#genuine question: is there a cw or tw for distant/bad relationships with parents?

[crispyjenkins]

more ac teasers bcause you can't stop me

to the lovely in my dms who wishes to remain anonymous, here's a lil look at that other ac thing i'm poking at, with that good good bleed effect angst 🤌 y'all get zero context for this scene i said in the tags but i'll say it here too: desmond miles is 🤏 this close to being my new obi-wan so you can imagine my current state of mind. do not even get me started on jaskier.

(modern plot era, gen or pre-slash, william miles' a+ parenting, off-screen blood n violence, in this scene they're still hiding out in monteriggioni, bleed effect, MASSIVE h/c in the full fic)

  “Did your mom know about this?”

  Growing more confused by the second, Desmond humours him if for no other reason than his own curiosity on where Shaun is taking this, “I mean, she was still around the Farm back then, so she must’ve. She went back to the Italian Order when I was fourteen, though.”

  This seems to surprise Shaun, even though Desmond is pretty sure all this would be in the file the Brotherhood has on him. “I didn’t realise you were actually Italian,” he muses, stepping back to start cleaning up their garbage, while Desmond holds up his jeans and frowns at them.

  “How else do you think I’ve made it this far with the gaps in Baby’s translation system?”

  “To be quite honest, I thought you were faking it.”

  Desmond barks out a laugh, before deciding there’s no way he’s putting his damp pants back on. His bag of things had been missed when escaping the warehouse, but he’s pretty sure Lucy and Rebecca had thought to buy him more clothes on their last supply run. Y’know. Hopefully.

  When he tries to help Shaun clean up, the man just shoos him off, so Desmond shrugs and leans against the table to wait for him to finish, tossing his jeans over his shoulder. “I’m Native and Kiwi on my dad’s side,” he says, scratching the beginnings of the growing beard on his jaw.

  “Native American?” Shaun clarifies, snapping the kit closed and gathering all the garbage in the poncho.

  “Yeah, something from the Pacific Northwest, he never did tell me exactly what. Uh, then I get the Italian and Colombian from my mom, and we’re pretty sure her grandma was Arab but she never talked about her life before immigrating to Rome, so.”

  “Quite the melting pot,” Shaun says, offering to let Desmond lean on him, but Desmond shakes his head: he’s walked off far worse than this. “Is she still with the Italian branch, then?”

  He almost doesn’t answer, clenching his jaw as Shaun leads them from the crumbling room. But eventually, when they’re almost to the bottom of the staircase and in danger of actually being heard by their other teammates, Desmond mutters, “I don’t know.”

  The look Shaun sends him is actually flatteringly distressed, without any of the usual sort of pity he gets when people realise just how distant he is from his parents. He awkwardly gives Desmond a pat on the shoulder, but doesn’t press for more — Desmond doesn’t know what he’d have done if he did.

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