Belated Rescue

[madimpossibledreamer]

(I had this partly written for the anniversary of Initiate and then completely forgot it was late September, not October. Whoops. Hence the title being a kind of double pun.)

Main Points: Assassin's Creed/The Secret World

Summary: Shaun knows that this situation isn't as bad as it seems.  For him.
Word Count: 1036
Rating: Teen

 

        “You have, I realize,” Shaun tried, near the start of this whole ordeal, “...no reason whatsoever to believe me, but I do feel it wouldn’t be fair not to even make an effort to try to warn you: this will not end well for you.”
        As expected, most just scoff in response. The chief ‘interrogator’ (torturer, really) settles in to try to intimidate. “Oh yeah? And what are you gonna do to all of us?” He gestures at the entire room.
        “Me? Nothing.” And not for lack of trying. If not for the pain he’s already endured, Shaun would almost feel sorry for all these poor bastards. “I’m not the one you need to worry about. Any of you heard of The Assassin?”
        Desmond hasn’t been happy about the capitalization. Hadn’t really had a choice, though, had he, not after he’d started making a name for himself. Those in the know still often knew his name, sometimes even what he looked like, but it was not a given, and it was easier to work under an alias.
        They look a little nervous now, some shifting quietly, but the leader still scoffs, “He’s just a myth.”
        “He’s not, and you’re going to figure out firsthand. You’ve got some good magical shielding, here, to keep him from finding me this long, but he will come, and depending on my condition when he does, your fate will be more or less pleasant. Unscathed is a possibility long since passed, I’m afraid.”
        It happens faster than Shaun can follow. This is only partially due to the concussion, he suspects, having previously seen the man in action. One moment, he is being menaced. Seemingly the next, half are down. “That was what I was referring to, and even I am mildly terrified.”
        For a moment, as he glances over, Shaun feels a quite understandable instinctual fear. It’s the predatory way Desmond moves that makes him seem almost inhuman, and there’s no hint of light, warmth, sympathy. Honestly, he’d seem slightly less terrifying if he was covered in blood. But however he got here—and he did follow the Creed as far as killing innocents were concerned, though the rhyme or reason thereof was not always immediately clear to outsiders—he had likely snuck past some and killed others, all without a single drop of blood marring his beloved white hoodie. And then he glances at Shaun, and the feeling quickly vanishes. 
        “You’re welcome,” Desmond grumbles.
        The anger in his eyes isn’t for Shaun, as he quickly, efficiently, checks the historian over for scars of captivity. There’s also humor, and relief, and a little worry. But that killing machine, that perfect Assassin, that’s gone now. He is still utterly capable of killing every last one of them, probably before they even take a step, but his immediate concern is keeping Shaun in one piece, now, no longer dealing with anything getting in the way of his reaching Shaun.
        “Hey, you okay?” he asks quietly, with the kind of care that warms Shaun’s heart every time.
        It’s the casualness that sets others on edge, Shaun realizes—Jae-Hoon had said so, ages and ages ago, and he’s right. Like now, for instance, he’s just casually ignoring the men with guns as if they’re nothing more than buzzing flies. Desmond’s casual confidence is breathtaking, in multiple ways, and no matter how outrageous his claims he has yet to utterly fail. Occasionally needed to withdraw and rethink his strategy, yes, but outright fail, no, and he is stubborn enough to keep at it even when others would grow discouraged. Though, to be fair to Shaun’s captors and their severe underestimation of the man, they don’t know what Shaun does, that Desmond’s attitude of being able to overcome anything through sheer force of will may, in fact, have to do with the fact that Desmond can in fact manifest things through sheer force of will and manipulation of the underlying fabric of reality. It’s a power that troubles him just as much as Shaun, to be sure, but when push comes to shove he is perfectly willing to use it.
        It is not as if Desmond would just leave him here, but it’s suddenly vital to express it anyway. “Not that I’m not grateful. I might be a little in shock, actually. Because that was also entirely attractive.”
        Desmond smiles a little, but he mostly looks bemused. “...They roughed you up.”
        That’s actually vaguely insulting. As if Shaun needs the excuse of a concussion to be entirely pathetic about the man he’s now dating. Shaun only realizes he’s pouting after Desmond actually laughs at him, patting him gently on the noninjured shoulder. “After they took my sword away, I may have conjured a golem that proceeded to crush several of them. They did not take to that kindly.”
        “That’s my Shaun,” he states fondly. Folie à deux indeed, if finding martial competence attractive is a type of psychosis. And then he raises his voice, still not bothering to look at the men with guns. “You all have ten seconds to clear the room if you want to live.”
        Any of them with sense scram. The rest last no longer than their comrades, after which Desmond cuts through magical ropes with just his Hidden Blade, hoists Shaun up to support his weight gently, and then teleports them both out to the nearest Anima Well, a technique he has to have learned from one of his recruits, Nate, if Shaun’s memory isn’t failing him at the moment. With concussion, it’s hard to be sure. “They didn’t,” he grumbles with what dignity he has left, “...even offer me tea.”
        “Chelsea’s on it,” Desmond promises gently, pausing to heal Shaun’s wounds before going on to the next Well, and then, settling Shaun’s arm more tightly around his own shoulder, a move that is hardly necessary from how Shaun is clinging to him that speaks more of fussing and worry than any actual necessity, helps Shaun to the local Assassin safehouse, where, blessedly, tea and friendly faces wait. The one upside to the whole affair is that Shaun is hardly going to complain about a more attentive Desmond, in the near future.

Also, bonus cut content:

“You’re going to regret this.”
“What, the Council? They can’t do anything, and your magic already failed.”
“Well, yes, they wouldn’t be particularly happy, but no, that wasn’t what I was referring to.”
“Hey, are you okay?”
“They didn’t,” Shaun states with extreme dignity, squinting up at him without glasses and just a little bit of a slur that says he might have a concussion, “...even offer me tea.”
“Not British kidnappers, huh. Well, don’t worry—Rebecca’s making some right now. Just let me clear this up and then I’ll be bringing you back to civilization.”
“Take your time.” Yeah, Desmond’s upgrading that to ‘definitely a concussion’. He’s trying to hide it, but he’s in pain.