Half-Forgotten Threads

[madimpossibledreamer]

A couple recent studies have indicated that actually having alcohol with food isn’t as important for not getting drunk as we’ve thought, but for all Shaun’s facts I don’t think he keeps up with that kind of scientific study and Desmond’s been out of the loop for a few years on the latest bartending stuff, so. (Not that it’s not worth taking the precaution anyway, just in case. If I had to guess, it’s because if you’re drinking with food you’re going slower, you’re not necessarily overdoing it or trying to get drunk, etc.)

Main Points: Assassin's Creed/The Secret World
Summary: During a celebration dinner, Desmond notices something he wants to investigate.
Word Count: 2217
Rating: Teen

 

 

        Lydia actually joins them the second they get to Agartha, like she’d been waiting. Apparently she decided to clear a few things up with her coven in the meantime, but didn’t really want to get into specifics, which. Desmond gets. He doesn’t bother to hide the smile when she hesitantly turns to Chelsea, though. “I, um. Sorry for being a jerk.”
        Chelsea blinks a little, but apparently hanging out with Shaun was good for her in more ways than one, because she doesn’t take forever to nod or process what’s going on. “Apology accepted,” she responds simply, and that’s when Desmond gets a text. He fishes out his phone.

Rebecca: treating you & ducklings to celebratory dinner, creole, be there

me: sounds good

        It really does. Even if he’s kind of bemused at the ‘ducklings’ comment, though in a way, she’s right that he’d gotten used to having people around. It’s not that Shaun and Rebecca are too busy for him, but even now that they’re allowed to talk to him, he’s kind of missing them. Maybe more so now since they can and just have been really busy, which is fine. He’s not complaining. It kind of sucks, but that’s life for you. They’re making time for him when they can.
        Getting back to London is easy enough, and pretty soon they’re at the end of the street ducking into Ayiti. The one shop to the left is still empty, with the door wide open. Desmond frowns at it, but Rebecca’s urging them in, and it’s not like anything else has visibly changed from the last time he poked around. At least it looks like Shaun is actually sleeping again, now, which is good. It’s still kind of small, so they end up taking up two adjacent tables. Shaun and Rebecca both launch into what quickly becomes obvious as a badly disguised interrogation about him potentially restarting the ‘cult’, which is adorable and kind of hilarious that they think they’re at all being stealthy about it. They don’t get very far, either. Lydia has quickly decided Rebecca is one of her favorite people ever and soon enough they’re talking a mile a minute about music. Desmond has listened to all of Rebecca’s music enough to know it by heart. There kind of had been a limited selection, on the run, and he definitely wasn’t as picky as Shaun, who complains like it’s an automatic reflex like breathing. Even then Desmond’s not keeping up. He decides to try to listen to Shaun instead, only in time to hear the man say, “At least I didn’t invent an entire civilization to avoid paying child support.”
        “You, uh.” He doesn’t even know where to go from there.
        Shaun’s complexion means that he can’t really hide a blush, even if he does curl a little into his sweater vest and busy himself with passing a couple mussels to Rukh. The raven’s taking great joy in cracking the appetizer open even when he doesn’t have to. Looks like he just likes breaking shells. And petting Katherine, because Shaun really wants to keep himself busy and demonstrate he can multitask, like Desmond didn’t know that already.
        Shaun clarifies quickly, “I don’t have children. Just a comparison, really. I have been accused…” he glances at Chelsea, “...of not being able to face my problems head-on. Just wanted to point out that there are far, far worse out there.”
        At least it looks like Chelsea gets that Shaun’s joking, now. Maybe. Or at least that he’s not completely serious about it. She’s at least not glaring at him. That’s probably an improvement over their first meeting, Desmond has to assume.
        “...I kind of really want to know how any of that works,” Desmond admits, like Shaun wasn’t just fishing for an opportunity to tell another story. “How did the asshole think a fake country was going to help?”
        Shaun’s still blushing a little, but he’s definitely pleased. “It begins with a man named Hans Günther Hauck, a German with too much in the way of debts to be able to pay for the family he had. Step one: disappear and hope you’re presumed dead. Step two: flee to Brazil. Step three: convince the local government that you’re actually a representative of a lost tribe from the lost city of Akakor, including taking on a fake name. Not, of course, that such a city actually exists, but that hardly matters to a man for whom truth is merely a suggestion. Step four: convince a man to write about your fake city. Step five: start doing tours to your fake city for the funding and support of the local Brazilian government.”
        That’s...pretty elaborate. And Desmond has to think with that kind of creativity he probably could’ve figured out some sort of alternative that didn’t involve all of that. “...Uh, wouldn’t someone figure it out eventually? Especially if he’s guiding people to a city that doesn’t exist? Why would he draw attention to himself like that?” he asks. Yeah, okay, so maybe he’s not exactly one to talk, given that even Altaïr could be a little theatrical and obvious at times, but still.
        Shaun snorts. “Well, obviously someone has, now that we know about it, but—here’s the thing, people only began getting suspicious after several of the tourists he guided went missing, and the man that wrote about Akakor was shot. Presumably they asked too many questions. He may have been taking part in a historical American tradition, that of the ‘tall tale’, only his lies got away from him, and obviously he couldn’t just come clean and admit the ruse, could he? He had to commit to that act wholeheartedly, even if the result might require murder, or, in his case, probably hiring a hit job. Not that he’s admitted to it.”
        Desmond considers that, grabbing a mussel for himself and ignoring Rukh’s hopeful eye. He’s hungry too. Katherine is too polite to beg, and she’s quietly enjoying the bone treat Shaun brought, anyway. Honestly, Desmond’s half convinced that Kyra might have fed her enough she won’t have an appetite for a while. “...At that point, it’d probably be just as easy to have taken the whole family and started a fake dynasty. It might’ve been a little harder to get out of the country, but it’s not that much harder, and at least he wouldn’t have been doing it alone.”
        “If all he’d been concerned with was the debts...yes, probably. I personally couldn’t fathom taking such drastic measures myself, but, well...if I had, I certainly wouldn’t want to do it alone. Then again, I couldn’t fathom being a heterosexual man attempting to escape responsibility, either.” Desmond’s definitely not going to ask if Shaun’s envisioning running away with him or the other way around, because that really wouldn’t help right now.
        “Yeah, people really need to get better about accepting the consequences of their actions.” That’s an important part of free will, for one thing.
        Shaun’s glance is a little concerned. Hopefully not because of that. “You’re—is everything all right? You’ve been a little distracted.”
        Maybe it’s not a surprise that he’d noticed. Shaun can be observant when he wants to be, and with the crush he’s probably paying more attention. If anything, it’s mostly just...Desmond hadn’t expected him to actually say anything about it. He notices Chelsea focus on Lydia and Rebecca’s conversation like she has any ability to follow along, trying not to look like she’s eavesdropping. At least this time it seems less like she’s worrying about morals and more just like she figures he’ll tell her if he wants to.
        “This is supposed to be a celebration…” he replies quietly and inwardly cringes, because now that he’s said it it sounds a lot weaker to his own ears.
        Shaun seems to agree, if the unimpressed stare is any indication. “I understand if you don’t wish to discuss it, but at least come up with a better excuse that doesn’t insult both of our intelligences, please.”
        It’s actually kind of nice that he’s feeling comfortable enough now that he’s willing to call Desmond on his bullshit. Desmond weighs talking. He’s probably not bringing down the mood any more than he already was, and while it’s not actually talking about the Farm or anything, it’d probably be good to actually practice talking to Shaun about the stuff that bothers him. Plus, with the way Shaun is looking at him, he actually wants to hear and help and now that he knows Desmond’s capable he’s probably not just going to dismiss it without a good reason, too.
        So he nods to the empty store. “Do you know what’s going on?”
        Shaun turns around as surreptitiously as possible, probably because Desmond’s being a really vague dumbass and didn’t really indicate if there was, like, a fight or something where it would be aa bad idea to draw attention, and when he turns back he’s frowning. “No, actually. I…” he sighs, tracing mindless circles around the outside of his glass of Haitian rum—Rhum Barbancourt, Desmond’s pretty sure, which he vaguely remembers having been told is one of the best rums in the world. “Obviously Annapurna is not the only place I shop; there’s also the Haitian Bazaar for fruit and veg, but it’s convenient. It took me quite a while to notice, what with…”
        “Everything?” Desmond asks, because it’s the fastest way to mention the crush, the potential end of the word, and Helwing.
        “Quite.” Shaun’s smile is small but grateful. “I asked our police contacts, and Rebecca tried her skills upon request, but I happen to know Madam Mahar wasn’t too fond of technology, so that led precisely nowhere. D.I. Shelley is sympathetic, but as instructions came in there’s no real proof of foul play, so she’s having to just keep an ear out for relevant reports. And Mama Abena, the woman consistently sitting out there in front of the House of Chalk, did not happen to see or overhear anything that might be relevant.”
        Desmond considers that for a moment. Obviously there are more important parts to the story, but he realizes he’d been so used to Shaun living at work, first with the Assassins and then with everything happening with the Templars, that he didn’t actually bother thinking about where the guy actually lived. The fact that he’s local, like Desmond (for the moment, anyway) is kind of startling. “...You live in Darkside?”
        Shaun shrugs. “The Shades, actually—down Ratcage Lane past the Arena. It’s cheap and it’s not as if I need too much space, and the commute is convenient even for London.”
        It’d also seemed like not the greatest of neighborhoods, especially compared to the space Sonnac had managed to secure for Desmond. Not like Shaun can’t take care of himself, and Shaun will probably take it the wrong way if Desmond voices those worries out loud. Still, it’s probably useful, too, him actually having some familiarity with the area and not just in a ‘I work here’ kinda way. “...You just wanted to live near the bookshop, huh.”
        “I do visit Tuppeny Dreadful often, yes.” Honestly, that might be very well where he got the books for Desmond’s ‘housewarming’ presents. “But that’s not particularly relevant for your worries at the moment, is it. Or, perhaps I should say, our shared worries.”
        Desmond pokes a little with the Calculations, and it doesn’t seem like it’s urgent. At least, if it is, it’s only as urgent as something’s clearly wrong goes. It’s not necessarily going to turn out like with Tyler Freeborn. God, he still feels guilty about that, and not just because he was Shaun’s friend or acquaintance or whatever. “It’s not going to get worse if we wait until after dinner,” he explains, realizing belatedly that he’d included the ‘we’ without even really thinking about it, defaulting back to the idea that they’re a team. Maybe part of it is the soft look in Shaun’s eyes, and it’s pretty clear he can tell Desmond’s doing something with the Calculations even if he still doesn’t understand how it works, exactly, and finds it attractive.
        Fortunately, if Shaun notices the presumption, he just finds it endearing, responding pretty definitively. Then again, he’s probably wanted Desmond to open up for a while, so it’s not like it’s unwanted or burdensome or anything. Which is a weird but nice thought. “Well, good. It’d be preferable if I was a touch more sober for this venture, and you’ve never tried goat meat before, correct?”
        Technically Altaïr and Ezio have, but Desmond hasn’t actually done that before, no. “I like trying new things,” he points out.
        “I’m not judging. It’s good to keep an open mind.” Oh, huh, Shaun likes that, seems like, if him feeding Rukh a couple more mussels and avoiding eye contact, blush coming back just a little, is any indication. “I hope you enjoy your tassot.” Desmond hadn’t been paying attention when everyone ordered, but apparently Shaun had. Judging by the bowl the waiter brings out Shaun has some type of stew. Desmond’s tempted to steal a little—he’s curious—but that probably would be a little too much for Shaun at the moment, so he just digs in instead.