The Beginning of the Nightmare

[madimpossibledreamer]

I will join the chorus in saying ‘blame esama’. I have no idea what I’m doing here (but then, you could probably say the same for poor Ezio). (and, you know, the rest of the people on ao3 assassin’s creed, but it always starts with esama.) If you think you recognize anything, it’s probably because you do and I don’t own it. If anything, it owns me. I wasn’t ever planning on writing this, but I guess read enough of these awesome works in succession and suddenly this happens.

full list (in no particular order except for esama’s at the beginning): Black Robe https://archiveofourown.org/works/14880483/chapters/34458513
Not really a ‘save the fam’ fic, but the family dynamics in Study of Flight, probably https://archiveofourown.org/works/13702866/chapters/31475031
Desynchronized https://archiveofourown.org/works/37674436/chapters/96727518#workskin
Dead Men Tell Tall Tales https://archiveofourown.org/works/31330643?view_full_work=true
Apple of His Eye https://archiveofourown.org/works/24496570?view_full_work=true
Let me be without regret https://archiveofourown.org/works/25126561/chapters/60877936
Adagio in White https://archiveofourown.org/works/19720462?view_full_work=true

Ezio couldn’t help himself, so he got in a fight with Vieri earlier than in canon.

Main Points:
Assassin's Creed AU (kinda time-travel)
Chapter Summary: Ezio confides his worries to Claudia.
Word Count: 2120
Rating: Teen

         “Whatever has gotten into you, foolish brother of mine?” Claudia lectures, touching Ezio’s collar and—is that blood? He leans away from her, the big baby. The rest of the merchants and citizens pretend they’re not watching avidly, even though the Auditore are a great source of entertainment. “Have you been fistfighting Vieri in the streets again? You are the one explaining this to Father and Mother, not I.”
         Ezio opens his mouth, no doubt some ridiculous excuse on his lips—as if he could fool his own sister—when he closes it again just as abruptly, eyes narrowing and boring into her soul as if seeing her, actually seeing her, for the first time.
         And then comes the grin that Claudia dreads, because that’s a look of mischief that can only get her into further trouble. Trouble she wants no part in.
         “Oh, it’s far more dreadful than that, I promise you,” he states, leaning in and wrapping an arm around her shoulders—and his hand is shaking. He needs the support, not because he needs to see a dottore but because whatever has been bothering him, whatever has him acting so oddly for days, is more emotional than physical.
         The thing is, there’s something he’s carefully not speaking about—and her brother isn’t just acting the carefree source of woe and seeker of scandal. Well, he is, but it’s an act. There’s something so much older, focused, sharpened behind his eyes, no matter how near-perfect he makes his smile. She considers that carefully. A possession, she’d think, no matter how far away the church might seem to a family as strange as theirs, but a demon would care not about—whatever it is that is bothering her younger reckless brother (no matter what he says, Federico is the older reckless brother). Let alone, she’s fairly certain, be quite so close to what is likely to be an epic breakdown of some sort. That’s something just shy of panic well-hidden in his eyes. And of course he’s an Auditore—how could he do any less than make a public spectacle of everything he does?
         He is in some sort of trouble, one he cannot simply bring to their parents, either of which, she’s sure, could easily put whatever troubles him to rest, and either of whom would scold him deeply for having gotten involved in whatever this is.
         Ezio is...Ezio is hurting. Mourning, she’d almost say, if that doesn’t sound utterly ridiculous (but then, it would match her ridiculous brother), and though he might tease her, his words are never meant to be cruel. To watch a happy, careless fool like her brother hurt is wrong beyond her ability to express it.
         “Tell me what’s wrong, and I will try to help,” she insists, fiercely—she is an Auditore, and though he’s hardly likely to be impressed by it she even draws herself up to her full height, attempting to glare him into submission.
         He glances away, then, flicking his wrist in a nervous gesture that seems practiced and yet she has never seen him fidget in such a manner.
         “It—the tale is—” he begins, and looks away, halting even as he steers her to a less crowded street. “I fear you will think me mad,” is what he says instead, when he finds he cannot finish his sentence. “I myself am not certain that I am not merely lost in some terrible dream—or perhaps a good one.”
         “More than I already do? Really, Ezio? Is such a thing possible?” She raises her eyebrows, but it’s clear, or at least, she tries to make it so, that it’s mere teasing, and no matter what he says, no matter how outlandish, he is still her brother.
         And so, once he’s assured himself there’s no audience, it comes pouring out, a tale of a nightmare, Father and Federico and Petruccio, and himself too slow to do anything but avenge their deaths. But there is else of note—Assassins, and suddenly, much about their family makes sense, for no mere banker has work in the middle of the night.
         “We cannot just ask,” he insists, and she favors him with a flat look, because that is all such words are worth.
         “It is impressive that even you recognize the foolishness in such an action, brother,” she tells him, and the aborted snarl on his lips says he was going to swear at her and thought better of it.
         “I have been...trying to ascertain the reality of these nightmares of mine,” he tells her, frustrated. “Federico has been keeping more of an eye on me than I knew, and while I may have the knowledge in here,” he points at his head, “...I do not out here.” He pats his arm, the one he had been flicking nervously.
         “Well, then, you are lucky that you chose to tell all to your only sibling with a head on her shoulders, possibly save Petruccio,” she tells him, patting his shoulder slightly patronizingly, and rather than take offense he merely tilts his head and then shrugs his shoulders agreeably—a certain change, if ever she saw one. “If we had more time, perhaps we could tell Father—or if you had that proof. But if what you say is true, Father will ride soon, and beyond that…” Beyond that, the less said of it, the better. “I suppose you could find no proof of the Gonfaloniere’s betrayal?”
         Ezio’s shoulders slump, as if it’s the highest moral failing. “Such things are guarded well—and I made a mistake and was seen. In disguise,” he hastens to add, as Claudia’s mouth opens to scold him, “...but I did not make it away without, well, you saw,” he glances at his shoulder, where the blood she’d noticed still clung. “He will probably guard it closer still.” And then, despite his frustration, despite the situation, he smiles. “I am grateful you are willing to help, possible mental affliction or no.”
         Claudia shrugs, uncomfortable under his warm, thankful gaze. Something else new. “We’ve always known you were a little...special.” She tries to make it sound like an insult, finds that she cannot. “In any case, between your second vision and actual second sight, what lies between? No ocean, certainly.” She does not add that her own senses tell her clearer than any words of his could, that perhaps, if she’d spent a little longer trying to replicate the feeling and less on letters and wooing and gossip, she’d develop the same ability—and how awful would it be, if she’d developed it, this ability to sense danger, too late? Would it be worse or better to have known, and been unable to stop it?
         “We cannot simply hire a mercenario. They are not known for their discretion,” she muses, and Ezio’s frustrated noise of agreement reassures her in a way it would have previously only annoyed her, as if it is a surprise she has any sort of brains in her head. “With your current skill, you could not kill the entire conspiracy at once,” she continues, and Ezio nods at that, eyes a touch wide.
         Perhaps her viciousness should have surprised her as well, but it does not; she’s long known and accepted that she can be vengeful, and the thought that some would seek to slay her family, well.
         Apparently she is from a family of Assassins, and the Italian blood burns fierce in her, and no, she cannot pretend to be anything other than what she is, that she wishes them all dead and better yet wants to watch.
         “Duccio was—is, I suppose—unfaithful,” Ezio mentions, as if it’s merely occurring to him now, and she pauses and finds that while she doesn’t wish him dead with quite the same fervor, she does wish to see his blood spatter on the streets of Firenze.
         Ah.
         Perhaps that is what prompted this admission, that this same thirst for blood reminds him.
         “Perhaps we might make time for Duccio, but he is hardly the most pressing of matters at hand,” she waves it away. “Though…” and now she considers, turning that in her head. “...It might stop rumors about the source of any blood you cannot conceal, Ezio.”
         He blinks and then nods, a more true smile on his lips. “Concealing our actions with other actions. I regret I waited so long to make you a full Assassin, sister. You already think like a natural.”
         “So I do not cure you of your lack of common sense? Truly, I am shocked.” Rather than protest his innocence, her brother merely smiles at that, flicking his wrists once more. “You do not believe any others would be of use?” she clarifies, and he shakes his head.
         “Petruccio might be helpful in planning, and he can keep a secret, but I would rather not expose him to this if I had a choice. Mother and Federico would simply tell Father, and while they may have training…” He shrugs. “He may listen, but I cannot gamble the lives of our family on a ‘may’, and we cannot afford to delay.”
         She raises an eyebrow at him. “You told me,” she states simply.
         “The others are more...patient?” he asks, as if that is not highly insulting. “They are willing to wait and watch, to ask questions and then, if it not answered, to try again later. And Petruccio was satisfied with the answer of ‘someday’. You, on the other hand, Claudia, are...more straightforward? Blunt. Honest.” That could almost be a compliment, particularly with the slightly admiring tone he attempts to hide. “You would not tell the others, not if I asked it, not if there was a chance I was telling the truth, and you can be very persistent. I could speak to you.”
         High praise indeed. Claudia attempts not to preen, but from the way Ezio chuckles she does not do a very good job of it.
         She wasn’t trying very hard, to be fair. Her brother needs a reason to smile in earnest, when she gets the feeling he has not done so in a long time, he who used to smile often. Not but days ago.
         “So, since we cannot kill them all, who needs die first?” She’d be more than happy to contribute, though she has no training.
         “Alberti,” Ezio answers immediately, flicking his wrist once more, and from the look in his eyes if the man was before them now a dagger would already be in his throat. And then he sighs. “The Pazzi are also a danger, particularly if they grow concerned about the death of their fellow Templar. None of this happened previously, so I cannot predict how they will respond if he dies before...”
         The words die in his throat, but no matter. He need not repeat them again, in word or in deed. They will make sure of that.
         A thought occurs to her, and she suspects her own grin is more the baring of the fangs of a predator than one of a noblewoman’s satisfaction, judging by the way even this new, bloodthirsty Ezio eyes her with concern.
         “What would happen,” she asks, tone innocent as she can make it, “if Alberti died, and some evidence pointed to the Pazzi being behind the death?” She doesn’t, yet, have an idea of how to manage that, but it’s a rather...interesting thought, is it not?
         By the way Ezio stills and slowly meets her grin with one of his own, he happens to agree. Without the Gonfaloniere, legally murdering her family would become a great deal harder, and De Medici and Father would be alert and take precautions of their own, if they thought themselves and potentially their families were in danger. Precautions she and Ezio could not hope to replicate.
         “I will have to think on it,” he murmurs, and Claudia is tempted to speak of how she knew the day her brother would actually use his head would come, but does not wish to disturb his concentration. It does not matter that they do not have a full-formed plan. It will come, in time. And if all else fails, if they can find no way to frame the Pazzi more definitively, if he but dies under unknown circumstances, well. Perhaps Father’s paranoia can serve as a boon, rather than as an obstacle. “Grazie mille, Claudia.”
         “Of course,” she nods, laughing a little and ducking out of the way as he attempts to ruffle her hair. She did not spend so long ensuring her hair was perfect only for her brother to mess it up now, no matter the conspiracy before them.