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theconfusedartist · 10 months

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Before Penn Station- Part 1

Closer than Acquaintances, Not Quite Friends

(This is the version of the chapter here on tumblr and will be below a read-more as to not clog up people’s dashboards. Here is the link if you prefer to read on ff.net)

He sighs, feeling the heavy gaze fall onto his neck, goosebumps raising along his arms.

“It’s Alex. Again.” Altaïr grumbles uneasily. “...but he glows blue in my Eagle Vision. Painfully so.”

Sitting up at the counter, Alex Mercer’s cold blue eyes bore into him, as though he was taking in every detail under the fluorescent lights. He wore a black leather jacket as an overcoat, a grimy grayish hoodie covering his head and shadowing his face, and a wrinkled button-up well-to-do white dress shirt.

Desmond didn’t have to check if the leather coat still had the bright crimson design and two white thick strips on the sleeves. It was the only thing he’d ever seen the man wear, as Alex relentlessly followed him from each different Bad Weather bar. His co-workers had been great, helping him take shifts from the sister bars all over Manhattan and helping him find less expensive hosing where landlords didn’t question why he could only ever stay in one apartment for a week or two at a time, and yet still. Alex Mercer continued to ceaselessly pursue him across the city.

“You’d think he’d be at home sleeping after working in a lab all day. Instead of wasting his time in different bars at half-past four.” Desmond muses despondently.

“Just kill him and be done with this.” Altaïr hisses, still watching Alex as Cheryl walks behind the bar.

Her eyes flicker to Alex and to Desmond (or rather ‘Eric’) full of worry, but she keeps a neutral face pasted on, rather than outright scowling as she refills a redheaded regular’s cup with whiskey.

The place wasn’t too busy, what with it being a Sunday morning, and Desmond’s shift ended at six. The redhead, Washington, was a law student that would visit ever Sunday at 10pm to and would leave at 5am to avoid his roommate who always hosted parties on Saturday, but he’d also come in right after he took a test.

The booth closest to the door had been claimed. Her eyes flicker to Alex and to Desmond (or rather ‘Eric’) full of worry, but she keeps a neutral face pasted on, rather than outright scowling as she refills a redheaded regular’s cup with whiskey.

The booth closest to the door had been claimed by three women who showed up unfailingly every Friday, Saturday and Sunday evenings to early morning with heavy tomes and would whisper furtively while sipping the strongest drinks Desmond could make.

Carol, a brunette with green eyes and missing teeth, was a recovering alcoholic who would visit every early Sunday morning, buy a virgin strawberry daiquiri, and three plates of food before heading out to go fishing.

The twins, Cam and Kam, weren’t here, probably passed out from grading papers and editing videos respectively. Their booth instead was occupied by a blond by the name of Lucille, with deep circles under her eyes, nursing a hangover surprise and a breakfast platter after slamming down five tequila shot earlier.

There had been three new faces earlier, two men and one woman dressed in dark clothing while wearing long-rimmed hats that obscured their faces. All of their coats had an odd looking rectangle (the Abstergo logo, which he’d been seeing a lot more lately since moving to Manhattan) on the left breast pocket. And they all nursed one beer each while watching him work at the bar.

Desmond had no idea who these agents were, since they weren’t the first group to sit at a table and do their reconnaissance, but without fail they were always in a group of three or four and they only ever visited the Bad Weathers in the Upper West Side or in SoHo.

And Alex, also without fail, eventually got irritated and drunk enough (which was only ever a single drink--the man wasn’t a lightweight but he was never one to back down from a fight, or start them) that he would start a fight with them. And Desmond would have to pull the Alex off them as he punched with a maniac grin. He had no idea why Alex was persistently targeting them, but he couldn’t really complain either. Those people had a tendency to try and follow him around at the end of his shifts, and while he’d never been caught, it was unnerving to say the least.

“Speaking of,” Desmond thinks wryly as he hears Cheryl try to reluctantly engage in conversation with Alex, while he took Carol’s second plate to her table, letting himself be drawn into small talk.

“Hey Carol, here’s your egg and steak special.”

She gives Desmond a gap-toothed grin, “Thank you very much, darlin’. How’s your shift goin’?”

“Pretty good, all things considered. I can’t wait until I’m able to eat breakfast myself.” He casually grabs her plate, silverware, and cup, mentally making a note to come back with a refill and a water pitcher.

“Tha’s good ta hear! Hey, I was wonderin’, would y’all mind if I bring some fried fish for the folks on shift later? I’ve been wanting to show ‘ff my new recipe.”

Desmond laughs, “You’ll never hear us turning down free food, If you drop it off by seven, I’m sure Tristan’ll be happy to take it.”

Carol snorts, “Fer her, I’ll make a whole second batch! She looks like she needs it.”

“I’ll make sure to let her know. Give me a moment and I’ll come back with your drinks.”

By the time he’s made it back behind the bar, Cheryl’s lips are pressed into a thin line, her dark brows a mirror on her forehead, as she angrily scrubs an already-clean glass. He feels Alex’s gaze drop onto his shoulders like a weight.

“We should throw him out again.” Cheryl all but growls through gritted teeth. “Are we really going to let him back in after his fight earlier?”

Desmond shrugs, as he fills a pitcher with ice and water, then gets to work on the virgin strawberry daiquiri. “Unless you plan on fighting him or calling the cops, we can’t. Bad Weather rules--”

“I know, I know. Three hours out of the bar and if they don’t bring the cops or get sued they can come back, but can we make an exception? He’s rude, violent, vulgar, and he keeps staring at you.”

Desmond sighs, “I haven’t been able to get him to stop staring at me. I’ve kinda just let it go--”

“NO!” Altaïr and Cheryl both shout, and it’s all Desmond can do to keep himself from startling at the bar.

With a sheepish looks, he grabs the pitcher of water and virgin strawberry daiquiri before hightailing it over to Carol’s table.

“I can’t believe you would even consider--” Altaïr rants.

“Here’s your drinks!” Desmond greets Carol in an attempt to block Altaïr out. It doesn’t work, of course, after all he can only hear the man in his mind.

“--even giving into that man. He’s trying to manipulate you--”

“Thanks darlin’. Hey, I heard Cheryl shoutin’ over there, is everythin’ alright?”

“--into doing what he wants. It’s intimidation and erratic--”

“Everything’s fine, we just got into an old argument is all.”

“--behavior, then being all nice and gentle? He’s trying--”

“Is this about that Alex fellow?”

“--to lay a trap for you! He’s an obviously insidious individual.”

“You could hear that?”

“Everyone heard that!”

“It’s pretty plain to see he’s only got eyes for ya. Shifty and dangerous eyes, darlin’.”

“I’ve gotten used to it.” Is Desmond’s tired reply to the both of them.

Carol frowns and leans forward to speak quietly as possible, “Now, listen darlin’. If you need a new job, I know a few people down by the docks who’d love a dancer. Hell, if you do them fancy bottle tricks, I’m sure you could pull what you make a night here within a few hours.” Carol’s eyes shoot to Alex warily and back to Desmond, “You don’t want to get entangled with people who’re trying to wear ya down to spend time with them.”

Desmond doesn’t even have to look to feel Alex’s heavy stare on him again. Despite the fact that Carol had been whispering, it was like he could tell someone was talking about him.

Creepy.

“Well,” Desmond slides into a chair across from Carol, “do you think you know of some good hotels? Motels, even. I just need to find something I can halfway afford and keep moving.” Money had never been a problem for Desmond when it came time to take care of Elijah, Clay, or to indulge in Altaïr’s foodie requests, but he was loathe to spend it on himself when it could be better used somewhere else.

Carol matches his lower whisper, “I can get ya in with a few of my fishing buddies. They’ll let you crash free of charge an’ keep any unwanteds out.” She looks meaningfully at Alex.

Desmond blinks, feeling tears prick at his eyes and a lump in his throat, “Y-yeah. That’d be great.”

Carol lays a hand on top of Desmond’s, “It’ll be alright, Eric. Things always get better.”

The shock of hearing the name ‘Eric’ stuns him into silence. It always hit like a ton of bricks that he was lying to these good people every time he was addressed by his false name. Would they still want to help him if they knew? That he was Desmond Miles? That he was an ex-assassin?

“Behind you, Desmond.” Altaïr warns.

“Hey.” It’s Alex.

Carol flinches and rips her hand away, but all Desmond can do is sigh. This is typical Alex.

“I’m in the middle of a conversation, Alex. I’ll speak with you in a minute.”

No response. Ales just continues standing and glaring down at him expectantly. Carol shifts nervously in her seat, toying with the last of her eggs before saying, “Hey, Eric, can you get me the pancake omelet platter? I think I’m about ready for my third plate now.”

Desmond nods, pushes back his chair, stands up--

And Alex is right there in his space, glaring hard with an air of disapproval that makes Desmond’s hands break out in a cold uneasy sweat.

Doing his best to look unphased, he gently pushes Alex out of the way, swallowing hard as he follows him to the bar, close enough that he can feel the other man’s breath uncomfortably hot on his neck. Desmond retreats to the bar, slamming the low door between them, ignoring Alex’s sour look.

He turns away and swiftly walks into the kitchen, hoping to escape the burn of Alex’s gaze. The kitchen looks a mess, as it usually does when Michelle cooks by herself, and the spices are scattered all over the counters. “Carol wants the pancake-omelet platter--with sausage. Y’know how she likes it.”

“New York cheesecake pancake and sausage omelet coming coming up. I’ll shout once it’s done.”

Desmond walks out of the kitchen just as Cheryl’s voice starts to raise, “If you don’t want to buy anything, then get outta here!”

Alex sneers, “I’m not ordering from you.”

Desmond manages to step in right as Cheryl pushes up her sleeves and Alex cracks his knuckles with a grin, “Hello Alex, are you ready to order?”

Alex smirks at Cheryl before turning his full, undivided attention attention onto Desmond. “I’ve been waiting for over 25 minutes, what took you so damn long?”

Desmond could feel his eyebrow twitch ever so slightly, “Cheryl could’ve taken--”

“I didn’t come here for her. I came here for you. Now when am I gonna be serviced?”

Desmond mentally sighs as Altaïr grows tense, ‘Hopefully there hasn’t been any activity around the apartment, we’ll have to check it over after the shift.’

“Alex is the much greater threat right now, Desmond. He’s already started with the inappropriate comments.”

“What would you like to order?”

“Dark oasis, Purple Venom, a waffle and bacon, with you on the side.”

Desmond scoffs, “You couldn’t afford me.”

“Name your price.”

“Priceless.”

“Then I more than qualify.”

“You don’t even pass my basic standards.”

“I don’t have to. I always get what I want.”

“I want to kick you out of the bar, but it looks like we’ll both be disappointed.”

“I wouldn’t mind leaving, if you came with me.”

“Not happening.” Desmond scoffs, “Whatever, did you want to order anything else?”

Alex’s eyes dart down to Desmond’s throat and lingers, “I already said what it was I wanted.” He makes sure to meet Desmond’s eyes and stares him down, and licks his lips. “I’ll be waiting.”

Dammit, he can’t decide between punching him or kissing him.

“Punching! Definitely punching! Seriously, what’s with you when he comes around? It’s like you deliberately ignore every warning you see.” Altaïr demands irritably.

Once Altaïr’s words register and he realizes that he hasn’t given up on trying to stare Alex down, Desmond spins on his heel and turns away to disengage from the entire situation, still feeling Alex’s heavy gaze.

“I’m telling you, Desmond, just kill that man. Forget what Eagle Vision is telling you and murder him. Dump his body in a back alley and continue forward.” Altaïr advises.

Desmond takes a deep breath and leans against the kitchen door, safely out of Alex’s view, ‘The first rule of the creed; stay your blade from the flesh of an innocent.’

“He’s stalking you! He is not innocent.” Altaïr argues.

‘The second creed; be one with the crowd and allow them to hide you.’

“Then kill him where no one can see it. People will overlook dead bodies and leave it for another person to find.” Altaïr responds callously.

‘The third tenant; do not compromise the brotherhood. Directly or indirectly. Do you think, even for a second, that if I truly ever felt threatened, I wouldn’t take Alex out? I would’ve killed him long ago if I thought he might have any ill intent towards me or Elijah. And if I did kill him, I would actively be getting rid of the few people I’ve ever seen glow that bright blue. His is the brightest blue in all of Manhattan. Why would I get rid of someone who wants to help me?”

No response from Altaïr because the answer was obvious to both of them. Alex acted mostly docile for Desmond because he wanted him, most likely for sex or some sort of experimentation, since he didn’t seem like the type of guy to accept rejection. Honestly, the only thing that really concerned him about Alex was his whole ‘I want to take you apart piece by piece’ thing, which was...weird. Besides, he was able to deal with Alex pretty easily by letting him get himself blackout drunk and escorting him back to his apartment or leaving his shift early after Alex ate and was slow. But, it didn’t change the fact that Alex had been hounding him for three months.

Following him from Bad Weather establishments to his apartment, suddenly ‘running into him’ in dark alleyways late at night when he would be coming down from the roof of a building, staring him down for hours at his job and being so unpleasant to be around, Desmond was the only one who he’d allow to serve him.

Dealing with Alex at work, drunk or sober, was exhausting to say the least.

“Eric, are you alright?”

Desmond looks up at his fake name being called, meeting Michelle’s concerned eyes. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just had to take Alex’s order, y’know how it is.”

Her eyes clouded over with guilty sympathy, “Yeah, I do. He...didn’t order a steak did he? Because it was freaky as hell when he ordered it ‘extremely rare’ and wanted some ‘blood red’ wine.”

“Sometimes I wonder if he’s a vampire, with his fixation on necks! But no, he just ordered a waffle and bacon. Better make it two waffles, because I don’t want to deal with him making a second order.” Desmond also thinks to himself, hoping Altaïr won’t hear and comment on it, ‘And because I know he hasn’t been eating like he should be.’

“Can do, Eric.” Michelle pauses, “D’ya wanna wait here for a bit? It’ll give you some time before you have to see him again.”

“You should leave early and let Cheryl handle it. If you’ve left, she can beat his ass without any other bartenders as witness, and she’s been looking for a reason to get into a fight with him.” Altaïr suggests.

‘Alex is vicious during fights.’

“And Cheryl likes to wear steel knuckles, she only needs two solid punches to give him permanent brain damage.” Altaïr counters.

‘Just a reminder, how fast did Alex manage to throw someone on the ground and bash their head in? Last I checked, it only took him two seconds.’

“Cheryl could possibly land a fatal blow before he gets the chance to knock her out.”

‘I really don’t think she’d win the fight Altaïr. And what was the group that shows up with ambulance trucks?’

“Hey, Eric.” Michelle calls out to him, drawing him out of his conversation with Altaïr, looking a bit weary at dealing with him looking like he was having a conversation with someone in his head. “Carol’s plate is ready. Bring it to her for me, will ya?”

Desmond nods, running a hand through his shorn black hair, “Yeah. Yeah, sure thing, ‘Chel.”

A plate in hand, Desmond steps back behind the bar with a mild customer service smile welded onto his face so tightly that he doesn’t even blink when Alex’s eyes zero on him. The man has his fists clenched and his shoulders are tense, if he was standing he’d probably have his dukes up, which has historically been the telltale sign that Alex is at best seconds away from starting another fight that he’ll have to break up.

With the patience of a hardened veteran, he walks right past Alex over to Carol’s table, with her food and a pitcher of water in hand. “Apologies for the wait, but here’s your food! Can I get you anything else?”

Carol’s eyes flicker over to Alex for a half-second before she replies, “Normally, I’d love to indulge in your wonderful conversation, but I’m feeling pretty peckish. Mind if I trouble you for a refill?”

“Of course, coming right up. Lemme just grab your cup...” As he grabs her cup, she touches his wrist and pushes a small slip of paper into his sleeve, under the cufflink with nimble fingers. “I’ll be right back.”

He doesn’t even get a chance to properly put her glass in the sink before Alex was snarling at him, “How long before I get my order? At the very least you could’ve served me my drinks before flirting with Carol.”

Desmond clenches his fists, set aside his own desire to start a fight, and begins to clean off Carol’s cup. “First of all, I was relaying your order to the chef, which is why I didn’t make your drink yet. Second, your food will be served momentarily by Cheryl--”

“If she brings it out, I’m not eating it. I don’t want her hands on my food.”

“And finally,” Desmond stresses through his teeth as she starts making Carol’s virgin strawberry daiquiri. “We aren’t, probably never will be, dating. Get that through your thick fucking skull, Alex.”

Alex smirks maliciously from under his hood, his blue eyes eerily bright, “Whether you want to date me or not doesn’t matter. It will happen because I’ve decided it will happen. Watching you struggle against it is simply amusing.”

“Grab the spade you use to dig out the grime from the bar and tear out his tongue. As he screams, go for the eyes.” Altaïr hisses.

‘Tempting. I want to, but no one needs to know my capacity for incredible violence.” Desmond responds to Altaïr, mentally calculating all the places he could dump Alex’s body nearby if it really came down to it.

“At least you only have 25 more minutes on the clock before your shift ends.” Altaïr tries to be enthusiastic, but Desmond can feel the underlying adrenaline and bloodlust.

‘Only 25 minutes left?’ Desmond asks.

“Only 25 minutes left.” Altaïr grimly affirms.

With quick steps, Desmond walks over to Carol’s table and delivers her virgin strawberry daiquiri, then heads back over to the bar. He doesn’t even have to look with Eagle Vision to know Alex’s color had shifted from his normal painfully bright overwhelming blue to a deep royal purple. After all, Alex had never hurt him but he was more than willing tohurt the people around him, and he didn’t hide the fact that he was trying to get Desmond isolated from other people.

Desmond left the Farm specifically because the Assassin Order and his parents wanted to limit him--from his thought, his actions, where he could go, what he could learn--and his Father had wanted an easy to manipulate tool. He’d be damned if he left behind the machinations of one man to fall into the grasp of anothers’.

Either way, Alex needed to be dealt with and either he was going to set some hard boundaries between them or he was going to end up killing him, which is something that he’d rather avoid at all costs. For his own sake, he needed to take a more diplomatic approach.

First, he prepares two long double shot glasses but washing it in front of Alex with Ajax soap and a red sponge, scrubbing it exactly 250 times. Next, he took out the bottles he was going to be using; Viniq, White Rum, Sweet Revenge, and laid them beside a carton of blackberries, blueberries, and strawberries.

With sharp hand movements, he pours one ounce of purple Viniq in a silver tumbler and twirls it around his writst as he exchanges the Viniq for White Rum and Purple Venom, holding the two large glass bottles in his right hand as the left steadied the tumbler. A long classy pour of the two alcohols, and a flick of the wrist to deliver the first napkin in front of Alex, sliding the now-full glass on the top.

“Your Purple Venom.”

Making sure to put away all the bottles for Purple Venom and replacing it with a dark red dry wine, orange liquer, a dark brandy, and a can of lime-lemon soda, along with a naval orange.

Making the Dark Oasis had less flare, but no less love put into it’s creation, as Desmond poured the dark red wind as a base then slowly layers the orange liquer and brandy together in long pours. Once the cup was half-full, Desmond slipped in a few ice cubes before topping it off with the lime-lemon soda, gently placing the individual slices of strawberries, blackberries, and blueberries into the drink, sliding a slice of the orange onto the rim of the glass.

With the second slick of the wrist, Desmond places the drink in front of Alex, “And your Dark Oasis. I’ll be out with your food in a bit.”

Without giving Alex a second glance, he spins on his heel and walks into the kitchen with a spring in his step.

“You’re smiling.” Altaïr points out.

Desmond blinks, then lightly slaps his cheeks, ignoring Michelle’s confused look. ‘I was just enjoying mixing the drinks is all.’ He defends weakly.

Altaïr doesn’t say anything for a few seconds, then, “You always seem to calm down when you get to pamper him with food or casually touch him.” Altaïr’s annoyance and exasperation seeps through their bond, “You do realize that if you didn’t keep lowering your guard and allowing Alex to get close, you could’ve shaken him off when you first found out that he was stalking you.”

‘You don’t have to keep talking to me about this.’

“Apparently I do.” Desmond rubs his neck sheepishly, gearing up to deal with another of Altaïr’s lectures, as Michelle watches him for all intents and purposes look like he’s having a silent conversation with absolutely no one else. “The reason Alex has been able to stalk you and follow like this is becuase you don’t do enough to stop him. While you do move, change where you work, and even travel by rooftop to avoid being seen, you continue to allow him in your presence.”

‘He’s not always acting like an asshole.’

“To you. And even by your own definitions that’s a stretch. Multiple times--”

‘Ah, here we go.’ Desmond thinks.

“Yes! I’m saying it again! Because you refuse to listen! He’s possessive, controlling, domineering--”

‘The domineering part isn’t always bad.’

“--fine, overly domineering, and it’s clear whatever affections he has for you stems from some kind of unhealthy obsession.”

And really, what defense can he give to that? Altaïr’s absolutely correct and this isn’t the first time that they’d had this particular conversation either. The argument is logical, doesn’t cut any corner, and hits on all the issues he has with Alex. However...

‘...I’m tired of being lonely, Altaïr. I can’t even live with Elijah anymore since the assassins and templars have been getting closer after Florida, and Clay hasn’t been responding to any of my calls or texts since he started his final months of assassin training, and every other connection I have is either tied up in their own problems or won’t take calls from payphones.’ He takes a deep breath while shaking out his sweaty hands, ‘For all his many flaws, Ales has never been red in my Eagle Vision and he’s never pinged as a threat towards Elijah in it either. Not to mention, any group that’s tracking me he just. Deals with. I didn’t even have to ask him to do that.’

“Your Eagle Vision isn’t always correct, Desmond.” Altaïr reminds gently. “What about thattime you slept with Daniel in Vermont? Only to later find out that he was a Templar, planning to turn you in?”

Desmond shrugs and it’s at this point that Michelle wonders if he should be on medication for what’s clearly (to her) schizophrenia or DID. “Hey,” Michelle calls out warily, “Alex’s meal is ready, were you gonna take it to him?”

Desmond blinks as Altaïr huffs at the interruption in their conversation, “Right, sorry Michelle. I’m taking it now.”

She nods as he grabs the food and leaves out the door, Desmond can’t even be bothered to put a fake smile on.

Alex perks up once Desmond comes out of the kitchen with his plate of warm food, halfway done with his Dark Oasis, and the cup of Purple Venom is completely empty. His eyes don’t spare a glance towards the food but locks onto Desmond’s face instead, “It’s only been five minutes but you managed to come back looking like roadkill.”

‘What, does smiling change my face that drastically?” Desmond thinks.

“Yes, entirely. Also, you were desynching with me, and that takes out a lot of energy too.” Altaïr responds.

Desmond runs a hand through his dark shorn curls, “It’s been a long shift is all. I’m just excited to be getting off.”

Alex blinks, not saying anything but still conveying he thought that excuse was full of shit. After an awkward moment, Alex barks, “Grab a second plate.”

Desmond is far too used to Alex’s demands to be fazed and simply grabs the second plate, not bothering to fight Alex when he tugs on his sleeve, grabbing a second set of cutlery without a second thought. Carol’s already left, Cheryl clears her table only stopping to give Alex a fierce glare and ‘Eric’ a pitying look as she goes back to cleaning up the table.

“Desmond.” Altaïr starts only to sigh, “You remember the creed don’t you?”

He cuts off an irritated groan as Desmond slips into the booth across from Alex’s. It’s close to Carol’s usual table and Alex has hisback to the door, but keeps himself at the edge of the bench, as if preparing the for the need to use the chairs as a possible bludgeoning weapon. Desmond sits close to the center of his seat, making sure he has the front entry, side entry, and kitchen in a position he can see them with the swift turn of his neck.

“Come now, Desmond.Recite them back to me.” Altaïr coaxes.

Arguing with Altaïr gives him a headachem he feels almost dizzy and nauseous when they’re out of sync, whenever they get into a bad fight, it’s almost like he has trouble staying conscious. Alex just stares at him, blue eyes damn-near unblinking, as he just watches.

‘Rule one; stay your blade from the flesh of the innocent.’ Desmond recites dutifully.

“While Alex isn’t an assassin or a templar, he can be dangerous which gives you leave to defend yourself.”

Desmond doesn’t argue, he’s far too tired to do so. Growing up, he and Altaïr had debated the creed over and over again, and while they don’t do so as often as before, they both sitll had differing opinions about how it should be interpreted.

‘Rule two; be discreet. Allow the crowd to hide you as you move and strike.’

Even though Desmond wasn’t speaking aloudm Ales still kept his eyes trained on him as he tore his waffle to pieces.

“Alex routinely gets into fights and causes high-profile disturbances. When he walks down the street people around him cry out in distress from his lack of tact, and if those agents with the Abstergo logo were to attack you while you traveled with Alex, there would be little chance of escaping with him in a crowd.”

‘He’s not wrong.’ Desmond thinks to himself. ‘Alex shoves pople out of his way like he’s having fun doing it.’

Alex takes a sip of his Dark Oasis, watching in fascination as his mutilated eggs and waffles lay splayed out on the plate.

‘Rule three; not directly or indirectly bring harm to the brotherhood.’

“Elijah...Desmond, these people from Abstergo have been showing up routinely these past three months and Alex has fought them off nearly every single time we’ve encountered them in a public setting. This might be a long-term trap he’s setting for you, and as we both suspect, if he has any affiliations with them he could lead them to Elijah. We can’t take that chance.”

‘Normally, I’d trust your gut on this Altaïr, but Alex has been pretty brutal to ‘em. Does it really make sense for Alex to be working with a group that he’s routinely sending back goons with brain damage? Those people definitely didn’t survive his fists once they left the bar. And he’s done this repeatedly, even. It just doesn’t add up.’

A few seconds of silence, “I’ll admit, the theory does have some holes in it, but if it’s true then your association with Alex puts both you and Elijah at risk. Directly or indirectly.”

‘But what if you’re wrong? If Alex has nothing to do with these Abstergo people, then we have no reason to believe he’d bring harm to either of us. He could be a fierce ally.”

Altaïr hesitates, “...Alex is a vicious fighter in battle,’ he conceded begrudgingly. “But he also has a short temper, bad attitude, and is incredibly short sighted. His actions could indirectly bring harm later on.”

‘So what it all boils down to is this: Alex could be a great ally if he wasn’t a loose canon that brings a lot of negative attention and if we knew where he stands in relation to any affiliation to Abstergo, the assassins, and the Templars. Did I get that right?” Desmond gives Altaïr a second to reply before following it up with, ‘Because the flip side is that Alex is a strong and vicious fighter, and potential ally, that lacks discretion but any threats he might bring by association he would also be able to deal with using ruthless efficiency.’

“Don’t try to pretend like you haven’t been looking out for him in the past as well. That entire situation in Vermont might have been avoided if you hadn’t assassinated every single operative that had Alex on their kill-list.” Altaïr snaps.

‘Whether that’s true or not doesn’t matter!’ Desmond bites back. ‘I wasn’t just going to stand by and do nothing, and I stand by that decision too, no matter how much you disagree with what I did in Vermont.’

A sigh, “It seems like we can’t reach an agreement about this yet.”

‘Not entirely true. I don’t think that Alex needs to meet Elijah yet, until I know for sure what his intentions are.’

Desmond feels a rush of approval and relief, when all he could feel before were waves of anxiety and dread coming from Altaïr. “Absolutely. They never need to meet each other.”

“You done thinking?” Alex asks, drawing Desmond away from his conversation with Altaïr.

“What makes you say that?”

“Whenever you get deep in thought, to the point where you don’t hear anything else,” Alex threads his fingers in through Desmond’s right hand, “the knuckles on this hand starts glowing. So do your eyes around the temples.”

Sweat pools in Desmond’s palms, “Does it do that every time?”

“Only when you’re looking already about to collapse.”

“Oh, is that all?” Desmond drawls. “Lucky me.”

Alex doesn’t bother with silverware, instead picking up his thoroughly shredded waffle bit to tear into. “So, what conclusion did you come to?”

“I didn’t. I was trying to decide if I still wanted to hang around you.” Desmond replies bluntly.

Alex gives him a satisfied grin as he eats another piece of waffle, “Looks like you chose to stay with me another day.”

Desmond opens his mouth to refute him but then looks at the booth their sitting in. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“I knew you would,” Alex says with an air of smugness. “After all, who wouldn’t want to be around me?”

“Ah, is that why you have all those people lining up to talk to you?” Desmond asks wryly. “Because the only time I see you around a bunch of people is either right before you start a fight or when you’ve left a group of people unconscious.”

“They don’t have the mental capacity to hold a conversation with me.” Alex sniffs. “I only mingle with the brightest minds...and you, of course.”

“Lucky me.” Desmond repeats drolly. “So, what was the real reason you pulled me aside?”

Alex fixes him with a sharp look, as if he’s trying to take in every minute detail of his face, “I already knew you were going to try and run so you could meet up with your ‘contact’.” His lips twitch in amusement as Desmond shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

‘Altaïr, he doesn’t know about Elijah, does he?” Desmond asks warily.

“He shouldn’t...” Altaïr replies.

“So, I figured I should talk to you before you try to run again.”

Desmond quirks an eyebrow, “‘Try’ to run?”

“Anywhere you run, I’ll chase you. Anywhere you hide, I’ll find you. You can not escape me.”

Alex doesn’t say it with the same air of smugness as before, the smile left his face for his more intense stare and pressed lips, and Desmond’s hand tenses up in Alex’s.

Alex didn’t say it like it was a threat or something he wanted, he stated it with simple unrelenting force--the words resolute and full of promise. He said it with the same inevitable force of an earthquake--one that Desmond was trapped in the center of as cracks deepened under his feet.

He wasn’t sure whether to be creeped out by this, or to give into his own curiousity, and see how long this willpower of Alex’s would last.

“And what will you do, if you manage to catch me?” Desmond asks around the rock in his throat.

“Hm. When I catch you...” Alex tightens his hand around Desmond’s fingers, refucing to allow him to escape his grasp. “First, I’ll tie you down. I want to make sure I note and catalogue all the desperate faces and noises you make.” Alex squeezes at Desmond’s knuckles as he tries to escape once more. “After that, I’d take my time cutting you out of your clothes. I’d go slow too, so you can feel my hands on every inch of your skin and know there’d be nothing you could do or say to convince me to let you go.”

Alex tightens his grip on Desmond’s knuckles, squeezing hard enough to bruise, as his thumb gently strokes the back of his palm. “And after that, I’d introduce you to all types of external stimuli o see how you react.” His eyes focus on Desmond’s adam’s apple, it’s almost a leer but three shades to the left and more predatory. Far more possessive. “Although, whether I’d start with your neck or chest is up in the air, since both are so sensitive.”

“Are you done? Because I certainly am.” Desmond responds frostily, forcefully prying his hand out of Alex’s.

“And here I thought you’d last a bit longer.” Alex taunts.

“Shit like this is why I keep wondering why I still hang around you.” Desmond gripes. “I’m leaving now. If you follow me, you can expect to get your ass kicked.”

Alex frowns, “You didn’t even eat.”

“I don’t want your cold waffle chunks.”

“Then order something else.” Alex counters. “But we both know that’s not what I was talking about.”

Desmond’s empty plate and silverware sit on the table, innocently, as his stomach growls. Those blue orbs (adamantium, his brain helpfully supplies before going silent) that Altaïr collects would always make him feel like he’d eaten a well balanced meal, but in the meantime he still needed to eat. Substitutes like glass, metal, plastic, and most plants were optimal but he also still needed to eat some kind of normal food so his body would have energy as well. Desmond...didn’t really understand why it was like that, (but how could he? the brain thinks to itself. after all, he’s not connected yet) but it had been that way as long as he could remember.

At some point, Desmond didn’t know when it happened, Alex had witnessed Desmond ‘cleaning the table’ and leaving nothing behind. ‘Another reason why I’m attached to this asshole,’ Desmond idly thinks as he picks up the fork while checking to make sure no one else was watching (save for Alex, who never really took his eyes off him). ‘he saw me eating metal and didn’t run away screaming.’

“That’s a low bar to pass as far as companions go.” Altaïr jabs.

‘And yet, save for Clay, Elijah, my grandparents, and Alex, most other people don’t ever get over it.’ Desmond replies despondently.

With the coast clear, Desmond bites into the fork, his eyes closing in relief as he eats the entire thing within a single bite--the other cutlery eagerly pushed into his hands by Alex.

The fork, spoon, knife--gone. Devoured in a literal second, the plate taking slightly longer but goes down with a loud ‘cronch’ sound. Alex watches the whole display with a dreamy smile, chin held up by his fist.

The smile on his face falls, Desmond only has a half-second to break out of his food-stupor, to see Alex all but throw his plate to the ground. It was thankfully empty, but Cheryl already had her fists clenched.

“How many times do we have to do this, asshole?!” Cheryl shouts, “I’m not dealing with any more of your bullshit! Either get the hell out or put up your fists!”

Recognizing why Alex destroyed his plate, Desmond stads with his hands open, pleading with Cheryl. “It’s alright, I’ll clean it up. Don’t worry about it.”

“No, Eric!” Cheryl doesn’t notice the very small flinch Desmond makes as she calls him by his false name, “This asshole has had it coming for a long time!” She widens her stance as Alex puts his own dukes up, “Let’s finish this!”

Alex grins bouncing on his feet, fists up and ready to fight, as the other patrons in the pub either ignore the scene or move their food and drinks away from the oncoming violence. “If it’s a fight you want--”

“ENOUGH!” The entire restaurant snaps to attention at Desmond’s voice, Michelle sheepishly peeking out from the kitchen as well, “Alex, go outside. I’ll handle your tab and deal with you in a bit. Cheryl, please go to the kitchen. It’s already half-past six and the morning rush will be starting soon.”

Cheryl clearly still wants to fight, but goes back to the kitchen as ordered, even if she does so reluctantly. Alex frowns in disappointment but also does what Desmond demands and walks out the front door. The tension slowly bleeds out of the building as the two separate, and Desmond kneels onto the ground to pick up the shards of glass with his bare hands, making sure to grab on of the larger shards hard enough that it breaks skin.

Glass in hand, he walks back behind the bar and dumps it in the trash before going into the kitchen to greet Michelle and Cheryl, heading straight to the oft used first-aid kit. Cheryl’s anger seems to drain out of her when she sees blood on his hands, taking the gauze from him gently to apply it herself. “You didn’t have to pick up the glass with your bare hands, Eric. I would’ve waited for you to come back after you grabbed the broom.”

Desmond shrugs. “I was worried you’d go outside and fight Alex if I took too long.”

“You should’ve let Cheryl beat his ass, man.” Michelle pipes up, “Alex has had it coming for the last month or so now.”

“Look, I have confidence in your abilities, Cheryl, but I’ve also seen Alex fight 18 guys on his own--” Well, that was a bit of a stretch. During the incident in question, a group of 37 or so wannabe WWE fighters has come into the bar in West Harlem after getting rejected and picked a fight with 5 of those Abstergo agents that had been lingering around the bar like a bad smell, and after getting humiliated in public by his little sister who’d left earlier, Alex decided to join in on the carnage. Alex did indeed manage to knock out 18 different people, that part wasn’t exaggerated, because apparently he’d wanted to put his old wrestling skills to the test, and everyone that had seen the event remembered the sight. Which was great because Desmond had been backhanding people into a painful unconsciousness and it would’ve been quite hard to be known as the ‘really chill guy who makes ordering a drink into a flashy spectacle’ if they also knew that he has the capacity to take down two dozen people in literal minutes.

“--and I just don’t want you to get hurt.” At the very least, this wasn’t an exaggeration or falsehood.

Cheryl shifts uncomfortably at the reminder of the ‘Bad Weather Beatout’ (as the incident had been called). “I...probably could’ve won.”

“I mean, if Alex was really able to beat 18 people on his own, the only thing you’d have won was lifetime brain damage.”

Cheryl whirls on Michelle, her voice raw, “Whose side are you on?!”

“The side that keeps you from getting any lasting injuries and Alex in the hospital on permanent bedrest.” Michelle answers.

Desmond holds himself still, but twitches as Cheryl agrees with an, “Amen to that!”

Unable to hold himself back, Desmond defends, “Alex isn’t that bad you guys. Sure, he can be rude and he does get into fights, but I don’t think it’s bad enough for you to be wishing harm on him.”

“You’re only saying that because you like taking his side.” Michelle rebuffs.

“I’m on the side,” Desmond rebuts, “where no one gets hurt.”

“Why do you always look out for Alex?” Michelle asks wearily with a frown as Cheryl finishes wrapping up Desmond’s hand, “Of all people, you should be the one to hate him the most, especially since he never stops staring at you.”

Desmond chooses his words carefully, speaking slower than normal, “Alex is...certainly a troublemaker, to be sure. But he’s never tried to push me to do anything I don’t want, his staring effectively warns off all the other creeps that leer at me, and whenever either of us get blackout drunk--well, we look out for each other in those situations. And I’ve never had to worry about getting home safely since he started coming, so I just return the favor.”

Michelle looks at him pityingly while Cheryl gives him a look of almost disgust, and says, “So what you’re saying is you’re so down bad for this man that you’re ignoring all the red flags he’s waving like it’s a damn national parade.”

“That’s not--”

“You overlook his bullshit,” Cheryl snaps, “because he shows you the absolute minimum bare respect you should give to a human being, while also making cow eyes at you. What is it going to take before you realize that Alex is a terrible person?”

“It’s not like that at all!”

“That’s what it sounds like.” Michelle interjects.

“Look, my shift is over, so I’m gonna clock out and deal with Alex--”

“Of course you are.” Cheryl sighs.

Desmond glares at her, then finishes off with, “I’ll see you on the Tuesday shift.”

“Have fun making out with your boyfriend, I guess.” Cheryl replies with a huff.

Cheryl and Michelle watch him check out and walk away. “Why is he gravitating towards an asshole like that?” Michelle asks.

“He’s probably used to being around people like that.” Cheryl answers dispassionately, her eyes looking somewhere other than the kitchen counters, “It’s probably what was normal for him and he’s doesn’t know how to break a bad habit.”

Desmond pointedly ignores them, wishing he didn’t hear them from the kitchen to the front door, and steps out into the open city as people start to file into Bad Weather. Like he’d thought, the Sunday morning rush is beginning to trickle in, and he makes sure not to meet anyone's eyes as he walks out, keeping his head ducked and low.

Altaïr is silent but he can feel him in the back of his mind, can still feel the disapproval, as he meets up with Alex.

Alex is waiting, looking almost anxious as he whips his head back and forth, quietly fidgeting in place. Seeing Desmond eases some of the tension in his shoulders, but not by much. “So, did you have fun?”

Desmond rolls his eyes, “They already think I’m a bit crazy for hanging out with you--”

“Which I agree with!” Altaïr adds.

“--but otherwise, nothing new. Have fun waiting?”

Alex grunts, “I bet they’re watching me, even now, so this’ll have to be short.”

Alex had mentioned on multiple occasions that he was under serveillance, which only made it more ironic that he had no qualms about stalking Desmond in earnest, and hated being in open spaces too long. Every person on the sidewalks also hated when Alex was out too long as well, as he had a habit of straight up clotheslining people that got too close. And by too close, that meant anyone that managed to get in Aelx’s shoving range, which was nearly every person that had the misfortune to be walking on the same sidewalk as him, as Alex loathed being touched by strangers.

“Look, I just wanted to thank you for earlier. I...happen to like working at Bad Weather.” Desmond says.

Alex snorts, “I like causing random destruction, so it worked out well for both of us. I’ll see you later.”

“Yeah, I’ll be working at Bad Weather later on this week.” Desmond offers.

“I’ll see you before then.”

“No you won’t, Alex.”

Alex gives Desmond a mania-filled grin, “It doesn’t matter where you run or hide--I will find you.” And with that unnerving declaration, Alex shoves his way into the packed streets of Manhattan.

As he fade out of view, Altaïr grimly says, “He’s a problem we wouldn’t have to worry about if you just killed him.”

Desmond sighs, ducking into an alleyway while enjoying the morning sun, even with the unbearable sting of the cold that cuts into his fingers as he scales the wall. ‘I’m not killing him, Altaïr.’

“If you can’t do it, then let me take over you body so I can do it for you!” Altaïr demands.

‘No!’ Desmond scowls, his own mental outburst keeping him from properly anchoring his grapple hook on a rooftop ledge. He yanks it back, twirling it ‘round and ‘round, until he catches enough momentum to get it to solidly connect on the rooftop edge. Quickly rappelling up the side of the building, Desmond tersely replies, ‘So long as he’s blue, I have no reason to attack him. I’m too far and few in between allies to start stabbing the few that I do have.’

Altaïr huffs, “Is that the tired excuse you’re using again?”

‘Not an excuse if it’s true.’

“Nothing is true. Everything is permitted.” Altaïr retorts, and to be fair, Desmond did walk right into that one. “Don’t try to pretend like you aren’t staying your blade because you have a bias towards him, it’s obvious.”

Desmond doesn’t reply. He doesn’t have to. This is his life, dammit. The same way he’s there watching, helping, and living alongside Altaïr in his life, but didn’t have control over him, Altaïr would simply have to deal with what he considered bad decisions as ones Desmond was choosing to make.

That’s the chapter! Lemme know in the comments or reblogs if you like it, or just leave a like if you don’t have the time. I appreciate you all reading this and taking the time to even look at it, so thank you!

#alex mercer #alex j. mercer #desmond miles #Assassin's Creed #assassins creed #assassin's creed rewrite #fanfiction #fanfiction chapter #writing #i don't have a tag #uhhhhhh #confusedartist writes #there we go

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