hands. He asks out loud as he guides Xander into the room, as it seems an implied question will simply be ignored, “Why does she know my name, then?”
The man practically collapses onto the couch, groaning and curling up a little. He cooperates only slightly when Shaun pulls the hoodie off and replaces it with a blanket, probably mostly because he still has some attachment to the hoodie that breaks through the fog in his mind. “We saved this place from magic arson a couple years back, and in her gratitude she keeps mentioning her single cousins. Not too pushy, just once every time we check in again, but I figured it was important information. I didn’t mention your last name, and I can always just use one of your aliases if necessary, just…”
Shaun notes the location of the nearest torch, by what looks like Xander’s bag, before turning off the light. At least the groan this time sounds more pleased than in pain. “What else helps?” And here Shaun’s getting answers easily. Though maybe that has to do with petting. He’d certainly enjoyed it enough in wolf form, and Xander seems to be melting into the touch. True, they weren’t to the concerns he’d had before coming, but, as it happens, he’s always been better with a problem to solve.
“Low level sound. Mostly, something to distract me until I can actually fall asleep.” Finding a station that’s not too offensive is surprisingly easy. “I preemptively took a painkiller this morning ‘cause I already got the aura, but I can probably use another. Something soft. Feeling safe.” He whines slightly as Shaun moves away, a sound that registers to the wolf as sexy before his conscious mind even processes it. Internally, he’s annoyed. He might be a werewolf, but he can at least be a dignified werewolf. “There’s, uh. Kettle here. And tea. Loose leaf.”
Well, Shaun’s opinion of the owner has jumped considerably.
“Oh, yeah. No caffeine for...hours. Might help after. Books, if you want…” Trying to stay conscious probably is pushing him more than he should.
“After. I have plans for after,” Shaun promises them both (though they’re flexible plans, largely pending an evaluation of how both feel after), and stalks off in search of the aforementioned tea, followed shortly by at least indulging in his desire to at least spend a little more time in the man’s company, even if it’s not entirely what he had in mind when he’d left his workstation.
Buffy the Vampire Slayer/Assassin's Creed (Beginning's End)
Summary: Shaun and Xander are still navigating a new relationship, but they're both good at making each other feel needed and getting each other through the bad days.
Word Count: 1754
Rating: Teen
It’s been a shit day. Not that that’s too unusual. That’s one of the things Shaun has gotten used to; he may enjoy his work, but he also reserves his very British right to complain, and to be fair, while some may not care too much about their tea, he has seen Americans get very protective about their coffee and suspects it’s a general feeling humans have toward their caffeine intake. Most would probably be upset about losing a team that they’re responsible for, though. He hadn’t even gotten to talk to Rebecca about it; she’d been handling some sort of crisis on her own end, so all he’d been able to do is sit and stew and archive some of the data they’d recently collected, and even that isn’t remotely as enlightening as he’d wish. By the end of the day, they’re both in a foul mood, but Rebecca seemingly retains enough presence of mind to notice even as she’s getting ready to leave that he’s absently playing with the key hanging on a chain around his neck, just to ensure he won’t lose it. He hadn’t even noticed himself fidgeting.
It’s not particularly surprising. She’s always been better at reading people, even if she likes to hide the ability behind being a jock and a nerd. Part of it, of course, is that he finds it significantly easier to discuss historical atrocities than his own emotions.
“You know what? My games backlog is calling my name,” she announces, utterly transparent. Unfortunately, long acquaintance has rendered her immune to such things as his (practiced) unimpressed stare. “Seriously, Shaun, I’ll be a lot more relaxed if you’re more relaxed. You want to go see loverboy, go see him.”
He swallows. True, he had learned...quite a lot, actually, about his time as a wolf. One of the clearest is that he does not take well to breaks or sitting on his hands (or, at times, paws), but, and this is the revelation, he desperately needs them. He’d had so much taken away (old news) he desperately wants the same to be true of absolutely nothing else, hence his stint as a clingy lap-wolf (news that actually happens to be new). And his attachment is not just due to the sex, though it is, admittedly, rather excellent. Even so, none of this comes easily, nor naturally, and he’ll readily admit that even if he can’t speak on many other related subjects.
She narrows her eyes at his reluctance. “Don’t tell me you’re still worried about being unwanted. Do I need to pull out the psychoanalysis again?”
Shaun mock-shudders. “No need to pull out the threats, woman, I’m going.” It would be redundant in any case. He knows exactly what she’ll say, that it’s not as if he’d been handed this magical key on a lark. It had been a declaration and an invitation, all rolled into one. But he knows Xander, too, disturbingly not a little by smell. Knows that the man still has reservations, that the key was a sort of...Leap of Faith.
Desmond would do the same, occasionally, just force himself to do something to be perceived, even though he seemed to feel that something as small as stating a personal preference was a failure for an Assassin. That being noticed, even among other Assassins, demonstrated why he was nothing but a failure of an Assassin, another sin, Shaun guesses, to lay at Bill’s feet. That is why, Shaun expects, the tattoo, and probably a few other things besides. Even at the end, Shaun hadn’t understood, entirely. Not until he had nothing else to do other than re-examine every moment, every interaction, in the neverending quest for self-flagellation. Shaun could, of course, ask, but no matter how not knowing things haunts him, he can’t bring himself to ask. Not when Xander would take it as a failure, a sign that he cannot measure up. Perhaps later, much later, but not yet.
Some, he deduces, are traditional Catholic Guilt, to be ignored by all parties, perhaps tempered slightly by the knowledge of how Ezio dealt with reconciling extracurriculars and his own faith. There is, however, more, anxieties Xander has that Shaun can’t even begin to name or banish without knowing the cause, and yet gaining that knowledge would require a rather painful and awkward conversation about feelings. A problem, perhaps, for another time, he thinks, knowing full well he’ll probably continue to postpone said conversation if he can possibly help it. Even if he’ll just continue to be unhappy watching Xander feel unhappy.
One property of the key they all neglected to mention is that it does not entirely serve as a one-way door. Handy, that. It takes a Witch to reconnect the two, but if Shaun understands the basics, it can serve as a focus to ensure the accurate connection between portals, so that they’re not just dropping him in the lobby of a hotel or other possibilities that might involve witnesses. Given that Xander travels with one regularly enough, and if that fails has several on speed dial, it’s good enough to ensure that if something happens Shaun can be on hand without much in the way of delay.
Except this time, it’s nothing so cozy as the cabins, or the usual hotel room. No, he’s come out of a door on the street, and startled Xander in the meantime, because he reflexively swears, “Jesus Christ, Shaun.”
The tone is entirely Desmond’s. The wince afterward is all Xander, proving once again (as if Shaun needed any proof) that similarities do not the exact same person make. Sadly, he’s not the one that needs convincing. And then Shaun notices the blood.
“Where are you hurt?” he asks urgently, and Xander just blinks at him, then follows his gaze to his own sleeve.
“Oh. Not mine, but I liked this hoodie,” the man whines, the overreaction indicating that whatever he’d just been through, he needs rest. Shaun feels the sudden urge to claw something preferably living up, but instead he moves forward, offering his arm for stability.
“Did you wander off on your own again?” he asks a little urgently, letting Xander steer them.
The pout tugs at the heartstrings, but is otherwise ineffective. “We took care of the latest Big Bad, but also it wasn’t too far to the hotel and everyone else was busy with cleanup. They told me to go catch some z’s.” The multiple yawns also indicate that the man’s probably been up for far longer than he should, not that that’s a situation Shaun’s familiar with, of course. “You’re lucky I was still in Eagle Vision and knew you were a friendly,” he mumbles.
That rings clear alarm bells. “That’s not good, is it?”
“I mean, no, but normal vision hurts worse at the moment. I think my eye’s screaming for a break, and limited color is better,” Xander admits.
He probably wouldn’t be admitting this, normally. Shaun doesn’t draw attention to it, though, gathering it in close. He’s never been much of a caretaker, but he can make an effort, for Xander’s sake, if only because he’s enjoying this demonstration that yes, Xander truly does trust him, underneath everything. “Migraine? It’s a documented side effect of overuse of the Eagle Vision for at least a thousand years.”
“Except for Altaïr, because he’s the general exception to everything.” He’s usually cagier about this, too. He waves at the woman at the front desk as they pass.
“You must be Shaun. Thank you for looking after him,” she calls.
“You’re welcome,” Shaun responds automatically before turning a mix of a quizzical and unimpressed stare at Xander, who, unlike Rebecca, is far from immune, fidgeting slightly.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so polite,” he points out feebly, turning his attention to the door, probably only half as an escape from Shaun’s gaze.
“I’m a Brit. We’re polite to strangers and rude to acquaintances,” Shaun answers, before taking the key from shaking hands. He asks out loud as he guides Xander into the room, as it seems an implied question will simply be ignored, “Why does she know my name, then?”
The man practically collapses onto the couch, groaning and curling up a little. He cooperates only slightly when Shaun pulls the hoodie off and replaces it with a blanket, probably mostly because he still has some attachment to the hoodie that breaks through the fog in his mind. “We saved this place from magic arson a couple years back, and in her gratitude she keeps mentioning her single cousins. Not too pushy, just once every time we check in again, but I figured it was important information. I didn’t mention your last name, and I can always just use one of your aliases if necessary, just…”
Shaun notes the location of the nearest torch, by what looks like Xander’s bag, before turning off the light. At least the groan this time sounds more pleased than in pain. “What else helps?” And here Shaun’s getting answers easily. Though maybe that has to do with petting. He’d certainly enjoyed it enough in wolf form, and Xander seems to be melting into the touch. True, they weren’t to the concerns he’d had before coming, but, as it happens, he’s always been better with a problem to solve.
“Low level sound. Mostly, something to distract me until I can actually fall asleep.” Finding a station that’s not too offensive is surprisingly easy. “I preemptively took a painkiller this morning ‘cause I already got the aura, but I can probably use another. Something soft. Feeling safe.” He whines slightly as Shaun moves away, a sound that registers to the wolf as sexy before his conscious mind even processes it. Internally, he’s annoyed. He might be a werewolf, but he can at least be a dignified werewolf. “There’s, uh. Kettle here. And tea. Loose leaf.”
Well, Shaun’s opinion of the owner has jumped considerably.
“Oh, yeah. No caffeine for...hours. Might help after. Books, if you want…” Trying to stay conscious probably is pushing him more than he should.
“After. I have plans for after,” Shaun promises them both (though they’re flexible plans, largely pending an evaluation of how both feel after), and stalks off in search of the aforementioned tea, followed shortly by at least indulging in his desire to at least spend a little more time in the man’s company, even if it’s not entirely what he had in mind when he’d left his workstation.
