Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Normally Philip would use a proxy to do this. Ray had been good for that, never asked too many questions, discounting the blackmail and occasional threats – nothing Philip couldn't handle. Ray hadn't been the one to look the gift horse in the mouth… but Ray is no longer a safe option to use, and though Philip could keep on sending Marcy and Carly out there to win miraculous amounts of money… it's better to keep their records as unsuspicious as possible.

So, figuring that it's been long enough since his last lottery win, Philip goes out himself, winning numbers in hand. He'd get 6 out of 7, of course – though not as statistically unlikely as people might assume, it still tends to look suspicious to people when the same person wins jackpot twice. Better to err on the side of caution… as much as he can, anyway.

To that end he chooses a place with no security cameras and no reputation to speak of. A quiet little bar tucked away from the view, borderline hidden away in a back alley, not that far from the garage. How anyone even knows the place exists, nevermind supports legal gambling, is hard to say, but it does. It seems like a safe bet, so to speak, despite being so close by.

Philip only needs to take one look at the bar he'd chosen to place his bets in to know he's paid either not enough caution or just on the edge of too much. His world tilts in that, by now familiar, mixed timelines way, and he sees himself by the counter, leaning his elbows to the hardwood while talking to the short-haired male bartender on the other side. The bartender grins, shining, and the vision of Philip Pearson laughs into his glass, throwing his head back and then almost choking at something the bartender says. The bartender smiles, incandescent, and Philip knows then that the vision-Philip spends a lot of time here – that here a version of him had found what Marcy had found in David and Carly in Jeffrey Junior.

Philip grinds his teeth until the vision passes and the ethereal glow of the alternate timeline fades – reality settled in dark and concrete with quiet humm of music and chatter of people. There's about six people in the place – five customers and a bartender, talking quietly to a silver-haired man in tan suit. The bartender is the one from the vision – except he's not smiling, he's tense and uncomfortable as the silver-haired man leans in, saying something too quietly for Philip to hear.

Philip blinks slowly. He's just coming in to place his ticket, pretend he's having a drink and go, nothing else. Whatever this is and whoever the bartender is, it had nothing to do with him.

He walks to the counter to order and can tell by the bartender's expression that the distraction is welcome. "Hey there – what can I get you?"

"Desmond, we're not done here," the silver-haired man by the counter snaps at him.

"And I have actual job I need to be minding," the bartender snaps back and smiles at Philip, tense and apologetic.

Philip glances between them and knows nothing about them. Desmond looks a tiny bit like a man from an Interpol wanted poster from 2012, but that's about it, really – obviously neither of these guys is a public figure in any way.

"Beer," he says. "Cheapest on the tab, I'm not picky."

Desmond gives him a look that's not quite sympathetic. "You got it," he says, and ignoring the look the older man across the counter gives him, goes to fill a pint for Philip. Philip looks away, not bothering with shame. He's learned to use his addicted-mess looks – they make him easy to dismiss and easy to pity, both which can be useful. As much as he hates having been dropped in the body in this state… it's useful on occasion.

Desmond hands him his pint and Philip pays with his most crumbled bills before sitting down to look like a guy having the worst year of his life. After a moment he's being ignored, as he usually is, as Desmond gets drawn back into an argument with the man in a tan suit.

"... wasting your time here," the older man says. "When you could be doing so much more with your life –"

"I already told you, I'm not interested –" the bartender answers, irritated.

"You have so much potential, Desmond," the older man insists in frustration. "And you're wasting it all away in this worthless little bar –"

"Hey don't knock the bar, okay, it's my bar, which I own –"

"Which is so far beneath you and you know it –"

Philip watches condensation gather on the surface of the glass pint, trying not to listen. He doesn't like beer, he actually actively dislikes it. One of the few things about the 21st he dislikes really, drugs notwithstanding. Granted, he hasn't tried that many beers yet, but so far he hasn't found a single one that doesn't taste like fermented yeast.

Maintenance of the yeast vats, first and foremost, is your responsibility to the community. Not that he'd never needed to pull yeast duty, being a historian, he was too busy in training, but even he knew the taste of yeast spoiling. And also the taste of yeast, pushed to the point of producing ethanol. The future, sadly, had limited varieties of alcohol and at best they tasted like really really bad beer.

Philip takes a drink of his beer and wishes he'd ordered wine instead or even cider. Neither goes well with the looks of Philip Pearson the drug addict, but neither of them would've made him gag.

Desmond the bartender finally fends off the overly pushy older man with, "Okay, that's enough, I'm done listening to you – get out of my bar or I'll throw you out."

"Desmond –"

"I mean it. You're bothering my customers. Get out."

"This isn't over," the silver-haired man says, putting a wad of bills on the counter.

"Yeah, god forbid I'd ever be so lucky," the bartender mutters and runs a hand over his neck with a groan the older man finally leaves. Philip chances a glance his way as the man stares up at the ceiling for a moment. Then he takes the bills and rings them up, sighing.

Not his business, Philip thinks, and determinedly looks down on his beer.

Desmond the bartender leaves him alone for a moment, going around the bar, collecting empty glasses and orders while Philip chokes through half of his rotten liquid. Then the bartender is back behind the counter, making few drinks and carrying them out. Every so often the man glances his way, but he says nothing.

Philip should buy his lottery ticket and go, but – there's still a part of him that abhors wasting any kind of food, even this rotten liquid bread. 26th century sensibilities are hard to shake, even if each swallow of the cold swill makes him shudder a little.

There's also vision going on not far from him, glowing with that dreamy alternate reality way, and he'd rather not look at it right. He can hear himself in it – he sounds relaxed, almost happy.

There's a clack of glass on wood and suddenly there's a new glass in front of him. It's a stout stemware glass with a handle, filled to the brim with something dark brown capped with whipped cream. There's a dusting of ground chocolate on top of the foam.

It smells amazing.

Philip looks up to find Desmond the bartender watching him. "It's on the house," the man says.

"What is it?" Philip asks, confused.

"Hot chocolate mint toddy," the bartender says. "One ounce of coffee, one ounce of mint liquor, hot water, hot chocolate, whipped cream, and little bit of chocolate on top. All lactose free," he says. "The chocolate might have nuts, though, if you're allergic."

"I'm not," Philip says, confused. "But – why?"

"Honestly?" Desmond asks. "Never seen anyone suffering as much as you seem to be, drinking that beer. And I'm not running this bar as a way to obscurely torture people – I think something sweet might be a bit more up your speed."

He winks and whisks the beer away. Philip doesn't even try to complain, he's just glad to see it go, though this – this is really not what he's here to do.

The hot chocolate looks and smells incredible – and it tastes even better. Philip hasn't been precisely cold before, but the drink warms him all the way through to the core, chasing away the memories of ice on top of the shelter dome and washing away the taste of yeast. Philip is always almost painfully aware of his bodily functions with all its shakes and aches and hot and cold flashes and the never ending nausea – detoxing is a bitch – but for once, he's aware of his internal workings in a nice way. That's… new.

"This is great," Philip says softly, relaxing on the bar stool as Desmond turns back from deposing the offending beer. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Desmond says, grinning with obvious delight.

"Isn't it usually served with coffee liquor though?" Philip asks, frowning and wondering since when he knew about cocktail recipes.

"Usually, yeah, but the coffee liquor makes it taste a little bitter," Desmond says simply, though Philip doubts that's the only reason.

"You give free drinks to all new customers?" he asks.

Desmond hums and Philip hears several answers before he actually speaks. "Only the cute ones," and, "Is not a bad tactic for getting regulars," and, "Honestly, man, you look shit," and, "Well, the cream was going to go bad in a day, so…"

What Desmond actually says is, "Only the ones who have to listen to some bullshit." The man glances to where the silver-haired man was and shrugs. "Sorry about that."

"From what I heard, it wasn't exactly your fault," Philip says uncomfortably, trying very hard to not draw conclusions because conclusions lead to assumptions and assumptions mean you're personally involved and no matter how happy alternate-Philip sitting in the corner looks, actual-Philip has too much on his plate to get involved with things not Mission Vital.

Judging by what he heard though...

Desmond sighs. "If only," he says and shakes his head. "Well, never mind that, the less I have to think about it the better. What brings you to the Miles to go?"

Philip arches his brows.

"It's the name of the bar," Desmond clarifies.

"Right," Philip says and frowns. "I don't know – I just – saw it and thought why not, you know? Why?"

"Just curious," Desmond says with a shrug. "You're not my usual clientele, is all."

Philip glances around the bar. He really isn't, it turns out – all the other customers are older, from forties up, who are sitting in quiet corners and drinking and taking quietly, reading newspapers and watching the television in the corner. Philip looks from one to the other for a connecting feature other than age and picks up on it pretty fast.

They're almost all of them vets. Some of them look homeless, some are in better state, but there's that quality in them that marks them out as a bit special.

Blinking, Philip takes the bar in with a more thoughtful glance and realises that it's been made, either accidentally or intentionally, very de-stressing. No flashing lights, no thumping music, even the television has a film on it that makes it less bright. All the seats aside from the bar stools are plush couches and armchairs, and there are throws and Afghans everywhere. It looks more like someone's living room than a bar.

Desmond wipes the counter clean while Philip turns to look at him, taking him in more closely too. The man has his arms barred, sleeves of his shirt rolled up – on the left arm he has a tattoo, on the right he has an extensive burn.

A veteran too, it looks like. Veteran who maybe due to PTSD made his bar stressor-free, and as such ended up attracting certain clientele.

…. And Philip's here just to place a lottery ticket so that he can start investing – not to get invested.

"I was just walking by and thought I could use a drink, that's all," he says and looks down.

"Nothing wrong with that," Desmond says and makes another wipe over the hardwood before putting the rag away. "We could use some new blood here – though I gotta warn you, if you stick around you stand a good chance of being accosted for a story time. People who come here have a lot to say and like to talk"

"And I'm guessing you're a good listener," Philip says.

Desmond smiles. "I like a good story, yeah," he agrees and looks him over. "You kinda look like you got some stories too."

Databases of them. Philip clasps his hands loosely around the bottom of his glass, warning his fingertips against the still warm surface. He shouldn't. He shouldn't – but he can hear alternate-Philip in the corner, taking about nothing, he sounds so relaxed and comfortable, and Philip – Philip doesn't have that.

Every day Marcy goes home to David and hangs up the burdens of the Mission by the entryway. Carly goes home to her son and becomes a mother for a while. Mac goes home to his wife. Even Trevor has a life outside the mission, which he seems interested enough in to enjoy. Philip…

Philip barely has a Protocol 5. His Protocol 5 is addiction and sessions with anonymous meetings and now he barely has even that – he kind of doubts Ray would keep on accompanying him, with what happened. Which reduces Philip Pearson's social life down to… to nothing.

He doesn't have much else but the Mission. He even lives at their hideout, for a damn good reason, but…

Sometimes he's just so damn lonely he can barely breathe in there. Sometimes he looks at the others, stealing blissful moments in their make-believe domesticity and he's so jealous he can't look any of them in the eye. Even with all the issues, even with all the problems Marcy had and Carly still faces and Mac too… having problems is still more than being alone and having nothing.

Philip presses his lips together, but he can't quite stop the expression from breaking through – the flex of his jaw always gives it away.

"Hey," Desmond says, concerned. "Hey, are you alright?"

"Yeah, yeah – it's nothing –" Philip says and runs his hands over his eyes, trying to stamp it down. His belly is full of warm, slightly alcoholic hot chocolate, and he can't remember when anyone did him an uncomplicated kindness like that, with no strings attached. Trevor does, maybe, yeah, but Trevor cares about everyone, equally. As much as it makes Philip feel selfish, it isn't something that is just his. And these days it feels like everything else comes with a price, with a condition and with a punishment and sometimes he's just –

Desmond looks at him, wary. "Do you need a hug, man?" he asks.

"W-what?" Philip asks with a surprised, incredulous laugh.

"Can't promise to help you with whatever shit you got going on, but I give mean hugs," the bartender says. "And sometimes hugs make things better. So, hug?"

"You hug all your customers?" Philip asks dubiously, running his hand under his nose. His throat aches a little.

"Most of them, yeah," Desmond agrees with a shrug. "I'm a hugger."

Philip looks at him warily and – yeah, the guy is definitely serious. "What the hell," he says. "Yeah, I could use a hug."

Desmond nods and comes around the counter. It should be awkward, but somehow it isn't – Philip turns slightly towards him and then Desmond's arms are around him and Philip's cheek is pressed against the man's chest. The man's hands are wide and warm on his back, his arms a securing weight, and Philip can hear Desmond's heart beating steadily in his chest, strong and calm.

Trevor is something of a hugger too, but Trevor is a sneaky speed hugger who sort of comes out of nowhere, latches on like a vice and then is gone on his merry way. It's nice, but it isn't anything like this. Desmond doesn't just hug – he holds on.

Philip can feel the tension draining from him, and before he even realises what he's doing, he's leaning into the strange bartender, all but slumped against the man's chest. Desmond doesn't say anything, doesn't murmur comforting nonsense, he just runs his palms soothingly over Philip's back and holds him.

It's just – nice. It's endorphins, Philip thinks. Humans are social animals, and physical contact prompts all sorts of chemical reactions. Release of oxytocin and lowering of cortisol and – yeah. He thinks he might've needed this more than he realised.

"Can I have this on the regular?" Philip mumbles against the bartender's chest. "I can pay."

Desmond laughs – it rumbles softly through him and makes his chest vibrate. "It's on the house."

Philip ends up not buying the lottery ticket at Desmond's bar – it's better not to do that sort of thing in places you're planning to visit regularly, after all.

Chapter Text

Miles to go doesn't produce much money. None, really. Desmond gives away drinks liberally to those who accept them, and most don't – half of the customers come to just hang around, at most buying one drink, maybe two, and those are usually of the cheapest variety. That's what happens when most of the customer base is made of the homeless – even when they have the money to buy drinks, Desmond really rather has them saving their money for food or clothes or… anything that actually benefits them. Alcohol rarely does.

But it does offer bit of a respite, and that's something he can understand.

Most of the bar's revenue comes from his own pocket – he rings in the drinks he gives for free and adds the cash in later, and when the bookkeeping looks a bit empty he adds in fictional sales and pays with real money. Less said about the source of the cash the better. It doesn't really matter at this point, really. Few things do.

He likes his bar, though. It's not precisely a slice of Eden, or anything, but it's his, it's peaceful, it's quiet and it's safe. That's enough for him, even if there are days when he only gets one customer, days when over half of the people who come in can't pay, and worse days, days when he doesn't open the bar at all. It's not profitable maybe, but… it's something he made, something he is in charge of.

"You could do so much more," indeed.

It's looking to be another quiet one, today, the flashing of his phone aside. It's beautiful day outside, warm and dry, which means that the usual weather refugees wouldn't be coming in – which is just as well. It gives him the time to do some maintenance on the furniture and clean the place up a little. He even has the time to take up needle and thread and patch up the rip in one of the couches, which is nice.

That's what he's doing when his Eagle Sense pings just before the door opens and then closes, slower, held back by a hesitant hand. "Um – hello?"

"Hey, man – sorry, I'm down here," Desmond says from the floor where he's sitting. He has pins in his mouth and it comes out a bit muffled, so he waves his free hand for a good measure, should be visible from the door. "I'll be with you in just a sec."

It's the guy from few days back, with the hair and the jaw and the super sad eyes. He comes forward and then looks down at him, blinking. Desmond grins. "Doing bit of a patch up, sorry," he says and takes the pins out of his mouth. "Since there's no one in. Can you hang on for a bit or are you in a hurry? "

"No, no, I'm – not in a hurry," the blond guy says and leans in to look at what he's doing.

He glows golden in Eagle Sense – Desmond's not going to hold that against him, though. He offers the guy a grateful smile instead and then concentrates on the task at hand, putting in invisible stitches onto the thick fabric – it's been patched up a couple of times before, but aside from the shoddy seams it's still a decent couch, and favourite of a handful of his customers, so… so as long as the covers don't completely fall apart, he'll keep on patching up the seams.

"Quiet day?" the blond guy asks, leaning onto the back of the couch and watching him sew.

"Sunny days usually are," Desmond agrees. "And it's Tuesday."

"There's that," the blond agrees, tilting his head a little, the hair falling to his eyes.

Desmond keeps his eyes on his work, trying not to let the audience get to him. What a thing to get performance anxiety on, sewing. "What do you think?" he asks, pulling the thread taut and tugging the edges of the fabric together.

"Looks good," the blond offers. "You patch up couches often?"

"Cheaper than getting new ones or getting them repaired," Desmond agrees and ties the ends, ducking his head down to chew the string enough to break it. Sometimes the hidden blade would come in handy, but alas… "There," he says and pats the seam. "As good as new."

The blond guy peers at the seam. "Nice."

Desmond gathers his stuff from the floor and bounces to his feet. "So, what can I get for you?" he asks.

The guy hesitates, lowering his eyes a little and coughing. "That hot chocolate mint toddy you made last time – I'd like that."

"Just gotta heat up some water," Desmond says and puts the sewing kit away. "Just give me a few minutes."

The blond guy nods and sits by the counter, slouching with his elbows on the hardwood. His posture kind of makes Desmond's neck hurt. A lot of the guy makes Desmond's empathy kind of ache. Clearing his throat, he turns to put the electric kettle on and to get the ingredients. "So, how's things?"

The guy looks up, lanky hair swinging. "What?" he asks, blinking.

Desmond glances at the guy. "Just making conversation," he says. "I'm Desmond, by the way."

The blond guy frowns a little and then blinks as if it's something that hadn't occurred him. "…Philip," the blond guy says and Desmond grins. Philip clears his throat. "Things are good," he says. "Quiet – things are… quiet."

"Quiet is good," Desmond agrees. Quiet is not how most people describe their lives, though, even in the best of circumstances – quiet is how people who have busy and loud lives describe the moments of respite between explosions, thank god it's a quiet day. Interesting. "Quiet here too," Desmond says. "Some days are like that. You want coffee liqueur this time?"

"No, I liked how it was the last time – just the mint, thanks," Philip says and leans in a little. Desmond can't see it, but judging by the creak of rubber on wood, the guy's knee is bouncing. "Double the coffee though."

"Could make it an espresso?" Desmond offers. "I got a machine – it's automatic though, so the taste is kind of artificial, but…"

"That's fine – the espresso, I mean, do that," Philip says and bows his head a little, rubbing a hand over his nose, the nose ring glinting under the overhead lights. It's cute.

Desmond makes the hot chocolate mint toddy with little extra chocolate this time, serving it with a coaster and a smile. Philip pays with crumpled bills again, which Desmond counts only half-heartedly before offering the guy his change – Philip tells him to keep it as a tip. Though it kind of looks like the guy could use the money himself, Desmond doesn't argue it this time, adding the change to his tip jar.

Watching Philip take a first slow sip of the toddy is kind of gratifying – the guy actually shudders with enjoyment. It makes Desmond wonder if he's only ever been forcing himself to drink beers in bars despite how much he disliked them. Some guys were like that – victims of the legend of girly drink and how true men were only supposed to drink beer. It's a pity, really – most cocktails are fucking delicious. Never mind chock full of hard alcohol.

"Good?" Desmond asks, smiling as he leans on the counter.

"Yeah – yeah, it's good," Philip agrees with a nod. "Thanks."

Desmond nods, considering him. The guy is fidgeting with the stem of the glass, his fingernails chewed almost to the quick. Though he looks like a guy who would have nervous ticks, aside from the bouncing leg he's actually pretty still, just sort of… awkward. The hair, though it looks like it, isn't actually greasy, it's clean. There's a look about the guy, which breathes junkie, but he neither feels or smells like one – nor is Desmond getting any sickly sense from his Eagle Sense. The guy's not on drugs – weaning off them, maybe. Tail end of detoxing.

He is very carefully not looking at Despond though, frowning at his glass instead, his jaw flexing as he swallows. A little bit awkward.

"Wanna play Connect Four?" Desmond offers.

Philip blinks and looks up. "… what?" he asks a little incredulously. "That's – a children's game, right?"

"Here it's a bar game," Desmond says and shrugs. Normally he'd suggest Jenga or something like that, but it's a bit unfair for him to play dexterity games even at best of times, never mind against someone who might have some tremors going on. Connect Four is the sort of game that doesn't take much concentration or dexterity, and everyone can play it, so… "You don't have to."

Philip frowns. "So, you got board games here?"

"Whole boatload of them," Desmond agrees and motions towards the left side end of the bar. "See that chest over there? It's full of them. I even hold game nights every so often, when there's enough people."

"Huh," Philip says. "I – used to play Go," he says hesitantly. "When I was little."

"Don't – don't count on me for that one, I regularly get my ass kicked," Desmond snorts. "I'm more of a Battleship kind of guy when it comes to strategy."

Philip blinks. "Battleship? Is that a board game too?"

Desmond arches his brows and then grins. "That sounds like invitation to teach you Battleship," he says and pushes away from the counter. "Come on, lemme show you."

Philip sort of wanders after him, watching as Desmond digs through the chest of games and brings out the battered second hand Battleship board. Motioning Philip to sit, Desmond sets the set on the low coffee table between the couches and sits down across from the guy. "So, Battleship," he says and opens the board. "The idea is that we're trying to sink each other's battleship and whoever sinks the other one's ships first wins…"

Philip utterly kicks his ass between sipping his chocolate mint toddy. It takes the guy ten seconds flat to get the point of the game, and even though Desmond isn't playing particularly seriously, the guy shows him no mercy.

"Huh," Desmond says, after his last ship goes down. "How'd you do that?"

Philip shrugs. "It seemed statistically likely for hit to occur in the middle of the board, and judging by how the game board is laid out it was likely for you to spread out your ships in semi-even ways to maximise open areas, Dividing the board into sectors and systematically checking each sector in turn seemed to…" he stops there and clears his throat. "Sorry. I'm, uh…"

"… good at strategy games?" Desmond offers.

Philip makes a face. "I suppose," he mutters and takes a drink of his hot chocolate toddy. It's almost empty. "It's been long time since I played anything, and it was usually strategy games."

"Hm," Desmond says. "So how about that Connect Four?"

"Yeah, sure," Philip says. "Do your worst."

Desmond's worst is not very good – the guy wins again, though it's a bit less of a straightforward massacre. Somehow the guy manoeuvres the whole thing so that he has two separate lines forming, and Desmond has no way to block them all. "I think that's your win, again," Desmond says. "Huh."

"Sorry," Philip says and slides the last blue disk in place, finishing one of the lines. "Guess I'm not one for playing games."

Desmond grins at that and then ducks his head when Philip looks at him. "Don't apologise when you win – winners get prizes," he says and gets up. "So let's get you a refill, yeah?"

"Um, sure – I can pay for it," Philip says, moving to get up.

"Psh, don't move, I'll be right back," Desmond waves it aside and ignores the frown the guy sends his way while heading off with his glass to make another one. Philip stays on the couch a little awkwardly and then looks away, turning to put the game they'd played away. After a moment, he goes to examine the rest of the game chest.

So. Former addict, possibly semi-homeless, lonely, unhappy, slightly awkward and touch starved… and smart, Desmond muses, ticking off fingers in his head. That's a telling combination. Plus anyone who said it seemed statistically likely concerning a simple board game probably had a bit of a child prodigy thing going on.

Probably better to never talk about the parents with this guy. Job might be a safe topic, but better to wait for Philip to start it, if ever. Hobbies maybe…?

Desmond whisks the whipped cream quickly and tops the toddy off, making himself coffee while he's at it and carrying both of them to the couch. Philip's sat back down with a new game – even more battered Carcassonne. "That one's missing some pieces," Desmond says and sits beside Philip, close enough that their thighs touch. "Still playable, but a bit shorter than the full version, I've been told."

"It looked interesting, can be played between two people – and was apparently the game of the year," Philip says, turning the bit lopsided game box in hand. He doesn't look at Desmond, but he leans a little towards him, probably subconsciously, and his knee pushes against Desmond's slightly. "How do you play it?"

It doesn't take long for the guy to pick up this one either, though Desmond's played the game enough times to have memorised the pieces – so he has a bit of an edge on Philip in finishing cities. He has a feeling that strategy won't work second time, but he relishes the small win he gets.

By the time they got the whole tile set played out and Philip is counting the points, Desmond has an arm loosely around the guy's back, and he's idly stroking his fingers over the guy's shoulder. Philip leans into it a little, and the wound up tension has gone out of his body. It's not so subconscious this time, though – the guy is looking at him now, half hidden under his hair.

"I can't tell if you're coming on to me or not," Philip says, frowning a little.

Desmond arches his brows with a slight surprise and then grins, reaching to push the curtain of blond hair behind the guy's ear. Philip doesn't pull away from it, doesn't seem displeased either – nice. His earlobes are pierced too. "I could be," Desmond offers. "Could also be that I'm just a naturally touchy feely person and we can leave it at that."

He can feel the muscles of the guy's back flex as Philip looks away. He looks towards the counter, frowning a little, and Desmond follows his gaze, curious. Nothing there – nothing except the ghost of Ezio, lounging back against the counter and flirting with a courtesan whose name Desmond somehow still remembers.

Desmond blinks and looks away while Philip clears his throat. "I – don't know," the blond man says, looking down at his hands, spreading out his fingers and then curling them into loose fists. "Last time I had a sort of relationship, I kind of ended up screwed over."

"I can respect that," Desmond says, making a mental note of it while rubbing his hand down the guy's spine. Then he pauses mid-motion. "You want some space?"

Philip slumps a little at that, sighing.

Not space then. Alright. "You want a hug?" Desmond offers. "I'm all good for the hugging."

The guy lets out a huff at that and looks at him. Desmond grins and tugs the guy closer. Philip comes with a slight oomph and then face plants in Desmond's chest, going completely loose. Yeah, definitely touch starved, Desmond thinks and rubs his hands over the guy's back, leaning his cheek to his hair. It's definitely not greasy – it smells like flowers, actually. The guy uses floral shampoos. His clothing are in good shape too, close up - fairly new, it looks like. So he's probably not starving for cash. Just touch.

Desmond breathes in the scent of the guy's shampoo and sighs. Open policy on hugging is really the best decision he made since opening Miles to go, seriously. "For the record, I think you're cute," he says, conversational. "But I think there'd have to be dates and regular old getting-to-know-you stuff before actual serious coming-on-to-you would happen. Okay?"

Philip hums against his chest.

"So don't worry, it's strictly platonic hugs unless otherwise stated," Desmond adds. "This is a free hugs zone."

Philip hums again, sighing.

Desmond looks down at him and then smiles, leaning back against the backrest of the couch and riding it out. It's a quiet day, the messages on his phone notwithstanding. He's in no hurry to go anywhere.

Chapter Text

Sometimes weeks go by when nothing happens. The longest running downtime in between missions has been five and a half weeks, longest of Philip's life so far and that's counting 3326's life too. Granted, back then he was still going through the worst his rehab had to offer, but even after… the downtime does and doesn't get better. After everything, you wouldn't think that you'd get bored with it, with all they have in their disposal in the 21st, life, nature, television… but there it is.

It's nice, not having to worry about everyone's lives for a moment – not so nice to be rattling around his own brain, bouncing off the walls. Mac is busy playing a good FBI agent, Marcy is doing whatever nice thing it is she does with David, Carly is… coping with her situation and Philip knows there isn't much he can do there to help, except maybe offer her some tunes  to listen to every now and then. Of all of them Trevor is the only one who comes around semi regularly.

"Have you been meditating?"

"Hmm?" Philip looks up from the phone he'd been examining.

Trevor is giving a tuneup to the van, smeared with oil all the way up to the elbows. "Meditation?"

"Yeah. You seem," Trevor eyes him confusingly while reaching for a rag to wipe his hands with. "More settled."

Philip glances at him and then closed the phone. More settled is probably Trevor's way of saying a little less like death warmed over. Philip knows he's made people worried – honestly, he's made himself worried. With the increasing frequency of seeing glimpses of the alternative timelines and how vastly those timelines are starting to vary from each other… it's been harder and harder to act like business as usual. If the others thought he was starting to fall off the waggon, it wouldn't have surprised him. He's not entirely sure he hasn't.

"I've been trying an alternative method of coping," Philip admits and then, realising how that must sound, adds, "I've been going out more. Meeting new people. How are things at home – how's Gary?"

Of all of them Trevor has the most settled Protocol 5, Grace and her involvement in it notwithstanding – Trevor also has a danger of Parental Intervention hanging over his head, which, considering who 0115 is, is more than a little hilarious, really. Philip knows that the concept of military school still hangs over Trevor's head like Chekhov's proverbial gun, once mentioned it was forever bound to go off. Philip's even seen a glimpse of a timeline where Trevor was made to go – it's a little disturbing how well the uniform and the military posture fits him. Might be the hair.

Desmond has similar haircut – though where Trevor maintains the buzz cut because he thinks he should keep his host's style, Philip's pretty sure Desmond cuts his hair short because he has naturally curly hair. Wonder how Desmond would look in uniform….

Trevor sets the rag down, watching him. "I've been thinking of moving out, honestly," he says. "Taking a year off to discover myself, so to speak. With the stipend gone, the subject of college has been coming up more and more, and – and I think it would do my parents good, not to have me underfoot for a while."

"And it would be better for you to not have to walk out of family dinners every time we have a mission," Philip guesses.

"Yeah," Trevor agrees with a sigh and turns to the van. "It'll be easier for everyone, I think – out of sight, out of mind, and all. Honestly, you have it easier here, not having to worry about who sees you or having to slip away from agreed upon engagements."

Philip ducks his chin at that a little and smiles wryly, turning away. "There's that," he agrees.

Trevor, the sly perceptive old man he is, catches the tone of his voice immediately and glances his way, gauging his mood. "Everything alright, Philip?"

"Fine, fine," Philip says and gets up to his feet. "Living by yourself comes with the cost, you know. Rent, electricity, water – buying and making your own food."

"I could move here," Trevor comments, watching him. "Would work better for the mission – and having in house engineer would make everyone's lives simpler."

He's not wrong. "So you'd be just mooching off me?" Philip asks. "Nice, Trev."

"Well, you are the Historian," Trevor says and offers him a smile. "It would work well with our Protocol 5's. You, the mechanic looking for someone to help with the rent, me, the poor delinquent student looking for a place for cheap. We can be the bad influence on each other and no one will bat an eye. Except maybe Gary, who would hate you, I think."

Considering the man's slight homophobic tendencies, the guy really would. What Trevor is saying doesn't actually sound that bad, though, and they probably could make it work, Protocol 5-wise. It would definitely work better than Grant MacLaren the FBI agent hanging around in a rundown garage does. And it does make sense to have the Historian and the Engineer stationary at the base – that way they'll both be at hand when needed.

"Well, mi casa es su casa," Philip says. "It's what the hideout is here for." They even have an extra room for it.

Trevor watches him, a wrench held loosely in hand. He hums, thoughtful. "Well, it's something to think about," he says slowly and then shrugs, turning to the van. "I would still have to talk my parents into it, and that might take a while. Not today's problem, in either case."

Philip sits behind his computer and says nothing for a while, looking down at the keyboard. "Yeah," he agrees and then sighs. "You know, your Protocol 5… are you sure you want to just – detach yourself from it?"

"Not sure I could without actively making my parents hate and disown me. Gary and Patricia are good people – not the best parents, maybe, but they try. Don't think they'd let their son just slip away like that," Trevor muses and then glances at him. "I take it that Ray's not really around anymore?"

Philip shakes his head. "Not a big loss, I assure you," he says quietly. Ray tried to be a good guy, but he wasn't a good friend. The best thing Philip got from the acquaintance was the anonymous sessions where he had to lie, and Poppy. Actually, Poppy was probably the only good thing, the group therapy sessions were mostly just hollow, lonely and weirdly disappointing.

"Philip," Trevor says, sympathetic.

Philip clears his throat and looks away from Poppy's terrarium. "I've been trying it for a new Protocol 5," he admits. "I've been visiting a local bar, making… friends."

"Yeah? How's it working out for you?" Trevor asks curiously and tiny bit worriedly.

"Honestly?" Philip thinks of the weight of Desmond's arms on his shoulders and the quiet hum of soothing music as he sank into the patched up couch. "I'm liking it much better so far."

The bar isn't so empty the next time Philip goes there. It's a windy, cloudy day outside, not so warm as the last time, so it's not a surprise. Miles to go is just the sort of place you go to to escape bad weather, and about half dozen people have.

There is also something mildly surprising there, considering what Desmond has said about his usual clientele – a young woman who is lounging by the counter, talking with the man behind it. Philip glances around to make sure he's not the only one who sees it and that is not a vision of alternate timeline before approaching the counter. The woman's wearing a jumpsuit, a bit like engineer's, except hers is skin tight. She has short black hair and headphones hanging around her neck – her face is in no way familiar to Philip, so not a public figure, future or otherwise. Judging by how Desmond's smiling at her, she's not a new face at the bar either.

"Hey, Philip," the bartender says, spotting him. "The usual?"

That's what it takes to have the usual, getting it twice? "Yeah, please," Philip says. "With just one part coffee, thanks – I've had enough for today."

"Could make it without," Desmond offers while turning the electric kettle on.

"Yeah, that could work," Philip agrees. The black haired woman is watching him with interest, and Philip glances back, curious. Under thirties, definitely. She doesn't look military, but at the same time she seems like… something. She has a headset on and wears it with habitual casualness of someone who never takes it off, a smart watch, and in her pocket her phone makes a rather impressive outline, so it must be a big one. Could be a military technician.

Then she sees what Desmond makes for Philip and her eyes light up. "Ooh, what's that? It looks amazing, can I have that too?"

"It's not vegan," Desmond says with a smile as he shaves chocolate on top of the whipped cream. "So, no, I don't think you can. Here you go, Philip."

"Oof. You're actually evil," the black haired woman says, watching Philip pull the hot chocolate mint toddy closer. "Can you make me one that's vegan?"

"So coffee with mint liquor?" Desmond asks amusedly.

"Hot chocolate can be vegan? And so can cream. And chocolate."

"They can be – mine aren't. I'm a dirty dirty omnivore and I like my dairy products with some dairy in them," Desmond says without shame and grins at the look she gives him. "Sucks to be you, Rebecca."

"Screw you, Dez," the woman, Rebecca says. "Can you at least make me Bailey's-something?"

"Pretty sure Bailey's isn't vegan either," Desmond snorts. "It's based on cream."

"You're just out here robbing me of all of my fun, aren't you?" Rebecca asks and then leans back as the phone in her pocket buzzes. Checking it she hums. "It's Bill," she says.

"If he asks, you're not here," Desmond says quickly.

Rebecca answers the phone with a grin. "Hey Bill – I'm at Desmond's bar," she says while pushing away from the counter, blowing a cheeky kiss at the finger Desmond sticks up at her. "Yeah, I don't think he wants to talk to you. What's up?"

She walks to a corner of the bar to talk to whoever Bill is in private, leaving Philip sitting at the counter alone with Desmond.

"Hope I didn't interrupt anything," Philip says.

"Just some gossip, it's nothing big," Desmond says, throwing him a smile. He's keeping a side eye on Rebecca though, and something about his body language seems tense. "I might have to close the bar early today though," he says and looks at Philip. "So if you're here for a hug, tell me now while you've got the chance."

Philip blinks slowly, automatically going non-expressive. "I could be here just for the hot chocolate, you don't have to feel obligated," he says, a little thrown by the suddenness of it.

"Philip, man, hugs are not an obligation – they're a perk," Desmond says with a grin, leaning on the counter between them. "And it seems like I got some bullshit coming my way in a short order, and honestly right now I could use a hug."

Philip glances at Rebecca, who has gone tense and a little pale. Whatever she's hearing the phone, it's not good news. "Oh," Philip says, wondering. Medical issue, psychological one? If they're both military, it could be bad news about a fellow soldier. Could be anything. Desmond is looking at Rebecca like she's a grenade about to blow, his eyes going flinty and tense, so it's probably bad.

"Yeah, okay. Come here," Philip says and Desmond pushes away from the counter, coming around it. Like before, the first time Philip had been there, none of the customers bat an eye when Desmond wraps him into his arms. Rebecca looks at them though, watching as she talks into the phone. Confused and worried, Philip lifts a hand to Desmond's back and grips loosely on the fabric of his shirt.

It's the most tense hug so far, but Desmond seems to almost draw energy from it, taking a slow breath and growing somehow firmer, like Philip is a source and Desmond a sink, and somehow the whole thing charges the man's batteries. It's the weirdest analogy for a hug Philip thinks he's ever thought up, but it seems the most apt.

It also kind of feels like maybe Philip is getting some of it too, recharging some intangible battery titled physical connection. Maybe that's how Desmond does the whole thing – he gets some and gives some in his free hug zone.

Philip blinks as Desmond pulls back with a sigh, resting his hands on Philip's shoulders. "Thanks, man," he says seriously. "I think I'm going to need that."

Philip shakes his head. "No problem," he says confusedly, watching the guy's face.

Then Rebecca walks over to them, phone in hand, expression tense and worried. "Desmond," she says, glancing down at Philip and then back at Desmond. "He wants to talk to you."

"He always does," Desmond says. "What about?"

Rebecca swallows. "Shaun. He lost contact."

Desmond tenses and then steps back from Philip, taking the phone. "Dad, if this is a fucking plot to get me in, I'm going to kick your ass so hard, I swear to fucking god –"

Philip blinks with surprise at his vehemence as Desmond walks away, hissing something into the phone. Rebecca sinks to sit beside Philip, looking pale and shaken.

"Sorry," she says. "Think I'm going to be stealing your boyfriend from you."

"He's not my boyfriend – it's not like that," Philip says, frowning, looking between Rebecca and Desmond. If it hasn't been for that one word he would've thought Bill was maybe a superior officer or something, and Shaun Desmond's and Rebecca's fellow soldier, but… dad? "That sounded serious," Philip comments slowly.

"Yeah," Rebecca agrees, hanging her head a bit and then looking at him. "What was the hugging about if you're not dating?"

"Desmond's a hugger," Philip says a bit lamely.

Rebecca considers that. "Yeah, he kind of is these days, isn't he?" she asks and looks him over. She looks like she wants to say something, but in the end shakes her head and looks towards Desmond. The bartender has his back towards them and through the thin button up shirt Philip can see how tense his back is.

Desmond hangs the phone and then calls, "Sorry, guys, gonna have to close the bar early today – family issue," he says. "Everyone here can have a free round the next time you come around, but right now I'm going to have to kick all of you out."

There are few groans, but most seem amiable and understanding and no one puts up a fight – though few do take time to chug down whatever they'd been drinking. Philip goes to do the same, but the drink is hotter than he expected and he ends up almost burning his tongue.

"Hey, sorry," Desmond says, handing the phone back to Rebecca and resting a hand on Philip's shoulder. "You can take it with you as you go, Philip, if you promise to bring the glass back – I really like that set. Sorry to drive you out after you just came in."

"It's okay – are you sure?" Philip asks, looking at the glass.

Desmond throws him a smile and squeezes his shoulder. "I'm sure. Rebecca –"

"I'll go get the van started up," the woman says and gets up. "Desmond, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to –"

"I doubt it's your fault, if it's anyone's fault it's Dad's," Desmond says. "I'll get the bar closed, grab my stuff and be right over, shouldn't take long."

Rebecca nods and heads out. Philip glances after her and then blinks slowly as he sees Desmond, haloed with ethereal shine, walking through the door. He's dressed in a white hoodie, sleeves rolled up and hood tucked down to shadow his face. On both arms he has – something. They look like archer's arm guards but – not.

He has blood on his jeans.

"Philip?" Desmond asks, startling him to attention. Button up shirt, no weird arm guards, no blood. "I have to close the bar now, I'm sorry. Are you good to head home?"

"Yeah, yeah – I'm fine," Philip says, slowly standing up. There's something going on here, something… "You said I could take this?" he asks, nodding at the hot chocolate glass.

"Yeah, just bring the glass back later, alright?" Desmond says and pats his shoulder.

The customers are then summarily ushered out, Desmond taking time to say goodbye to everyone individually and to apologise for closing the bar early. Some of the customers get a tight goodbye hug. Philip gets a friendly pat on the back on the count of the hot chocolate. Outside the customers disperse to head to different directions, but Philip hangs around long enough to see the white van drive to the front of Miles to go and to see Desmond coming out with a single strap backpack on his shoulder – wearing a white hoodie.

He tugs the hood up with purpose before climbing into the van. The van backs away from the alley, with Philip watching it go from the other end, hidden in shadows. In no time at all, they're gone.

The alley grows quiet, and with a sigh Philip bows his head, looking down at his hot chocolate.

So probably not a military vet, after all.

Chapter Text

The van comes up as being owned by an art dealership names Hasty Crane, which boasts the employees and officers in New York. None of the employees have their IDs on the company's rather sparse website, but the company and its listed phone number are both in the name Shaun Hastings, who through some digging comes up as a credit on pieces of art, credited as seller or specialist consulted. Nothing of the guy's schooling is on record, as far as Philip can find it, anyway.

Miles to go, on other hand, is on the name of Desmond Miles, and has no other employees. What it has is a minor marker as to having been once investigated on the charges of potential money laundering and fraud, but nothing more than that – no charges had been filled and the investigation hadn't gone further than paperwork, it looks like. Desmond Miles apparently does his own bookkeeping and he deals in a lot of cash – but in the end only just barely enough to keep the lights on at the bar. Though the revenue stream is still a bit suspect, considering the scarcity of customers, it's not enough to actually function as a money laundering operation. What revenue Miles to go gets, it very shortly also spends.

Desmond Miles had no military records. Really, he has almost no records whatsoever. He bought the real estate where he would eventually set up Miles to go some three years ago and has been steadily running a bar there since. Before that, his record states he lived in New York, and the address… leads to the Hasty Crane.

Hasty Crane, which, it so happens, was once investigated for art theft, forgery and oh, look – money laundering. The investigation there too didn't lead anywhere, apparently Hasty Crane didn't move enough money either, but….

"Would you just look at these businesses with their liquid income," Philip murmurs, rocking his chair back and forth thoughtfully. Then he tries to dig further into Desmond Miles, and… there's just not much there to find.

Birth record in South Dakota, dating back to March 13, 1987, in a little no-name hospital that didn't have digital archives. No school records – no employment records either. Desmond Miles was born and then he set up a bar, that's kind of how it looks like. Could be that he was homeschooled and never tested and then maybe bought Miles to go with inheritance money or something, but… that's a lot of maybes.

Fake identity is far more likely.

Philip leans back from the computers for a moment, running his hands over his face and then sighing. It just figures, doesn't it? That's what he gets for – for whatever this was. Should have stuck to group therapy and online gambling and investing, a little less chance of getting involved with anything there.

… there could be various reasons for having a fake identity. Police witness protection program, for one. They'd probably do better job at setting up fake background, though. Also Desmond didn't seem particularly protected at Miles to go … yeah, never mind that.

For a moment Philip turns the concept in his head before getting from his chair and wandering over to Poppy's terrarium, crouching down to watch her. She's chilling under the heat lamp, head stuck out and eyes closed as she basks in the warmth. She opens her eyes to look at him and then closes them again, ignoring him since he had no food in hand.

"Think I got involved with organised crime there, Poppy?" Philip asks her, leaning his chin on the edge of the table.

If so, then Desmond is the weirdest criminal he's ever met. What kind of criminal gives drinks away for free and hugs homeless customers? It could be a front for a drug business, but – Philip doubts it. He kind of has a nose for drug dealers now, and Desmond isn't one – he would've tried to sell something to Philip by now if he was. Something other than hot chocolate and bad beer, anyway.

Philip lowers his eyes and then closes then with a sigh, trying to remember. Anything on Desmond Miles in any timeline? If he was a criminal and if he got caught, then his face at least should be somewhere in there. As the son of some crime boss maybe, as an accessory to a crime, anything?

There's nothing. Future does not remember Desmond Miles, nor his bar, nor his customers or associates. He's not a host candidate – actually, Philip can't remember time of death for him at all… which is just further proof about the fake identity – he must've gone by a different name when he died.

Damnit.

"I really liked him, Poppy," Philip murmurs. He'd liked the glimpses of timelines he'd seen, a world where Philip had found Miles to go months ago and became a well liked regular. He liked the way that Philip looked, joking with Desmond. He liked the way it felt – to be welcome with no strings attached.

… Well, there would be no strings attached now either, it's not like Desmond knows what Philip is. If he found out, though…

Philip sighs and gets up, turning back to his computers and goes back to work. On the corner sits the stout, short stemmed toddy glass.

He glances at it and then wonders if he could figure out how to make hot chocolate mint toddies of his own.

Miles to go stays dark the following day and also the day after. That day Philip buys himself a bottle of mint liquor, hot chocolate and cream, and spends half of the morning mixing.

There are recipes online and they don't look that different from what Desmond made – but Philip can't seem to manage to get the taste right. Might be the cream or the coffee, or maybe the hot chocolate was wrong brand – whatever it is, it always comes out tasting a bit off. Better than beer, but definitely nothing like what Desmond makes.

"What's this?" Trevor asks curiously, walking in with a book bag slung over his shoulder. "What are you making?"

"It's a school day – what are you doing here?" Philip asks.

"School's over for the day," Trevor says. "And I wanted to work on something and soldering is just easier here when I don't have to explain it to Gary. I can only swing so many electric school projects by him before he'll start talking about how all the jobs are in computers and electrical engineering these days."

Philip looks at him. "Colleges coming up again?"

"Yeah," Trevor agrees with a sigh and nods at the table and the bowl of whipped cream Philip has in his hand. "So what is it? It looks good."

"Hot chocolate mint toddy," Philip answers. "Or is trying to be anyway. It's something the bartender makes and I wanted to figure out how to make it myself."

"From your new possible Protocol 5?" Trevor asks, sitting down in front of one of the glasses. "May I?" He motions to the drink.

"It's got mint liquor in it," Philip says. "It's 12% alcoholic."

"Just a sip them," Trevor says and tastes the drink carefully. "Mmm! Phil, this is really good!" he says, his eyes widening. "What's in it?"

Philip lists the ingredients with a sigh. "I can't get it right – it tastes better at the bar," he admits. "Here it comes out just – wrong. Don't you think there was to much coffee in that one?"

Trevor takes another sip of the toddy, gauging a band of cream on his upper lip on the process. "Secret of making anything, my friend – it always seems to come out better when someone else makes it, because then you don't know the steps and if one of them went wrong," he says. "And food always tastes better when someone makes it for you, as opposed to you making it for yourself."

Philip casts him a glance. "You know a lot about making food for someone who spent actual lifetimes eating yeast," he comments.

"We still had functional greenhouse when I was young, and the domes hadn't been covered up yet," Trevor says. "Not that there was ever enough to go around, but on very special occasions…" he licks the cream from his upper lip and smiles. "And I've been eating home cooking for last several months – I've developed a taste."

"Right," Philip says, trying to wrap his head around the idea of a greenhouse in the shelters. Where would you even fit one? He's thought about getting house plants for the hideout on occasion, but never gotten around to it. It seemed like a weird sort of opulence.

"Anyway, that might be your problem here. The version you get at the bar might be better just because the bartender made it, not you," Trevor says. "Why not go get one there?"

"It's closed, the owner had an – emergency," Philip says and ordinarily he would leave it at that, like he used to, like they're supposed to. Protocol 5 kind of orders them to keep their host lives separate and maintain their appearances – plus Protocol 2 also also implies that they should probably mind their own business… even among their teams.

But considering what happened the last time and their team's track record with protocols so far…

Philip sighs and leans into the table. "I think the bar I went to might be a front for money laundering."

Trevor arches his brows. "Might be?" he asks. "You don't know for sure?"

Philip shakes his head. "No info about it survived into the future, I guess," he says and looks down. "And the place has clean enough record. I'm pretty sure the owner is living under a fake identity, though."

"Huh," Trevor says, considering him. "That sucks, buddy."

"Yeah," Philip agrees with a sigh. He really liked the place too.

Trevor looks at thin and then hums. "Any chance of Faction involvement?"

Philip frowns. It's not like he hadn't considered it, but it didn't seem very likely, not with Desmond using phones and considering the personal interactions he'd observed so far… "I don't think so," Philip says. "But who even knows these days."

"Yeah," Trevor says and drums his fingers on the table, eying him consideringly. "How about I try to make the drink for you? Who knows, it might come out better."

"You don't have to do that."

"No, I want to try," Trevor says and bounces up, full of energy. "You got all the ingredients out too. So how do you make it?"

It does come out better when Trevor makes it – or maybe Philip is just more forgiving of the mistakes, since it's Trevor's first time making a cocktail.

It's still nowhere near as good as when Desmond makes it, though.

Philip had followed the van Desmond had driven away in for as long as he could on security cameras and CCTV, losing it in traffic before finding the destination. The licence plate eventually comes up in a routine check the airport does on the cars in their car park – it was left there the same day Desmond closed the bar and hasn't been moved since. Wherever Desmond had done, it looks like he'd taken a plane to get there.

Tickets say that man named Desmond Miles and woman named Rebecca Crane flew to New York, but the airport security footage comes up with nothing. Philip spends a bored afternoon while waiting for the horse races going through the footage – though he spots a man in a white hoodie in a distance, the airport security system isn't high-tech enough to pick up a face. It could be Desmond or it could not.

Philip tries to half-heartedly track him in New York airport, but with little luck. The guy just disappears and Philip's knowledge and expertise is vast, but it's also pretty regional – like all historians, he's specialised on the city his host lives in. New York is pretty much a different country to him.

Whatever Desmond does in New York, none of it makes it into the news. If he even stayed there. Honestly, Philip isn't sure he really wants to keep that close tabs on the situation, all things considered.

Philip still sets up an alert for when – or maybe if – Desmond's name might pop up at the local airport. Just in case.

Philip seriously doubts there's anything incriminating at Miles to go. Even if it's a money laundering business, he doubts Desmond would just leave stuff like that out in the open when he headed out.

That doesn't stop him from checking the place out, just a bit. If there's movement there, if someone has been in, it might tell Philip more about what's going on in the place. There are no security cameras in the area, after all, so there's no other way to really know for sure…

Except for visiting and planting one himself.

It doesn't look like there's been anyone in the place since Desmond left, though – the door is locked, the windows dark and piece of newspaper had blown to the doorstep and no one's cleaned it up. Honestly, the place looks kind of abandoned. And Philip obviously isn't the only one thinking so.

"Aw geez," familiar voice sighs, steps coming Philip's way. "Hey, do you know when the bar here closed?"

Philip turns with surprise. "David?"

David blinks at him with surprise, one hand clutching onto the strap of his shoulder bag. "Oh, hey, it's you, um – Phil, right?" he asks, snapping his fingers. "You're, um –"

"Yeah – what are you doing here?" Philip asks and tilts his head a bit. "How's your head?"

"Oh, that," David says, touching the side of his forehead. "Yeah, it's – it's getting there," he says and then motions to the front of Miles to go. "I'm trying to find a client of mine, Ben, he comes here pretty much every day, but – do you know when the place closed down?"

"You think it's closed down?" Philip asks.

"Yeah – I figured it would happen sooner or later," David says, grimacing. "Desmond a good guy, but you can't keep a business going with the amount of charity he does and it's not like you can get grants or aid for a bar. He kept it going for a pretty long time, which is damn impressive, but…" David shakes his head and looks at Philip. "You come here often?" he asks and then makes a face. "Not – not meaning that as a come on, sorry, bad choice if words."

Philip blinks, a little amused. Sometimes it's impossible not to see what Marcy sees in this guy – it just shines through, doesn't it? "I just started coming here – and no, I don't think it's closed down. Desmond had like a family emergency thing he had to take care of," Philip says and then looks at David with interest. "Do you come here often, David?"

"What, me – no, I'm not really one for bars. Also this place is like a safe space for a lot of guys who really need one, and they don't need a social worker butting in, making it weird for them," David says and looks at the bar front. "So, it's not closed down?"

"I don't think so," Philip says. "It sounded like he meant to come back, anyway."

"That's good, that's good news," David says and sighs. "Not many places like this around."

"Yeah," Philip agrees, frowning a little. "Do you know Desmond?" he asks then. "What do you think of him?"

David blows out a thoughtful breath. "He's a good guy," he says. "No idea how he keeps this place afloat, but I think he's doing his best," he says and shrugs. "Well, I think I gotta be off – it looks like it's gonna rain and I still need to find Ben, he's got a doctor's appointment tomorrow and I need to make sure he remembers to show up," he says and looks at Philip. "Do you need anything before I go, are you good?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm good," Philip says and gives him a smile. "Good to see you, David – glad to see you're feeling better."

"Yeah – thanks for that, I did say thanks, didn't I?" David asks.

"You did, it's okay," Philip agrees and looks at Miles to go, frowning.

There's a shining vision of an alternate reality bleeding through, right by the door. It's open and Desmond is leaning on the door frame, looking warm and flirty as alternate-Philip teeters on the edge of staying and going. Desmond breaks into a grin and reaches for him, alternate-Philip swaying in and –

"... Are you sure you're okay?" David asks warily. "Because you look kinda…"

Philip tears his eyes away away, blinking rapidly. "Yeah, yeah – I'm good, sorry, I just –" he stops and draws a shaky breath.

The visions are still of good alternate realities. Why? If Desmond is involved with some shady business, why are the visions still so tantalisingly good and warm and impossible –

David, the empathetic creature he is, immediately steps closer, taking him by the shoulders. "Hey, hey, man, are you alright?"

"Yeah – just give me a moment –" Philip says.

"Having a rough day, huh?" David asks, squeezing his shoulders. "It's okay, man, it's okay."

"Try a rough lifetime," Philip mutters and takes a breath. "I'm okay, you can go, David, I'm sure you got work to do –"

David makes a face, determined. "Yeah, I do," he says. "But it can wait for a moment, I still got a whole day to find Ben. You want to go grab a cup of coffee and talk about it, Phil?"

"Not really," Philip snorts and wipes at his nose. What he needs is to go back to the garage and take a pill and maybe sleep for a few hours.

David looks at him seriously and that really must be why Marcy thinks this man is the literal best human being in the world; David's got I care about your well-being just oozing out of him.

Philip lets out an awkward little laugh. "I could use a hug, if you're offering," he says jokingly.

"You got it, man," David says and hugs him, just like that. "You know, maybe you should come see me and Marcy every now and then and just hang around," the guy offers. "We could watch a movie or something."

"Thanks, David, I'll think about it," Philip agrees. It's a good hug, nice and solid, but…

Like with Trevor and the hot chocolate toddy, it's nothing like it is with Desmond, is it?

Chapter Text

Desmond collapses onto the couch with a sigh, running his hands over his face. The bar smells – not good. Someone must've spilled something, or maybe thrown up somewhere before or during his closing last time – there's a lingering scent that just assaulted him and he can't get rid of it. A bit better than the smell of the airplane, but… it doesn't help with his headache much.

It's been a while since he had to ride in an airplane, and honestly, he would've liked to keep things that way. But no, of course not. He's still not sure if it had been intentional on his dad's part or not, but… tch. "A damn tomb," he murmurs. "Shaun, you suck."

Shaun is not there to reply, thankfully. He's in a hospital suffering from a broken ankle, like the idiot he is, and he deserves it. Rebecca isn't there either, sadly, Desmond could've used the company to bitch with, or at, he's not picky. And his dad is… whatever. Desmond doesn't even care.

A goddamn tomb. Honestly, Desmond would've almost felt better if his dad and Shaun did finally did manage to get themselves into some new mess, so that he could actually kill something. With all the weird crap going online and all over the world, it's not like there's a shortage of weird conspiracies to get involved in. Surely they could find themselves a suitable bad guy for Desmond to kill. It might've made him feel better about the whole thing.

… No. No, it wouldn't have, a tomb is much more preferable to having to break into secret lairs and kill people, honestly. But still, a tomb. He'd flown to and fro around half of the goddamn world because Shaun Hasting tripped and fell in a tomb and broke his ankle.

Desmond smothers the urge to giggle and leans his head back. The front door creaks and opens, and it must be the post flight headache and nausea blocking his Eagle Sense, because he didn't even sense it coming. "Not open yet – sorry," he says without opening his eyes. "I just got back and I've got one massive headache."

There's no answer, and for a moment while pressing his fingers into his eyes Desmond entertains the idea that someone's here to rob Miles to go. They wouldn't get much even at best of times, the cash register tends to max out at hundred or so even on good days, and he emptied it before going. But maybe he could get a fight out of it. Hate to fight in his bar, but he's an assassin – there'd be a good chance that it would actually clear his headache, as messed up as that is, and – damn, he needs some sleep.

Someone clears their throat – male, familiar – and Desmond peeks through his fingers, his curiosity getting the best of his exhaustion. "Philip," he says with surprise. "Your timing is impeccable."

"I, ah – saw the taxi you took," the blond man says, awkwardly, and tugs at the strap of his shoulder bag. "I got your glass."

Desmond blinks at him. "Please don't tell me you've been hanging around here for the last –" what day is it anyway? "Last few days since I left? I saw a weather report on the way, and it's been raining last two days straight."

"No – I mean, yeah, it was raining, but no, I haven't been hanging around. I, uh. Live close by," Philip says, hesitantly. "And I was just passing through, and since, since I had the glass I thought…"

Desmond stares at him, shaking his head to clear some of the jetlag confusion. The guy looks like a soaked rat, kinda. Or like one of those long haired dogs, but, yeah, soaked. His hair's all wet. He looks awkward and weirdly tense.

Still shines gold under Eagle Vision. Still important, somehow.

Eagle Vision, weirdly, helps with the headache a bit. Funky Isu-genetics at work. "Christ, you're soaked," Desmond then says, his brain finally picking up some of the slack, and pushes up to his feet. "I've got some towels in the bathroom – come on, let's get you dried off."

"I'm fine," Philip says quickly. "It's pretty warm outside, and I was just – "

"It's not warm here though, is it? Come on," Desmond says, waving at him. "Think I got an umbrella here for you to use while heading out too – come on."

He splashes some water on his face before digging through the bathroom closet for a clean towel. He always keeps some – you never know when a customer is in terrible need of a shower, after all. It's happened more than once before.

"Here, dry yourself up," Desmond says, handing Philip a clean towel. "It's okay, I got a washer and dryer upstairs and everything – clean yourself up."

"Thanks," Philip says, giving him a look over and then wiping his face and his hair. His lashes are still wet and cling together, which makes his eyes look even bigger – and sadder – than before, and – yeah.

Desmond really needs some sleep. Or, lacking that, coffee.

"You want coffee? Actually, I'm going to make myself one of your hot chocolate toddies, I really need one right now," Desmond decides. "You want one too, while I'm making it?"

"Guess I wouldn't say no to it," Philip says and then catches himself. "Right – the glass, I got the glass."

He does too – and it's been washed. Desmond accepts it, wondering. "Have you really been walking around everywhere with this?" he asks, suspiciously.

"Just when I was walking through here – it's, um… on the way to where I shop for groceries," Philip admits. "So…"

"Okay. Well, thanks for bringing it back. I really like this set," Desmond says, gripping the glass securely. "Good Irish Coffee glasses are hard to find around here, it turns out."

"Irish coffee?" Philip asks. "Is that different from a regular coffee?"

Desmond blinks at him. "It's… a drink. Pretty commonly known one, I thought, but okay. Cup of coffee, shot of Irish whiskey, couple teaspoons of brown sugar, double cream whipped to your liking… Irish coffee," he explains. "One hell of a pick-me-up if you need one."

"Huh," Philip says and follows him out of the bathroom, towelling the top of his hair dry. "I'm not much for cocktails, sorry. Don't drink much in general."

"That's cool," Desmond says and checks that everything's where it should be before going to fill the electric kettle. "Sorry, everything's a bit of a mess, I left without cleaning up," he says and then looks over the bar. "Ah, now I see why it stinks in here."

Philip blinks and Desmond nods towards one of the tables. Apparently before they'd cleared out, someone had stuffed half of a pastry into a glass of beer, probably thinking they were helping by making the mess minimal. And it would've been, if Desmond had actually time to clear everything up.

"Nice," Philip says, casting him a glance.

"Yeah. I'll clean it up later," Desmond says and rubs his neck. "Maybe tomorrow," he muses. "After I've had the chance to sleep some."

Philip hums. "You look tired. Maybe I should clear out."

"I am tired, but you don't need to clear out," Desmond says and shakes his head, rubbing at his neck. "It's just jetlag and I need to straighten out my sleeping schedule anyway – and honestly, I could use the company."

"Okay," Philip says, examining his face and then taking a seat by the bar, setting his bag to the stool beside him. "Jetlag," he then says. "I take it you were – travelling?" he asks then. "Somewhere far?"

"Yeah – first a thirteen hour flight and then connection flight from New York to here," Desmond says and leans his elbows on the counter to wait for the water to boil. "Don't ask me to figure out the time zone difference, I suck at that. And it feels like I left half of my brain over the Atlantic."

Philip blinks at him. "That's… one hell of a family emergency," he says.

"Yeah. And all because an asshole fell into a hole," Desmond mutters and shakes his head, hanging it and digging his fingers into a crick in his neck. "Never mind, it was – mostly dumb and not even that exciting. Mostly just annoying."

Well… Shaun had gotten stuck in a tomb and broken his ankle – and if Desmond hadn't gone, then maybe he wouldn't have been entirely fine, what with him not being able to climb… so there's that.

"I would still like to hear about it, if you… want to talk?" Philip offers. "It sounds like an ordeal."

Desmond looks up at him, watching the guy lean back, looking awkward and hesitant but also determined. For a moment Desmond wonders if he has many friends – all things considered, maybe not. After all, who carries in their bag a glass they're aiming to return when they don't know if the recipient is even there, except someone who probably doesn't have much to do.

Or someone who knew exactly when you'd be in the area and needed the excuse to do some reconnaissance.

Desmond sighs and straightens up, closing his eyes. Hanging around his dad always makes his paranoia tick up. "A friend of mine fell in a hole while exploring a tomb," he says. "Like a jackass."

Philip's eyebrows lift up. "A – tomb?"

"Yeah," Desmond agrees. "A tomb. Ridiculous isn't it?"

"And – you flew across the Atlantic to get him out?" Philip asks incredulously. "That's bit of an overkill, isn't it? Wasn't there anyone closer by?"

"No, not really," Desmond agrees and leans his chin to his palm, considering it and then making a face. "Well, yeah, there was, but no one who's actually capable of going in and getting someone out of the tomb. There was a whole lot of climbing bad terrain – it's bit of a specific skill set, I guess."

"You do that a lot, huh? Rescue people from tombs?"

Desmond sighs. "I'm good at climbing weird stuff," he admits and shakes his head. "Honestly, I prefer bartending, though."

Philip watches him with a strange expression and then leans forward, setting his elbows on the counter and folding his arms, looking thoughtful. "So your friend, he's an… archaeologist?"

"Historian," Desmond says and then glances as Philip's eyes snap up to him. "But I guess digging around in a tomb is more like archaeology," Desmond says slowly, watching him. "Why the interest?"

"No, it was just… you said family issue, thought it might be something pretty bad," Philip admits and coughs. "Honestly, I did not expect tombs to be involved."

Desmond snorts. "Yeah, it's not the first guess people come up with, huh?" he looks away as the electric kettle clicks, finishing the boil. "As to it being family issue – it was my asshole dad who ordered Shaun into the damn tomb, so. Family issue."

"Ah," Philip says. "So your dad and your friend Shaun are in… business together?"

"Yeah," Desmond says while turning to start preparing the toddies and snorts. "Art restoration and recovery business." How weird it is to say that shit out loud.

"… they're tomb raiders," Philip says flatly in tone of disbelieving realisation.

Desmond considers it. "Yeah, they kind of are," he agrees then. "Except not – not really. It's a legitimate art and artefact restoration business, usually. They're good at fixing up old stuff. Usually they're sensible about the rest of it, but sometimes… sometimes avarice and stupidity wins the day and someone gets a broken ankle."

"… Uh huh," Philip says, frowning a little. "And they want you in the business because… you're good at climbing stuff."

And because they're still convinced that if Desmond heads the operation they'll find Pieces of Eden somewhere and maybe resurrect the Non-Existent Assassins while they're at it. "There's a surprising amount of climbing involved, yeah," Desmond agrees. "Sounds weird when I say it out loud, huh."

"A bit weird, yeah," Philip says, watching him.

"Also kind of sounds like you came up with alternate things I could've been up to," Desmond says, measuring the coffee and the hot chocolate and then throwing Philip a grin. "Tell me, what sort of sordid things did you think I was doing?"

Philip considers him. "Well… for a while there I was semi-convinced you were part of the mafia and this was a money laundering operation."

Desmond blinks at him and then laughs out, "What? Seriously?"

"Honestly, Miles to go doesn't look like it makes much money," Philip offers almost apologetically. "Sorry."

"Looks can be deceiving," Desmond answers. "Mafia, man. That's," not too far from reality, really, Ezio's Brotherhood was a bit of a proto-mafia, according to Shaun's lectures about how the renaissance Brotherhood got its funding… Desmond snorts and shakes his head. "That's pretty wild."

"Yeah, pretty wild," Philip says, fidgeting with the edge of his sleeve. "Actually, I told a friend of mine about it and he's halfway convinced you're not even real, so, could you do me a favour?"

"If I can, sure," Desmond says, checking the fridge. "Aw – shoot. The cream's expired. Hmm… What do you say to improvised toddy of coffee, hot chocolate and Bailey's?" he asks and turns to look at Philip. The guy is aiming a phone at him, taking a picture. Desmond blinks and straightens his back a little. "Hm?"

"May I?" Philip asks, arching his brows over the phone.

Desmond blinks and closes the fridge door. The guy looks nervous, like he's expecting something bad to happen. Trying to get a safety text maybe? If the guy thought he was mafia, that… probably makes sense. Somehow, not that Desmond really has the perspective for what is and isn't normal safety procedure these days. "Do you want to make it a selfie?" he offers awkwardly.

"Um," Philip answers. "Really?"

Desmond shrugs. "Sure." His dad would probably have his head, but – the ID he's living under has stood up to scrutiny for a few years now, and what's the point in trying to live a civilian life if he's not going to live a civilian life? He's kept Desmond Miles' history spotless so far, this shouldn't hurt it much. "Why not?"

Philip eyes him for a moment and then lowers his phone. "Um, yeah, I guess, yeah," he says. "Um."

Desmond grins and leans in. Awkwardly, Philip angles the phone so that they both fit in the frame and just to make it extra dorky, Desmond throws in a wink and a peace sign. The flash goes off and their image is frozen on the screen – on it Philip looks a little like deer caught in headlights. Adorable. "That okay?" Desmond asks, looking at him.

Philip hesitates and nods slowly, sending the picture to someone named Trevor. For a moment he looks like he's waiting for something to happen. Then he sighs. "Somehow, you are the weirdest guy I've met," Philip says, eyeing the picture. Then he puts the phone away. "Yeah, that's good. Thanks."

"No problem – be sure to tell your friend I am not from the mafia," Desmond says, grinning. "So, Bailey's, how about it?"

"I've never actually had that, what is it?" Philip asks, putting his phone away. "Alcohol, I assume."

"Irish Cream liquor," Desmond says and gives him a look. How sheltered is this dude? How do you get to be a drug addict but not know a first thing about alcohol? Well, Desmond's not the one to judge – he didn't even know alcohol outside medical antiseptic was a thing until he was sixteen. Weirder things have happened. "It's seriously sweet – want to have a taste of it straight up? It's really good, if you're into sweet stuff."

"I like sweet stuff," Philip agrees, and with a grin Desmond gets out a shot glass. While Philip takes what looks like his first taste of Bailey's, Desmond finishes his makeshift toddy's and offers the other one to Philip. They're not quite as delicious looking or smelling as the usual stuff, but you can't go too badly wrong with a mixture of coffee, hot chocolate and Bailey's.

"To the evils of travelling," Desmond says, holding up his toddy glass.

"And to lost historians, apparently," Philip answers, shaking his head but lifting his glass as well.

Desmond grins. "I'll drink to that."

Philip smiles – it looks good on him, when he smiles and means it. His eyebrows go up and his eyes – well, they still look sad, weirdly, but sort of… The guy's smile fades into a frown and he asks, "What?" a little defensively. "Something on my face?"

"Yeah, no, sorry," Desmond says and takes a drink. "Just a bit tired, didn't mean to stare. Do you – do you want to play a game or something? Should help me to stay awake."

Philip considers him and then shrugs and moves to get up. "Sure. I got nowhere I need to be."

"Hm. Which brings up an interesting point," Desmond says, going around the counter. "I know very little about you, Philip, and we've taken a selfie and everything," he points out, actually pointing at Philip with the hand holding his toddy glass. "Think it's time for you to tell me about yourself."

Philip's eyebrows shift and he looks away, taking a drink. "Not much to say, really. I – don't really do much."

"No hobbies?" Desmond asks and Philip's lips twitch, tightening. That's a no, then. "Do you work?" A hard no on that one too, okay. "Pets?" Desmond asks a bit desperately.

Philip blinks and his expression brightens a little. "I got a pet," he says. "I mean it's a turtle in a terrarium, not like something you actually pet or take out for walks, but… it still counts, right?"

"Yeah, the turtle definitely counts," Desmond agrees, pulling the chest closer to one of the couches and then sitting down with a sigh. "Tell me about the turtle."

"Well, I call her Poppy," Philip says, sitting beside him. "I don't really know much about having pets, she's the first one I've ever had. Kind of the… first animal I've ever interacted with, at all. So I don't know how she compares to, say, a puppy. Mostly she just hangs around in her tank and eats crickets and mealworms and lettuce and stuff."

Desmond looks at him and then smiles as Philip leans slightly against his side. It doesn't look all that conscious, the guy does it without thinking much, but… there's a whole lot of couch space around them and Philip sat down right in his personal space.

"Did you know turtles can live up to twenty five years?" Philip asks, looking at his toddy, obviously trying to figure out how he likes it. "I don't know if I would've gotten her if I knew that, but I didn't really know much about animals. I just figured it would be easier than something that you have to take out for walks every day, you know?"

"I guess," Desmond says thoughtfully and leaves the games be, turning instead towards Philip to listen. "I've never had pets myself," he admits. "What's it like?"

"It's… it's nice, I guess," Philip says, shrugging. "It always seemed so weird to me, keeping pets. You have this animal that's just a drain on your resources, it has to be fed and taken care of, and unless it's like a farm animal it doesn't really contribute, does it? You just pay to keep it healthy for the sake of keeping it. But it's… nice. I like watching her."

Desmond winds his arm over the backrest of the couch, idly stroking the back of his fingers down Philip's hair. It's still a little damp. "It sounds nice," he says, smiling. This is the most he's heard Philip talk in one go. Talking about things he enjoys suits the guy.

Philip glances at him and then looks at his hand, turning his head slightly towards it and then looking at Desmond, uncertain.

"I'm going to fall asleep," Desmond confesses conversationally.

"You kind of look like it, yeah," Philip agrees with a wry smile. "Do you want me to clear out?"

Desmond blinks and looks at him sleepily with Eagle Eyes. Still gold, so it's hard to say if he's for or against, but… body language wise, the guy's not a bad guy. Sometimes, you just gotta go with your gut with these things. He should lock the door and get some sleep, but… he also wants something normal again to wind him down from the whole damn trip. And this is delightfully normal.

"Nah," Desmond says and leans his cheek to his bicep, closing his eyes. "I want to hear more about Poppy. What does she do?"

"She's a turtle. She doesn't do much," Philip admits, his voice hesitant. "She putters around her cage, she swims, going back and forward. I get her fresh fruit sometime – she loves strawberries…"

Desmond ends up falling asleep against the guy's shoulder. From what he can tell though, Philip doesn't seem to mind all that much.

Chapter Text

Well. Philip is at least certain that Desmond isn't Faction now. The Director world have overwritten him if he was the moment Philip was done taking the selfie; and what kind of Faction member lets his guard down this badly in the presence of a known enemy Traveler?

Jenny had, but – but that was different. There was already trust there, or make believe of one anyway. And nowadays Philip isn't sure if she was ever actually sleeping when he thought she was, and – no.

Philip swallows, looking up at the ceiling of Miles to go. It's clean up there, slight hint of old smoke stains maybe – could be that once upon a time people used to smoke indoors here. That was a thing, once. Smoking. Still is here in the 21st, not that Philip is going to try it. Not that he wasn't tempted to try out marijuana, but with his host's track record with narcotics, better not.

Shit.

Philip looks down. Desmond's forehead is almost resting on his shoulder now, and he's not sure what to do about it. He should probably go, lock up behind him, leave Desmond to sleep his jetlag off, but – but he doesn't want to. For one, Desmond feels nice, going all relaxed in sleep against him. For two, he looks nice, his face all peaceful and slightly dumb looking in sleep. And for three…

For three there is a bag, wallet, keys and phone thrown haphazardly on the floor, and Philip is pretty sure letting the chance pass him by would be pretty goddamn stupid. Even if Desmond isn't Faction, there's still to many inconsistencies – and really, tomb raiders?

What is this, a video game?

Philip hesitates for a moment and then looks at Desmond. The guy is dead asleep – already in REM cycle, judging by how his eyes are moving under his lids. Philip's never seen anyone drop into sleep like that – like an actual literal log, just floating right off, his breath coming in slow, lazy puffs. He's not faking it.

Though he'd loathe to move, Philip eases away, gently manoeuvring Desmond's weight so that he stays propped up against the couch backrest. Desmond mumbles in his sleep but doesn't wake up – still, Philip goes very still until he settles, his cheek pressed against the couch.

Then, slowly and quietly, Philip goes down to his knees to check Desmond's wallet first, opening it slowly. There's a visa and a passport hidden inside, and checking it Philip finds it full of stamps – most of them old. Three, four years ago Desmond traveled a lot, it looks like – Italy, Britain, Spain, Israel, the Caribbean… Most of them were short trips, all spanning inside the same six month period before he eventually stopped – couple months later he bought the real estate for Miles to go. Both the passport and the visa look legitimate. They're also recently stamped with a stamp for Israel.

Philip hesitates before quickly taking out his phone and snapping pictures of both, just to make sure later. He had a feeling they're not forgeries, though. He's pretty good at spotting fake IDs, and either these are the best fakes he's ever seen… or they're not.

Philip checks the wallet too, and aside from having a rather alarming amount of cash on hand, there's nothing out of the ordinary about it. There is, however, a picture there, tucked away under a pocket for coins – worn and frayed around the edges, it depicts four people by what seems like a hillside. There's Desmond, maybe half a decade younger than he is now, dressed in a white hoodie and jeans. There's the woman Philip had seen him leave with, Rebecca – wearing a jumpsuit and a pair of bulky headphones, and a man Philip had only seen for a moment but with his memory remembers anyway – the older man Desmond had been arguing with the first time he came to Miles to go. The last man he doesn't know, he's sitting on a chair and wears a sweater vest with a button up shirt underneath – and if Philip had to guess, he'd say this man is Shaun. The guy looks like a Shaun.

Aside from Desmond and Rebecca, they… do look weirdly academical. The guy he assumes is Shaun and the older man both have a sort of professor kind of look about them.

They actually kind of look like a group of people you might find in some tomb, raiding. That is, if the world was a movie and the core cast was a ragtag bunch of randoms. Are tomb raiders even a thing that happens in reality?

Putting the picture back into its place in the wallet, Philip glances at Desmond and then turns to the guy's phone, unlocking it with his own without much trouble. There's good four dozen contacts in the device and text message threads that go back months – the phone was first started up less than a year ago. Emails are a bit more enlightening.

From: Bill Miles
To: Desmond Miles
Subject: Concerning Italy

Shaun put together a portfolio on Italy and I thought you'd want it. Even if we didn't find what we were looking for there, the pictures are still something to look at – and I have been told you were especially fond of Monteriggioni. There are some exquisite pictures of the fortress included. I know it's not the same, but it's still something?

France is looking to be a bust too, and I can say now, you aren't missing much. We're going through some of the catacombs which were known to be in use during the French Revolution, but much of them have either been renovated for modern use, blocked for safety concerns or were destroyed during one war or another. Shaun, I'm sure, will be able to give more information once he's done with his analysis. If you're interested.

This too would have gone faster with you here, Desmond. You know that.

In either case, I included some pictures of what we think might have been Arno Dorian's theatre, back in the 1800's. If you feel like taking a look, and if anything comes to you... let me know, so that we can stop wasting our time here. French is not my strong suit.

-William Miles

To which Desmond had replied with:

From: Desmond Miles
To: Bill Miles
Subject: re: Concerning Italy.

I told you, dad, I'm done with it.

It's not the right theatre – it was a two story building and that one's only got one.

Tell Shaun I said thanks for the pictures. I appreciate it

-Desmond

The pictures are mostly of a beautifully sunny countryside, and of a village surrounded by actual walls and battlements – it looks like something out of a history book. There's close-ups of weirdest things, like rafters of a church, of fountain flanked by stairs and of a sign with an arrow drawn in pointing to crumbling paint, and of a flat garden plateau overlooking the rest of the settlement. Monteriggioni, Philip knows, is a town in Italy, but it's not Mission Vital to him, so all he knows about it is a dot and the name on a map. Judging by the looks of it though, the place is beautiful – and old.

He doesn't think about it often, but humanity – they have a long history, spanning so much further back than just the key decade of the 21st.

There are other pictures on Desmond's phone, most of them of his bar and his customers, some of parks around the city. Desmond has a thing for finding stray cats and kittens, it looks like – there is a handful of pictures of different cats in alleyways and bushes, some of them photographed eating from Desmond's hand. There are also some pictures obviously sent by other people, which Desmond had saved. Pictures of Rebecca making faces next to a grimacing stone golem, the guy Philip is now certain is Shaun examining what looks like a blank piece of the wall, and the older silver-haired man whom Philip guesses is Bill, still only steely grey in some pictures. In most, the older man has been photographed sleeping, like the photographer could only catch a picture when his guard was down.

In many of the pictures it also looks like the three are in tombs or digs. There is also one selfie with Rebecca, Desmond and Shaun, taken in what looks like actual Native South American ruins in a jungle – Desmond has Shaun in a headlock and Rebecca is giving him bunny ears with her fingers.

Most of the emails Desmond's received – which weren't ads, commercials, spam or had something to do with Miles to go – were from either Bill, Shaun or Rebecca, and usually they were about this or that location they were at and varyingly bitched about Desmond's absence.

Philip lowers the phone and runs a hand over his eyes. He feels a little bit like laughing. Or maybe crying. All this worrying and suspicion and – seriously – they're actually tomb raiders?

How is this even real life at this point?

Hanging his head for a moment, Philip runs his hands through his hair. Then he puts Desmond's phone and wallet back to where he got them. Then he looks at Desmond. Still asleep, softly breathing against the couch backrest. It looks… not that comfortable actually, he's going to end up with a crick in his neck that way.

Quietly Philip rises, hesitating over Desmond for a moment before plunging right in and taking the guy by the shoulders, carefully easing him backwards. Desmond mumbles something, it sounds like – Clay? Maybe. But he stays asleep, and slowly Philip eases him to lay on his back instead, grabbing the towel he'd used before and bundling it up into a pillow for Desmond.

He's not sure what to do then. Seems a bit rude to just take off, especially since he was snooping just then.

After a moment of hesitation and thinking, Philip picks up the half drunk toddy glasses and gets up to see if he can figure out where Desmond washes his dishware.

Philip has the tables cleared, the counter wiped, the fridge emptied of everything that's expired and is mopping the floors when Desmond wakes up, grunting sleepily and almost falling off the couch. "What the –" he mumbles and then yawns, stretching rather… impressively.

Of course everyone of his team is pretty fit health wise – Philip himself excluded maybe – but the arch Desmond's spine makes is something else.

Then Desmond spots him and blinks confusedly at him. "Philip?" he asks.

"Hi – I'm cleaning," Philip says.

"I – can see that," Desmond agrees, still sounding confused. He looks away, at the tables and the chairs Philip had turned upside down to get them out of the way and the armchairs he'd pushed to the side. Then he looks at Philip. "Why?" he asks.

"Seemed like the thing to do," Philip says and clears his throat. "And it looked like you could really use the sleep, so, I figured I'd help you out a bit. I couldn't figure out your washer, through, so I just rinsed the glasses and left them by the sink in the kitchen."

Desmond eyes him silently for a moment and then sits up, glancing around. "You didn't have to do that."

"I wanted to," Philip shrugs, turning back to the mop.

Also it's kind of nice to clean up a place that has an intact floor – in the garage the floor is all messed up, paint chipped away and full of holes. It's impossible to get clean – and he lives in the place.

Desmond rubs at his eyes, eying him. "You snooped through my things, didn't you?" he asks, amused.

"What – no," Philip says. Desmond arches his brows and – what the hell. "Okay yes, but only to check if you had a mafia business card."

Desmond hums, leaning his elbow onto the backrest of the couch. "I was actually joking, but okay," he says thoughtfully. "Anything incriminating?"

Philip hesitates. "You've traveled a lot," he says, looking down and continuing to mop the floor. Someone spilled something, and it's made a toughened spot of muck on the floor that's refusing to come off.

"Mmhm," Desmond agrees. "A bit, yeah. Not my thing anymore – I don't hate it exactly, but I prefer simpler, stationary life, really," he says and leans his cheek to his palm. "Have you ever done any traveling?"

"Not outside the US," Philip admits. "Closest to another country I've been was to the Canadian border."

And four hundred and thirty one years, two months, five days, two hours and fifty one seconds into the past – but who's counting, really.

"I suppose you've seen a lot of exotic foreign things," Philip says and offers Desmond a wry smile. "Poppy is about as exotic as it gets for me."

Desmond hums, considering him and then glancing away, towards old timey clock hanging on the wall next to the bar counter. "How about I tell you about it over dinner?" he then offers, smiling and adding, "My treat."

Philip pauses in between scrubbing the floor with the mop. "But – I snooped through your things," he says slowly.

"And I'm totally going to run a background check on you later, so we'll be even," Desmond says with a grin and gets up. "Right now I'm hungry though, and there's this Italian place nearby – gotta admit, it was a major selling point when I bought this place."

Philip swallows, finding himself charmed by the idea that this weird former treasure hunter bartender could run a background check on anyone. "I'm still not done mopping."

"Then by all means finish, don't let me stop you from doing my chores for me," Desmond says, smiling and stretching. "I need to change anyway – I still smell like an airplane."

When they arrive at the Italian restaurant Desmond obviously patronises a lot, there's another set of them already there. Two, actually.

One couple of Philip and Desmond are sitting by the window, basking in the sunlight – regardless of the rain outside. Desmond is eating some sort of soup with big chunks of pasta in it, while Philip chews on something that looks like a pizza but isn't quite. They aren't talking, but under the table Desmond has one of his feet up and resting in Philip's lap in display of easy, thoughtless intimacy – beneath the table, Philip is massaging his toes with one hand. Desmond's foot is in a cast – the ankle broken.

At another table to the back, Desmond had his head bent as he nibbles on a piece of bread – his knuckles are red and scratched and swollen. Across him Philip sits with a split lip and bruises all over his face, drinking something through a straw. They aren't looking at each other, but between them they're clutching onto each others' hand, white knuckled and tight. Desmond's wrists, Philip notices, have black straps on them – on his inner wrist something glints metallic.

"Philip?" Desmond asks and Philip blinks, snapping out of the vision.

"Mmh?" Philip hums quizzically, dragging his eyes away from the battered version of himself.

"I asked you where you want to sit," Desmond says, looking at him worriedly. "Are you okay?"

"No – I'm fine, just hungry. Wherever is fine," Philip says quickly. "There maybe?" He motions to a vacant table on the other end of the restaurant – away from the visions."

"Alright – here, menu," Desmond says, picking one up along the way. He hands it to Philip and they go sit down, Desmond glancing where Philip had been staring at but not saying anything about it.

Philip sits down, keeping his eyes down until the sinking glimpses pass away and he's sure he is only seeing one timeline – the one he's linearly living. Desmond watches him and then, just like that, lets it go.

"I love the Tortellini in Brodo they make here," he says. "Think I'm going to have that again. You can order whatever – don't worry about the cost."

"Well, now that you said it I won't be able to think about anything else," Philip says and clears his throat, a little guilty. "I can pay for my own food, really – you don't have to."

"I'm the one who asked you to come," Desmond says. "I'm not going to make you pay for expenses you weren't planning."

"I can still do it – I'm not actually hurting for cash."

Neither is Desmond, actually, judging by the thousands of dollars the guy carried around in his wallet.

"Well then – you can pay next time," Desmond says, smiling. "Granted that you don't get utterly disgusted by me before the meal is over and never want to see me again."

"Yeah, I don't think that's going to happen," Philip says with a snort and looks at him. It's only then he notices that some of the other customers are giving them not so surreptitious glances, and – right.

Desmond had pulled on a fresh button up shirt, jeans and jacket and he looks nice – and he's probably well enough known here for being a decent guy.

And Philip looks like a heroin addict.

It's not the first time he'd been annoyed by his host body, far from it – but it's not every day he's ashamed of it.

Desmond looks at him as Philip looks down in the menu, awkward. He hums and leans back – and then Philip feels Desmond's ankle, sliding between his feet. Blinking, he looks up and Desmond smiles at him, unapologetic, as he utterly without shame plays footsie beneath the table, much to the consternation and embarrassment of those few watching.

"So, aside from Tortellini, what's good here?" Philip asks, staring at the guy, not sure what to think about him. Desmond looks so smug and his toes are snagging on the fabric of Phillip's jeans.

"Well, the Spinach Formaggio is really good too," Desmond says, smiling. "I once had it in one properly local restaurant in Tuscany, and I swear, it's so much better here."

He apparently says it as much for Philip's as for a passing waiter's benefit – the elderly woman scoffs and says in accented English, "That's your overcooked, grease marinated American palette talking. Don't think you'll be getting any discounts by flattering me, Desmond."

"I was only being honest," Desmond says with a bright smile and she scoffs and holds up a pad to take their orders.

Philip orders the Spinach Formaggio, and maybe company has something to do with taste too, because it's the best thing he's ever eaten. Desmond seems delighted by his enjoyment and then spends most of what Philip is starting to realise is a proper date by taking about all the foods he'd eaten in all the places he'd traveled to and why Italian cuisine is really the best of the lot.

His foot runs teasingly up and down along Philip's ankle the whole time, and Philip forgets there's even other people in the restaurant entirely.

Chapter Text

Under normal circumstances Desmond wouldn't have done it. Even if Philip comes across as someone with a troubled past, it's a kind of breach of privacy he'd just like to avoid as a rule. Also it's so much more fun to discover things about people the old fashioned way by having them, you know, actually tell you on their own volition.

But then Philip went and obviously had possible-visual-hallucination of some sort, and Desmond's curiosity is peaked. And sure, it could be nothing, people can have hallucinations for perfectly normal explainable reasons… but coupled with the consistent golden glow and the fact that Philip had snooped through his things – and the fact that the guy leaves psychic residue all over the place – really… what are the chances?

Rubbing a hand over his chin, Desmond watches quietly as the transparent echo of Philip moves around Miles to go amidst the usual Bleeding Effect ghosts. Aside from looking into his wallet and phone the guy hadn't actually poked through his things that much – he hadn't gone upstairs either, which is good – but the fact that there's an afterimage at all is pretty telling. Even Desmond's dad doesn't leave one during normal day to day life. Shaun and Rebecca do it only when they're really emotionally excited or in mortal peril.

Philip leaves afterimages when he's mopping the floors.

"Would be just my luck, wouldn't it?" Desmond says to the ghost of Altaïr who's watching him, and sighs.

He'd tried for three years to be perfectly normal, and it usually only lasts for couple of weeks at most before he runs into something that demands special care. Be it domestic abuse victim whose spouse really needed a terrible accident in their lives, or a gang that thought this was a good neighbourhood to settle in, something always happened. Or maybe something always happened everywhere all the time, but here Desmond is just around enough to notice. In either case…

Birds of a feather and all that.

After making sure that the front door is locked, Desmond set out to check. Philip had cleaned the glasses, so he can't use them – and swiping cutlery or dishware from the Italian place was a bit tacky, so…

Desmond looks over his bar with Eagle Vision, looking for remnants. And there – the couch they'd sat on, the towel Philip had used, both shimmer faintly with gold.

Checking them over, Desmond comes away with few strands of blond hair, all of them glimmering with gold. No question about who they came from, even considering that Philip is the only customer he's had in a while who had long blond hair.

Coiling the strands of hair around his finger, Desmond goes around making sure the bar is closed and locked properly before heading upstairs, to his apartment. It's dark and cold and smells faintly of dust as he turns lights on. Home sweet home.

Desmond turns the TV on on his way before walking over to the corner of the living room, where there's a modern-ish armchair with a fancy old-timey dresser beside it, beautifully restored. Opening the dresser's cabinet doors, Desmond reveals another, metallic set of safe doors with a touchpad. Quickly, he concentrates until he sees the numbers on the otherwise dark and empty screen and can put in the key code.

The doors click open to reveal a screen on the inside of each door, with a keypad and a scanner and length of wires. Quickly hooking the wires into an outlet and into the chair beside the dresser, Desmond puts the hair strands on the scanner and turns the system on.

Then, leaving the Animus 5.4 scanning the DNA sample, he heads off to go through his quick travel gear and clean it up as necessary. Even if no one had to be stabbed this time, he'd still had to use some of it to get Shaun out of the tomb, and it's just not smart to leave stuff like that be – you never know when you have to go spelunking in a hurry.

Ten minutes later the Animus spits him DNA analysis and genetic memory profile. He's not particularly surprised by the DNA analysis – people with even a smidge of Isu DNA tend to be more prone to mental illnesses, psychotic episodes and visual hallucinations – and bad coping mechanisms. 0.23% triple helix DNA is a bit on the higher side, but it explains the golden glow and the psychic residue Philip leaves behind. The guy must have some latent mental abilities.

What Desmond doesn't expect is the genetic memory profile.

Name: Philip Pearson
Name: Traveler 3326
Date of birth: 2nd of November, 1996
Date of birth: 16th of May, 2412

The next day, after shopping for all the things that had spoiled during his absence and letting a few people along the way know that he'd be opening Miles to go normally that evening, Desmond calls Shaun and Rebecca.

"Miss us already?" Shaun asks in lieu of answering like a normal person. "Also don't think I didn't see what you did to my cast – you just wait until the next time you break something. There will be so many pricks, you just mark my words."

"You're a prick," Desmond answers. "I've got an Animus question for you – Rebecca, you online yet?"

"Yeah, I'm here –"

"What, did you dust the old thing off? Missing the good old days? You know, we're running version 7 now – it's much better than the old thing you got," Shaun interjects. "You should've taken her for a spin while you were here."

"Shut it, Shaun," Rebecca says, amused. "What'cha got, Desmond?"

Desmond leans his hip to the counter and tucks his free hand under his elbow. "What would it take for someone to have two host profiles?"

"Contaminated sample," Rebecca says. "You got two samples in the scanners – if it's a small sample you're scanning it doesn't take much to throw it off, just skin cells might be enough."

"Desmond Miles, are you snooping on someone?" Shaun asks with great interest. "With an Animus? Whatever happened to leading a regular old civilian life?"

Desmond ignores him. "I checked the sample – sterilised the scanner and everything. There's just one sample in, some hair – but it comes out with two profiles," Desmond says. "Names, birthdays, parents, events, everything."

Only one profile came with an ancestral information though. Philip Pearson had ancestral DNA, though the files are oddly corrupted – Traveler 3326 seemed to pop out of nowhere, really, with no genetic history whatsoever.

"Are you sure it's the same sample?" Rebecca asks.

"Positive."

"Hmm. Could be a genetic disorder, a mutation – an ancestor reading as host due to genetic snag, which the Animus is reading wrong. How far apart are the birthdates?"

Desmond hums and doesn't answer. It's one thing to break Philip's privacy, another to spread it around. "So there is no way for one person to have sets of two host memories – it's just the Animus reading wonky sample wrong?"

"I wouldn't say there's no way," Shaun says thoughtfully. "Host memory is like a DNA equivalent of short term memory – what has yet to be written into the ancestral line. This is a bit theoretical, since we've never had a subject with this sort of memory or perception disorder, but hypothetically host memory can probably be overwritten with a good knock to the head. Or a split personality. Or, you know, insanity."

"I'm sorry?" Desmond asks.

"Amnesia or a dissociative personality disorder," Rebecca says, and there's a sound a bit like she maybe hit Shaun. "They could, in theory, disrupt host memory and create an alternate set. It all depends on what the brain perceives about its reality, and human brain can come up with wildest things to fill in gaps. And something like, say, schizophrenia could probably completely mess up the writing of host memory. But like Shaun says, it's all theoretical, we've never actually had a subject to study concerning this."

"Because we're all epitomes of sanity here," Shaun pipes in. "Except you, Desmond."

"Up yours, Shaun," Desmond says. "So brain disorder is more likely than, say, a body snatcher?"

"... Bit more likely, yeah," Rebecca agrees with a laugh.

"These days, anyway. You said it was a hair, the sample? Could also be a hair transplant," Shaun says.

"I think transplanted hair has the DNA of the original donor," Rebecca answers thoughtfully.

"You never know, stranger things have happened," Shaun says. "So, tell me, who is the mysterious individual that has Desmond Miles breaking all sorts of privacy conventions? Naughty, Desmond, so naughty."

"Okay," Desmond says with a laugh. "Thanks guys, that's all I wanted to know."

"The 7.0 could probably give you a much better read – we've improved the scanner a lot," Rebecca offers.

"I think I'm fine with my setup, thanks Becca," Desmond says. "I barely even use it."

"Alright. Don't be a stranger, Dez."

"I'm serious about the cast thing – there will be a day of reckoning."

"Yeah, yeah, Shaun, whatever you say. Bye, guys."

Desmond hangs up and considers the discussion for a moment, mulling it over. He'd never even considered what perception might do to genetic memory, host or ancestral. That brain disorders might affect it is… a pretty scary thought actually.

Whichever it is in Philip's case, Shaun is right – he's definitely snooped enough. Though if the guy has a split personality or something like it, and it's caused by the Isu inheritance trying to manifest itself…

"Hmm," Desmond hums and pushes his phone into his pocket. Something to think about, isn't it?

The night starts out quiet at first. After Desmond opens the bar, almost three hours pass by without anyone coming around. Not surprising, really, it usually takes a day or two for a word to spread. It's the local guys who know the earliest, Hank and George being the first.

"How's it going, guys?" Desmond asks. "If you need to use the bathroom, I got some new soap – picked it up while I was away. Aloe Vera – it's pretty nice."

George takes him up on it, heading to the bathroom to wash up a little, while Hank orders a beer and sits down to stare at it for the next few hours, stretching it out so that he wouldn't have to buy another. Desmond throws him a few conversation starters about the weather, but the guy doesn't seem to be in a talkative mood, so eventually he leaves the guy to it.

It looks like the two will be his only customers for the night, but around 9, Philip comes in. Desmond knows it's him all the way down the street – he'd gotten attuned now – but he tries to play it cool and doesn't immediately turn to the door like a complete doofus. When he does though, he has to stop for a double take.

Philip's cleaned up.

He's wearing a little less baggy jacket, which actually looks like it fits him, and the jeans sit a little closer to the skin – and his hair is tied back in a tight ponytail. It leaves the pierced ears and the impressive line of his jaw fully in view, and – oh boy, Desmond digs it.

"Hi," he says, a little dumbly.

"Hi, Desmond," Philip say, coming to the counter. He clears his throat, glancing down at himself, and thank god Hank and George are sitting by the couch watching TV and don't see Desmond completely making an idiot out of himself, staring – he'd never live it down.

"Sorry – you, you look good," Desmond says and clears his throat. "Hot chocolate toddy?" He offers.

"I think I'd like to try that Irish coffee you mentioned," Philip says, sitting down on a stool. "Is it too much, the – clothes?"

"It looks nice," Desmond says and then considers. "So as long as you're comfortable, I don't see what anyone can say about it. You do you, first and foremost." Not that he wouldn't be flattered if Philip went through that effort for him, but…

Philip looks at him and then runs a hand over his tightly tied hair, humming. Desmond quickly turns to prepare the coffee – Philip was good looking before, but the hair kind of hid some of it. He is not prepared for this.

"I'm trying," the blond says. "I guess I never really had that much of a reason to bother to, you know… make an effort."

Desmond glances at him. There's no way to say don't try to change yourself for me without coming out sounding like a complete jackass, is there? But with what he'd learned and suspects… it feels kind of wrong to say nothing. "Well, if – if that's what you want to do," he says a bit awkwardly. "For the record through, I thought what you had going on before was nice too."

Awkward. Still, Philip nods like he maybe he gets it, or at least suspects. Judging by his expression, he can see something anyway. "Thanks," Philip says and looks down at his fingers. "It's kind of – nice, having a reason. I mean…" he considers his words. "It's easy to settle into a status quo because it's good enough, you know? Even when it could be better, why bother since it's good enough right now?"

"I think I get you," Desmond agrees, mixing the drink.

"It's been good enough for me for a while," Philip says and tugs at the edge of his sleeve. "And now I feel like it could be better, you know, if I just made a little effort. So – I'm making a little effort."

"And more power to it, if it's what you want," Desmond says and lifts the glass in front of Philip. "I'm with you hundred percent."

"Thanks," Philip says and then looks at him, giving a wry smile. "So, honestly, good?"

"You look amazing, and I'm hoping I won't get more customers tonight because I won't be able to keep my orders straight," Desmond says, maybe a little exaggeratedly.

Philip ducks his head, smiling a little. He takes a sip of his drink and then looks up at Desmond, eyebrows arched. "So, how did the background check go?"

"I got mixed results," Desmond sighs theatrically. "I think I'm better off going straight to the source on this one. Tell me, where did Philip Pearson grow up?"

Philip looks down. "I'm afraid that's classified."

Not a good topic of conversation, that, then. The profile was right about it being not so happy childhood. "Shoot," Desmond says and leans his elbows to the counter, watching him. "How about what does Philip Pearson like to do for fun?"

Philip considers, seriously thinking about it and looking around as if for inspiration, hesitating over Hank and George who are watching football on the television.

"Watch any sports?" Desmond suggests.

"Not for fun, no," Philip says, making a face.

"Good, me neither," Desmond sighs with relief. "I'm guessing that's no on doing any sports too."

"Friend of mine has tried to get me into jogging, but…" Philip shakes his head.

"So rock climbing might be straight out, I'm guessing," Desmond asks. "Long walks in the park?"

There's a sound, a little beep, and murmur of a sound. Desmond blinks and glances towards Hank and George – the television has the sound on, but it's quiet – and this sounds like it came from much closer.

"Hmm," Philip considers, rubbing a hand over his neck. There's another beep. "Not presently, but later yeah, maybe."

Desmond blinks. That's actually not what he was expecting, but awesome. Desmond grins. "I'll keep that in mind for later, then," he says. "What else, what else – theme parks? Zoos?" Desmond asks while Philip turns to look away, seeming distracted. "Petting zoos?" Desmond asks, tilting his head curiously.

"Yeah, I could do that," Philip says and frowns, turning to him. "Sorry, shit, I just realised I'd forgotten something – Poppy, I forgot Poppy out of her terrarium while I was cleaning it –"

Lying. Desmond would be able to see that even without Eagle Sense active. "Okay… You gotta go, you gotta go," he says, frowning a little.

"I'm really sorry, I was hoping to –" Philip stops, standing to. "Sorry," he says and reaches over the counter to hug Desmond.

It's a bit awkward, with the counter on the way, but Philip's hold is tight and firm and he smells amazing. Desmond sighs and hugs him back, patting him gently on the back. "If you got to go, then you got to go. It's okay," he says. "You don't have to invent excuses, though – it's all cool."

Philip makes a little noise at that. "Sorry – I'll see you tomorrow if I can, alright?"

Desmond means to answer, but there's suddenly a tinny sound in his ear, a male voice saying, "Hurry up, Philip, time is of the essence."

And then Philip smacks a kiss on Desmond's cheek, lips warm and soft on Desmond's stubbled skin. Kind of frozen with surprise, Desmond lets Philip slip out of his hold. Licking his lips, the blond turns around and without further word hurries out. It leaves a cooling spot of moisture on Desmond's cheek and a lingering tingle – and a suspicion.

"Damn," he murmurs.

He's pretty sure that what he just heard came from the inside of Philip's body. The guy has a subcutaneous comm. Now how the hell does that fit in with the rest he'd figured out about the guy?

Chapter Text

The next day there's more customers at Miles to go. There's even a few new faces – Jerome brings with him Samantha, who looks about as homeless as he is, and is in terrible need of some cleaning up, and Ben brings with him Bryon, a younger guy who looks like he's on the bad end of withdrawal and trying to stay there.

Desmond points Samantha to the bathroom and tells her to take all the time she needs, "I can also wash your clothes for you if you'd like, but you're going to have to wait a few hours until the washer and dryer are done," he offers, but she awkwardly declines.

Bryon gets the sweetest hot chocolate Desmond can make and a bag of dried fruit and falls asleep on the couch before he can finish either. Ben watches over the guy with the air of someone who is not ready for this responsibility but is trying anyway, because – what else can he do?

"I'm going to get him to see that social worker that follows me around, David," Ben says. "See if we can set him straight. Kid's too young for the street."

"I hear you," Desmond nods. "Well, you can bring him here whenever and we'll see about getting some vitamins and fibre into him, if nothing else. You okay yourself?"

"Could use a shot of whiskey, but yeah," Ben shudders slightly. "Getting there."

Desmond gets him his whiskey, serving it with a smile and pat on the back. Ben's half a year clean, but judging by the looks of it… it never goes completely away.

Watching Ben and Jerome talk about nothing in particular, Desmond sends glances to the door. Phil doesn't really have any sort of schedule for when he arrives – he's never came at the same hour – but Desmond had kind of hoped it would happen earlier rather than later. And it doesn't. Time ticks on, Samantha finishes washing and settles down with a cider by the heater to dry, and Philip doesn't show up.

Philip doesn't show up at all.

Eventually, three hours later, after Ben has managed to wake Bryon up and the two have left – taking the dried fruits with them, of course – Desmond hesitates by the door, about to lock it. He can feel Philip, he's still in the city, but… it's farther away than usual, too far to track. Desmond is pretty sure he was telling the truth when he said he lived close by, and this…

It feels urgent. Something's wrong. Desmond hesitates for a moment, considering the sense of it, trying to figure it out. He was going to stop snooping, but this…

Well. He's gotten involved with more for less of a reason, and – he likes Philip.

Shaking his head, he heads inside to grab his gear, just in case. You never know.

With a sort of mission spreading out in front of him, his senses are expanding – he's getting an awareness of the city and of points of interests. Locations, people, key points. It's not the same as having a minimap in the Animus, sadly Eagle Sense isn't that convenient. It's just a sort of awareness of direction he ought to be going in. One of the points of interest feels closer by, though, and Philip did say that he lived near the bar…

So Desmond makes a detour to check it out, just in case there's something there he should be aware of. The Sense leads him down an alley and into a dead end of what looks like semi abandoned buildings – there is hint recent movement there though, and there, near what looks like a garage door… specks of blood on the ground, glowing golden and important to Desmond's senses.

Frowning, Desmond goes to check them out, and as he does, someone – glowing bright gold at him – steps out of the garage to greet him. Or stop him, whichever.

"Hi," Desmond says warily, looking the guy over. It's a kid with a buzz cut in a grey hoodie – and fresh red bruises on his face, a cut on his cheek. They all look recent, and he looks pale and wide eyed under them. "Um," Desmond says. "I'm looking for Philip?"

"You're Desmond, right – the bartender at the place Phil goes to?" the kid asks, looking him over. "Phil told you where he lives?"

"Sort of," Desmond says, looking him over. Looks about high school age, definitely younger than Philip. Glowing golden though, that's… that's interesting. "You're… Trevor?" he guesses.

The kid's expression brightens a little at that, and he smiles. "That's me – it's good to meet you," he says. "Phil isn't here though, sorry man."

"Oh," Desmond says. Well, he knew that, but… "Do you know where he is? Because he said he would be around the bar today – did something happen, do you know?"

"Yeah, no, everything is fine. He had to do a family thing," Trevor says. "And he might not be around for a few days."

Lying. "Family thing," Desmond says slowly, watching the kid's bruised face closely. "Sounds serious."

"Nah, it's just a minor thing," Trevor says dismissively – lying – and pushes his hands into his pockets. "I'm sure it will be fine and he'll be back in no time."

Who says I'm sure it will be fine about family engagements? "Did someone get hurt, or something?" Desmond asks, a bit leadingly. "Is it serious?"

"Nah," Trevor says, dismissive. "I don't really know what it was, really, just that he got held up. Sorry."

Lying again. "Hm," Desmond answers, glancing the way he can feel Philip's presence. "So nothing dangerous," he says, his senses blown open now and attuned on Trevor. He can feel the guy's heartbeat skip. "I was starting to think he might've had an accident, ended up in a hospital or something."

"No, no, no," Trevor says quickly, not lying this time, but something is off about it. "Nothing like that. He just got held up a bit."

"You make it sound like his family kidnapped him," Desmond says and just barely stops himself from narrowing his eyes.

Whatever this kid is, an actor he is not. He actually stills for a moment before clearing his throat and laughing. "Nah, nothing like it," he says and takes a step back. "Sorry man, that's about all I can tell you. I gotta run now, okay? I got a thing I was doing – shouldn't you head home too? It's late, man."

"Yeah, I guess I'll get going. Thanks, Trevor," Desmond says and then, just as the kid turns around to head back inside, he asks, "So he's not in danger?"

Trevor laughs, awkward. "I'm sure it's fine, Desmond." Lying. "You have a good night, now."

"Right, you too," Desmond says slowly to the closing door. Judging by the looks of his clothes and face, he's taken a tumble – if not been in a fight. He was limping a little and trying to hide it too. Frowning, Desmond turns to look down at the concrete beneath his feet and the blood splatters on it. It still glows golden. "Right."

Taking out a paper napkin, he crouches back down and collects the sample.

Animus churns the blood sample faster than it did with Philip's hair – it's recent enough that some of the blood cells are still alive, which speeds the process up regardless of the fact that the sample is trapped in a piece of paper. Thank god Rebecca is a genius with this stuff.

The profile, though…

Name: Joella Donovan
Name: Liliana Undecim
Date of Birth, 14th of June 1998
Date of Birth, 23th of October, 2422

Well now, isn't that interesting and worrisome. One person with wonky DNA profile is bad enough, but two, and one right after the other? Desmond glances over it while setting up the chair, but there's no time to wonder about what it actually means – he'll figure it out later once he's sure Philip's alright. Right now he wants more than facts – he wants directions.

The DNA host memory analysis finishes, the files arrange themselves in a neat chronological order, and quickly Desmond chooses the last twenty four hours or so, then he grabs hold of the Animus chair's pillow and pulls it open, to reveal the electrodes inside, set on plastic arms. After making sure everything is fired up and ready to go, Desmond sits down, situating so that the electrodes hover near his temples in all the right places.

The memory sequence loads automatically – putting him in the body of Joella/Liliana. The location from 24 hours ago loads up around her, and Desmond turns her head to look around. Whatever the place is, it's large and rundown.

"… once we have the Historian, we will have access to better information," a young woman talks, while Joella/Liliana follows her down the somewhat rundown corridor. "We'll get some funding going and will be in a better position to face up against the Travelers. We just need to grab him, as soon as possible."

"And this one Historian – it has to be this one?" Joella/Liliana asks, Desmond tasting the words in his mouth. "Isn't the MacLaren group like the Director's favourite?" she asks, almost spitting the word Director out like it tastes bad. In the back of her head, Desmond can feel her hatred.

"They are – and there has to be a reason," the other woman says and stops to look at him. "001 is certain that there is something special about 3326 – something about how he resisted the drugs, last time he was captured. There's something different about him – and since MacLaren's group is special… so will be their Historian."

"Right," Joella/Liliana says. "So, we're going to lure them in and grab the Historian – you think it will work?"

"001 has captured this group before – they're easy," the other woman says, dismissive. "Just give them good enough lure and they walk right in – and they're still trusting enough to be gullible. It shouldn't be hard. We'll bait them, separate them, grab the Historian and come back here."

"You make it sound so easy, considering how many we've lost already to this group," Joella/Liliana mutters.

"I trust 001," the other woman says as they step outside and into a yard of what looks like some sort of abandoned industrial complex. "MacLaren is already following the leads we laid out for him. It will work."

The whole memory sequence is a wild trip. Joella/Liliana takes a car, sets up an ambush – and there is a fight which Desmond can't do anything about, only watch through her eyes as in some warehouse a gunfight takes place. There's explosions, there's distractions and just as Desmond glimpses Philip through Joella/Liliana's eyes, crouched behind cover and aiming a gun at one of Joella/Liliana's people, she's taken down by a bullet to the shoulder.

Last thing she sees is Philip being shot with a dart, and explosion going off out of her field of view – and then Philip's body, being dragged away.

The rest of her memories are scattered fragments, moments and blurry sensation. Being in a car, being tended to, the man in a suit, the blond woman – Trevor, carrying her in his arms – and there the memory sequence ends.

Desmond comes out of Joella/Liliana's memories feeling the strangest sort of déjà vu – and with a clear image of a street sign burning in his head.

The industrial complex Joella/Liliana's memories led him to looks exactly the same in real life, full with broken windows and half collapsed barbed wire fence that looks like it's been recently patched up with boards and barrels. Three stories and several hundred yards of floor space, it looks like a lot to search. Thankfully, Desmond doesn't need to.

His Eagle Sense is wide open now, and not only can he see the afterimages of people moving about the darkened front yard, carrying machine guns and being generally pretty dangerous looking… but he can also see the people inside. It's just the closest one, even he can't see through entire buildings – but the guards doing rounds by the windows and the doors on the first floor, he can see them. At least six guards doing rounds, which implies more people inside.

They all glow red.

For a moment Desmond watches the situation from the roof of the building opposite to the abandoned complex. Then he glances around for the smoothest way in. There's a power line leading from the rooftop he's on to the rooftop of the industrial complex – it glows safe white under Eagle Vision, so it doesn't have a current on it. There's also what looks like a trash container full of bags inside the barbed wire fence, which also glows white – if he managed to jump the distance, it would be a safe spot to land without breaking anything. Other ways include just scaling the fence and going in that way, but… the front is watched more closely than the top.

Desmond checks the straps of his hidden blades and then makes a decision. This is going to be a full on raid. With that many guards there wouldn't be enough time to get stuff out of his backpack in the heat of the moment – he needs everything at hand.

So, quickly and quietly, he swings the backpack down, opens it, and starts rearranging everything into an utility belt instead. Throwing knifes, dagger, bombs, drugs, needles, darts… the gun he already had tucked in a holster under his hoodie, but he switches it to the hip holster instead. Hopefully he wouldn't have to use it. Guns are so loud.

With that done, Desmond swings the much lighter backpack onto his back again, and then takes the power line at a run. The closer he gets to the complex the more he knows about it, getting a sense of rooms and distances and the movement of people inside. Philip, it feels like, is almost right in the middle of the building. Whoever has him, and it's starting to look very much like it's against his will, is keeping him well clear of all nearby exits, it feels like.

Question is, can he get inside without interacting or killing anyone and get Philip out, and do it without causing alarm? With this many guards… he doubts it.

All the guards glow red, but he doesn't know these people – doesn't know what they're about. They don't look like gang members or gangsters or criminals, is the problem. Terrorists maybe, but… he's not sure. It's hard to say if there'd be consequences to killing them.

Better withhold the lethal force, this once.

Desmond slips into the building through a broken window and, crouched low, he makes towards the nearest guard. The guy is standing by a window, a machine gun at the ready – if he fired it even once, it would be a mess, so Desmond doesn't let him. Silent, he sneaks up at the guy and then, in a quick thrust stabs a needle in the guy's neck, injecting a dose before he can do more than jerk.

The guy sways and then goes down like a sack of potatoes – Desmond catches him quickly before he can make noise, and drags him back into the shadows. He'd have one hell of a hangover in eight hours once he woke up, but until then he'd be dead to the world.

The next guard is walking around back and forth in a length of the corridor. Desmond waits behind a corner until the guy is walking away and has his back to him before throwing a dart, right at his open neck – the guy stumbles a little and lifts a hand to feel at the dart confusedly. He goes to say something to a comm – to a subcutaneous comm, it looks like – but stops as Desmond makes a run for him. Desmond catches the confused, swaying guy, puts a hand on his mouth, and waits as the guy stares at him in bleary astonishment. Ten seconds, and the sedative runs its course – the guy goes limp. Quickly, Desmond drags him away, and, collecting the dart as he goes.

Two down, and judging by the looks of it, about a five more to go.

Better get to it.

The next guy is more nervous than the first two, looking around every which way and keeping his finger on the trigger a little too tightly for Desmond's tastes. So, he's forced to take the guy from below, hanging off a baluster of a stairwell until the guy walks closer to him and then sticking a needle into him when he passes by. Desmond just barely gets the gun away from him before he can fire a nervous burst of shots – aiming it back at the guy, Desmond waits until he goes down before discarding the firearm and moving on.

Next guard goes down quietly enough, and then the rest start cluing in on the fact that their guys are going silent. They get nervous, rush to check – it gets him the fifth guy easy enough, which leaves still a couple more, and instead of going out to check on their fallen, they barricade themselves near the centre – where Philip is. There's a lot of comm chatter, Desmond can hear it echoing as they talk,

"The location is compromised, I repeat, the location is compromised. Someone is in here and they've already taken out – "

They're making an actual barricade in one of the corridors, upturning tables and lockers to make covers for themselves. Desmond watches them through a wall and considers his options.

Then he picks a smoke bomb from his hip, aims carefully, and throws it right between the two barricades blocking the corridor. It breaks and bursts on impact, covering both impromptu walls in smoke, and without wasting a second Desmond runs right in.

He gets first guy with a sleeping dart – the last, a young woman, swings around to him with a machine gun, and fires, coughing and sputtering and wild, into the smoke. It lights up the smoke brightly, the muzzle flashes, and for a moment blinds Desmond's Eagle Vision – but it's not a hit.

If nothing else, that tells him that whoever these guys are, they're not playing around. Maybe he should've used lethal force, after all.

Still, he started out pacifistic, he's ending it that way too. While the woman fires where she thinks Desmond is, Desmond ducks low and quickly gets behind her. She shouts something, "What happened to not taking a life?!" and then Desmond knocks her out with a quick blow to the back of the head, snatching the machine gun from her hands so that she can't accidentally fire it again as she falls. This time, he doesn't bother catching the enemy – she shot a gun at him, let her suffer the cracked knees for it.

With the machine gun in hand, Desmond waits, listening and watching. The facility is quiet – he's pretty sure he got them all. Still, now that he knows these people aren't above shooting others…

Turning the safety on, Desmond swings the machine gun strap over his head, letting the gun hang from his back. Then, after collecting the sleeping dart, he turns to the door they'd been guarding, and gets out his lock picks.

The door leads to a set of offices and locked rooms – Desmond finds Philip in one of them, in a bathroom, strapped to an wheelchair with an IV leading to his arm and what looks like a catheter bag, hanging off the side.

"Holy shit," Desmond says looking at him, while Philip lifts his head, looking a little bleary. His hair is down and his face is sweaty – his face is bruised and pupils are blown. Not only is he strapped in a wheelchair in what looks like a setup meant to keep him alive for a long while, but they'd given him something. Whoever these guys are – Desmond really should've killed them.

"Philip?" Desmond says, quickly going to him. "Philip, can you hear me?"

"What – Desmond," Philip says, looking at him and then making the worst face Desmond thinks he's seen anyone make. It's miserable, heartbroken expression before Philip hangs his head, his hair falling over his face. "Not you, not him. Fuck you – I liked Desmond, why him – he didn't even have a T.E.L.L. –"

"Philip, are you alright?" Desmond asks, taking his head between his hands and looking at him. "They've given you something, do you know what?"

"Mmm, a bit of heroin and a bit of that shit that they use on Historians," Philip says, glaring at him. "Suppose you know all about it. Where's my team?"

"I don't know," Desmond says, confused, and looks up. He can't hear it or see it, but he can sense – there's a car that's just driven to the front. "We need to move – do you think you can – " he hesitates, looking down at the catheter bag. Probably no time to get that shit out safely. "Right," he says and then grabs his lock picks, getting Philip's hands free. "Can you get the IV out?"

"Mm, needles," Philip mumbles, swallowing. "Hate fucking needles – yeah –"

While he gets the needle out with shaking fingers, Desmond gets his feet free, and then checks the catheter bag. Almost empty, good. Desmond sets it in Philip's lap and the moment Philip gets the IV off he scoops the guy up from the chair and into his arms.

"What the –" Philip says, flailing a little. "Whoa, man –"

"It's quicker," Desmond says. "And we're about to have more company."

Philip latches on him with surprise and confusion as Desmond turns and leaves the wheelchair and the IV behind, running out of the room and out of the offices and to the corridor where the smoke has finally passed.

"Thought I heard gunshots," Philip mumbles to his shoulder. "Did you kill 'em? 001 isn't here, it was just the henchgirl, Dawn. Bet she likes that name, all symbolic. The nearer the dawn the darker the night."

"What?" Desmond asks, stepping over the unconscious bodies.

"Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Not my favourite," Philip says. "Each time dawn appears, the mystery is in there in its entirety. Rene Daumal. That's better. There – there is only one day left, always starting over: it is given to us at dawn and taken away from us at dusk. Jean-Paul Sa-Satre – "

Desmond tunes him out, running for the stairs. There are people streaming into the building now, and they all glow red – and he is not taking them on with Philip in his arms. Best way to go about this is the same way he came in – to the roof, over the power line, and away.

"D-Desmond didn't have a T.E.L.L.," Philip says then, his hand gripping tight at the back of Desmond's neck. "Did – did I change his future? Did someone attack him – did – how did he, did I cause it, did I –"

"Philip, I have no idea what you're talking about, but, please, be quiet. We're trying to escape," Desmond hisses to his ear.

"Did I kill you?" Philip asks brokenly.

"I'm still here now, please, shush."

Philip turns his head, burying his face in Desmond's shoulder. He's shaking lightly and as he draws a hitched, ragged breaths, it's obvious he's trying to stop himself from sobbing. Desmond winces a bit at that, but – there's no time.

There's shouting on the lower floors as Desmond finally breaks his way to the roof and makes for the power line.

Chapter Text

Philip loses track of time. The guy who's hijacked Desmond's body seems to know what he's doing, and he dispatched what looked like half a dozen members of the Faction all by himself, so he has to be competent. Tactician at least, if not a full-on team leader – or could be solo operative. Probably the latter. Solos tend to get very specialised training for their very specialised mission, and if this one's mission was to rescue Philip, then – then –

He still smells like Desmond. Desmond uses unscented soaps, Philip has noticed – he doesn't even smell like soap, just like a person. Skin, hair, sweat, the hint of laundry detergent, even that unscented. No change there yet, though it would probably change soon. Travelers tend to by rote wash much less than 21ers, because water rationing is something that's hard to shake. Philip has yet to take a shower longer than 4 minutes long, because it makes his skin crawl to use that much water. He's still never had a full on bath in a bathtub.

He'd like one now, just opulent, luxurious, wasteful long hot bath, with fucking bath bombs and candles and overall wastefulness. 21st has the water and the wealth for that shit, and he could really use a bath. It can't have been that long, but he feels dirty.

They are moving. It feels like rolling waves of a lake, or what he imagines the ocean to feel like – just up and down with the swell of the wave. They come crashing down with all the force of gravity – had the guy jumped? Philip tries to get his head in order, but he's distracted by a bead of sweat, rolling down the side of Desmond's neck, snagging on hairs of his skin. His stubble is grating against Philip's hairline. Philip kind of wants to curl into it and forget and pretend, but he can't, can't, can't because Historian never forgets anything. It's just the future, changing.

Desmond didn't have a T.E.L.L.

"I think we're far enough away now," the guy says with Desmond's smooth, friendly voice and crouches down. Philip can feel his own weight settling on Desmond's knees – there's a wall at Desmond's back as he slowly collapses to sit down. He's not sure where they are, but Desmond – the guy in Desmond's body – is still holding him. Philip can smell clean air and there's a slight breeze – they're still outside.

He doesn't want to look, doesn't want to acknowledge this reality. Even a vision of an alternate one would be better.

"Are you hurt?" the guy asks and Philip squeezes his eyes shut. He sounds like Desmond. He's breathing hard, too, so the run did affect him at least a little.

"Aside from the high and the – crap they put in me," Philip says. "Just got some bruises."

"Let me take a look at you –"

"No," Philip answers, but pulls back at the guy's urging, letting him touch his face. He's in the guy's lap, cuddled close, it's warm and it's wrong, and part of Philip wants to crawl deeper into it and other wants to crawl away and over the edge of the rooftop and down – "Are we on a rooftop?" Philip asks, blinking his eyes open.

"You'd be surprised how rarely people look for escapees on rooftops," the guy in Desmond's body agrees, touching the side of his face and examining the bruises. "How's your head?"

"High," Philip asks. "Don't have a concussion if that's what you mean. What's your number?"

"What, my phone number?" the guy asks, blinking, turning his amber eyes to his.

Philip glares at him. "Not funny."

The guy blows out a breath and shakes his head. "No, this isn't, not at all," he agrees, pushing Philip's hair back and Philip searches his eyes, confused. Is this someone he knew in the future? He's forgotten most of them – made to forget, for mental health reasons – but there were some people he was close to, he almost remembers some of them. Is this someone who knows him?

Philip pulls back, uneasy and confused and looks away. "Can you take me back to Ops? I assume you know where our Ops is? Marcy should be there, Marcy can take care of me."

"… alright," the guy in Desmond's body says, frowning. "I assume you mean that garage?"

Philip nods and then frowns. "I can probably walk, actually," he says and then looks down. He's got a catheter bag in his lap. "Ugh, can get that out there too."

The guy says nothing for moment. "Yeah, I don't feel like letting you walk yet," he decides and then pushes up. It seems to take a bit more effort now – adrenaline no longer pumping, probably. They're about the same height, and Desmond is kind of on the skinnier side. Still, he manages it, which is impressive and such a fucking waste, Philip really wanted to – and now he can't, because who even is this guy, he doesn't want to know.

The guy holds him close again, lifting him slightly into a more comfortable position, and then with purpose he starts to walk. Philip blows out a breath and leans his cheek on his shoulder and says nothing at all.

Time blurs, flexes as is stretches and snaps taut, and after a ocean's worth of waving – and stairs? – they're on the familiar territory. The guy is walking – he was running, was jogging – breathing forcedly steady as he moves, and ahead there's the alley leading to Ops. Home.

Philip is warm in all the places Desmond's body touches him – and cold everywhere it isn't. It's confusing his head and his heart and every other part of him too. And he still got a catheter going into his dick. Ugh. He wants to crawl into Desmond's skin and sleep all the while wanting to never see him again.

The door to Ops is thrown open before they make it, Trevor and Marcy rushing out together, MacLaren right behind them. "Philip!" Trevor shouts while Marcy goes to check his face.

"How the hell – " MacLaren asks, making a move as if to go for his gun.

"Show me your eyes," Marcy says, tugging at Philip's cheek. Philip turns to her blearily and she lets out an aborted, frustrated sigh. "They gave you something."

"Second verse same as the first," Philip answers and leans into her cool hands and then back against Desmond's shoulder and he kind of feels like throwing up. "Less than the first time, though – think – think they learned from last time."

"Let's get you inside and lying down," Marcy says. "So I can take a closer look at you."

"Wait, wait – who's he?" MacLaren demands, looking at the guy in Desmond's body. "And how the hell –"

"He's a Traveler, boss," Philip says wearily and closes his eyes. "I'm thinking the Director sent him."

The guy in Desmond's body clears his throat and says nothing to that. "There was something about getting Philip to lie down somewhere," he says almost plaintively. "I've been carrying him across the most of the city – he's getting kinda heavy."

"Here," Marcy says and bulldozes over everyone in the way, leading the guy – and by connection Philip – inside. The Ops is the same since he left, and Philip throws a quick look at the desk where Poppy's terrarium is – she looks good – and then Marcy is pointing Desmond to the gurney and Philip is laid down. It's gentle.

He kind of hates that the guy is gentle.

"What happened?" MacLaren asks. "How did you find him? How did you get him out?"

"Did 001 leave him behind?" Carly asks, somewhere million miles away.

Marcy is pointing a penlight into Philip's eyes, blinding him, and then her hands are on his face again, checking his bruises. "Concussion?" she asks gently.

"Didn't feel like it," Philip answers, blinking lazily at him. "Did you pull an all-nighter?" he's pretty sure it's morning outside now, it had started lightening up towards the end there.

"Yeah, we did," Marcy says, giving him a smile. "Good Historians are hard to find. Are you alright? He carried you all the way here – were you injured?"

Philip shakes his head and then presses his lips together, casting a glance at the guy in Desmond's body, who is sitting down, rubbing his eyes. Looks like carrying him across the city was harder on the guy than he'd realized – Desmond's hands are shaking a little, and he's pretty sweaty. It's a good look on Desmond – not good on… whoever this guy is.

"I would love to get rid of the catheter," Philip admits. "Can you get me a syringe so that I can go do that? In the bathroom?" where he could maybe have a small breakdown in private while at it.

"I can do it," Marcy offers, giving him a sympathetic look. "You don't have to."

"No, I know how to do it now," Philip says and pushes up a little. "Please."

Marcy looks him over and then nods, getting a rubber capped syringe for catheter removal and then helps him down from the gurney. The guy in Desmond's body looks up but says nothing as Philip stumbles to the bathroom, carrying the damn urine bag with him as he goes. Getting a door between them helps, a little.

In the privacy of the closed door, Philip pulls at his hair and bows his head and for a moment just breathes through it, in and out, in and out. Getting the catheter out gives him a moment of distraction – and ugh, he is never ever getting used to the feeling of having a fucking pipe sliding out of his dick. Fuck 001 and his insidiously effective methods of keeping prisoners.

Fuck everything.

Fuck this whole damn day.

Philip throws the catheter and the bag into garbage, the syringe along with them. With shaking hands he washes his face, pushing water through his hair until it sticks back on it's own and then, finally, he looks at his own face.

He looks like himself – like trained, he's become Philip Pearson down to his core. He can barely even remember being anyone else. Same would happen to the guy in Desmond's body now – soon he would think, no matter what anyone said to him, that he is Desmond Miles. He'd stop doing all the things Desmond did, he would fuck up Miles to go completely, he'd be wrong. And whoever Desmond Miles was before him… that's inconsequential, meaningless. Not part of the Grand Plan.

Fuck, this must be what Trevor felt with Grace Day. No wonder he'd done what he'd done – if Philip had known Desmond's T.E.L.L., he definitely would've taken him into the woods and out of electronic range and fuck the consequences.

Too late now. It's all… too late now.

Philip hangs his head and then pushes away from the sink. Panic attack averted – time to face the music.

Outside the bathroom, everyone looks a little tense and confused. MacLaren is glaring at the guy in Desmond's body, the guy in Desmond's body is rubbing a hand over his neck looking awkward, Carly looks like she wants to draw a gun, Trevor looks to him and he looks so sympathetic it hurts, and Marcy just looks tense and ready for anything.

Something's wrong.

"You know we've seen Faction members pretending to be sanctioned Travelers before," MacLaren is saying. "And you're not doing much to help your case here. Even if your mission is Protocol Alpha, you can at least give us your Traveler ID so that we can verify it on the DeepWeb, right?"

The guy in Desmond's body looks at Philip, looking him over and relaxing a little. "Yeah, no," he says and shrugs with a wry smile. "Probably a bad point to admit this, but I really have no idea what any of you are talking about."

"… what?" Carly asks.

"Yeah," Desmond says. "My name is Desmond Miles. I'm not a, uh, traveler."

There's a moment of confusion. Philip isn't the only one who glances towards the security cameras – all of which are going. Desmond is in view of two of them, and Philip knows they can pick up his face, he installed them himself. But nothing happens.

Carly takes out a gun, not quite aiming it at Desmond but definitely holding it at the ready.

"Then who the hell are you?" MacLaren demands.

"A bartender," Desmond says and smiles a little, looking at Philip.

Philip blinks, sluggish, at him.

"But – how the hell did you find Philip then?" Carly demands, her hand flexing on the gun. "If we couldn't find him – the only way you would be able to do that is if someone let you find him, or if you knew where he was. There is no way a bartender can do that without insider help."

"I'm good at finding things," Desmond says, his eyes still on Philip. "Wasn't always a bartender. We all got our histories."

He looks like Desmond. He sounds like Desmond. He even folds his arms like Desmond – it looks friendly, almost boyish, when he folds his arms, less like he's trying to look intimidating or stern or anything, but more like he's trying to contain some weird bubbling excitement inside himself, and -

"… Desmond?" Philip asks faintly.

"Yeah, Philip?"

"But how did you even know Philip was in danger?" Carly demands, sounding confused and angry because of it. "How did you know about any of it? Trevor told you - "

Philip blinks and looks up. "Trevor told him what?" he asks, trying to keep up. His world seems to be spinning, again.

"He came out here looking for you last night, about six hours ago," Trevor says, looking thoughtful and worried. "I told him you had a family thing to throw him off. I thought I had thrown him off, he left right after."

"What can I say, I know better liars than you, Trevor," Desmond says, leaning back a little. "It wasn't that big of a leap to figure out that something was wrong."

"And from that you decided you had to intervene?" MacLaren asks incredulously and then shakes his head. "But how did you find Philip? And how did you get him away? Did they let you, or –?"

Desmond looks at Philip, shrugging his shoulders. "I got my ways," he says.

"But –"

"Desmond, you killed those people?" Philip asks, cutting in before MacLaren can speak. "You?" Desmond and not some highly trained Traveler solo operative?

Everyone in the Ops goes quiet, looking between him and Desmond. "Philip, explain?" MacLaren demands.

"When we were escaping, I saw bodies," Philip says, his eyes still on Desmond. "At least half a dozen. Dawn was one of them. Desmond – killed them."

"Actually no, I didn't," Desmond shakes his head and reaches for his utility belt – immediately Carly trains her gun at him, which makes Desmond only glance up before he takes something out of the pouches. A throwing dart of sorts. "They're loaded with a pretty potent anaesthetic," he says, flipping the dart between his fingers with alarming dexterity. "I did have to knock one of them out – the girl you called Dawn, I think? Everyone else got about… four more hours before they wake up."

"A sleeping dart," MacLaren asks incredulously.

"Can I take a look at that?" Marcy asks, stepping forward.

Desmond hands it over, feather end first. "Be my guest," he says. "It's hand made from readily available materials though, you won't be able to trace it back to anywhere."

"I just want to check the anaesthetic," Marcy says, turning away and heading to the back, to analyze the dart.

"Wait – three hours. You mean they're still there?" Carly asks. "Wherever you found Philip?"

"Might be, I don't know. There were more people coming in while I was getting Philip out of there, so I doubt it," Desmond admits. "I can give you the location, though, if it's important."

"Yeah, it's kind of important," MacLaren says, still sounding more than little disbelieving. "Just who the hell are you?"

"Told you, a bartender," Desmond says, giving the guy a sweet smile. "Just a bartender."

"Philip?" MacLaren says, turning to him. "Who is this guy?"

"He's uh – sort of a treasure hunter?" Philip says, a bit confusedly, eying Desmond. "He used to work for an art restoration and procurement company with what I assume is… raiding historical archaeological sites for riches."

"… so he's a thief," MacLaren says flatly.

"A historical artefact and art thief," Philip offers, as if that makes it better.

Desmond looks a little taken aback by that – even slightly insulted – but the fact that he doesn't argue is pretty telling.

"That's some heavy armament for a thief," Carly says, motioning her gun at Desmond's hip – at the gun he has strapped there, as well as the long dagger and what looks actual throwing knifes.

"I like to be prepared," Desmond says, shrugging. "You never know."

"Mind taking the gun out and putting it on the floor?"

"I actually do mind. It's mine, I've got a permit for it and everything," Desmond says, frowning. "And you're pointing a gun at me, which is not making me feel very secure."

There's a moment of tense silence before MacLaren makes a call. "Carly," he says, waving a hand and then turning to Desmond. "Okay, we appreciate what you did, we're grateful to have Philip back, believe me. But why?" he asks, shaking his head. "Why risk your life like that?"

Desmond glances at him, waiting until Carly puts her gun away and then shrugs. "I like him," he says. "He was in trouble, so I did what I could do to help. It's what I do with people I like."

"But – going against an unknown enemy force, armed and dangerous enemy force? Just like that?" MacLaren asks, shaking his head. Desmond just shrugs, turning to look at Philip again. MacLaren looks between them and blows out a breath. "Okay. I'd like to know the location where you found Philip, please."

Desmond gives it, still looking at Philip and Trevor goes to check it on the computers. "Got it, boss," he says. "Old industrial building, no CCTV though."

MacLaren considers them, looking between Philip and Desmond and then looking at Carly. "Carly, you're with me," he says. "The rest of you – deal with… this," he motions to Desmond.

"Well, that's ominous," Desmond says, arching his brows, while Carly goes to grab one of her gun cases and Marcy steps up to take her place as the next-in-line where gun-toting goes. She is their third best shot, after all. Moments later, MacLaren and Carly are out of the door, the van starting outside and then driving off.

"So," Desmond says, looking between Philip, Trevor and Marcy. "Is this the point where I should be running for my life?" He doesn't get up though, sitting there all relaxed, arms loosely folded, looking almost giddy in a way. "Can I have five minutes to recover before that? My knees are still kind of shaking."

"Desmond," Philip says.

"No offence, you're in a delightful shape, Philip, but you try carrying someone for fifteen miles or so over rooftops, and –" he goes abruptly quiet as Philip marches over to him, and now he looks a little nervous. "Philip?"

Philip looks down at him. "Desmond," he says, searching his face.

"That's my name, yeah," Desmond agrees. "Hi."

He's still sweaty, his short hair plastered close to the skull by drying sweat. There are weapons strapped to his waist, and Philip is pretty sure he might have grenades there too. That's telling – thief, Philip thinks, is the wrong distinction here. But he doesn't care. It's Desmond.

Desmond tentatively reaches one hand to touch Philip's side, and Trevor and Marcy are both staring at them, but Philip doesn't care. He's crashing down now, he's crashing hard, and without further thought he just sort of collapses on Desmond, stumbling into his lap and throwing his arms around him. Desmond is still for a moment with surprise, but he gets on with the program quickly, his arms wrapping around Philip tightly, pulling him close.

"Hi, Philip," Desmond murmurs against his shoulder, his arms secure and warm around Philip's back, containing his shuddering. "I'm glad you're okay."

They're probably going to have to give him a memory inhibitor or something, but – he's still Desmond. He's still Desmond.

And for once, everything is almost alright.

Chapter Text

Desmond wakes up with the feel of someone driving a spike through his head. It's just about the worst headache he's felt since – well, since Lucy made him drag Ezio's entire Ancestral Line through his head and force it into a memory drive. Like someone drove a train carrying sledge hammers right through his head. Holy fucking shit.

Swallowing around the taste of morning breath, Desmond peeps one eye warily open, gauging how bad it hurts. Bad is the short answer, not as bad as it could is the other short answer. Somewhere in between of kill me now and this is survivable.

"… the fuck," he murmurs. He doesn't get headaches like these anymore. Dizzy spells, sure, moments of confusion, paranoia, constant visual and auditory hallucinations, of course… but not headaches. His brain has sort of gotten reinforced against them, with the prolonged Animus usage. He'd built up a sort of – tolerance for brain related shit. This feels… this feels. Bad.

Closing his eyes and rubbing his fingers over his forehead, Desmond tries to remember what the fuck might've caused this. The last thing he remembers… the last thing…

He doesn't remember going to bed – which is where he is now. He remembers vaguely being at the bar – with, uh… Ben and Jerome? And two new faces, one of them had taken a bath in the bathroom, he'd meant to clean up after her. Had he? He can't remember. He can't remember closing the bar. He can't really remember anything aside from tending to the bar and looking to the door, waiting, hoping to see Philip…

Sighing, Desmond lets his hand drop and then cranes his neck to look at the window and gauge the time of day. Past noon, judging by the light. Then his eyes land on shadows standing over his bed and he sighs. "Can't headache be enough?" he asks. "Do we have to do this too?"

There's six people standing over him. Altaïr and Ezio are the closest, white shaded shadows with their faces hidden – Ezio is smiling at him, dark, and Altaïr looks displeased. On the other side there's Connor and Haytham, the latter looking away from him. Edward, somewhere behind them, not paying much attention to Desmond. Arno, still a little faint around the edges, is sitting by the foot of the bed, slouched.

"Christ," Desmond mutters and them and covers his eyes with his arms. "Not today, guys, seriously. Fuck off."

He lets a minute pass, then another, trying to feel around the gap in his memories. That's a new problem for him, not remembering something. How utterly thrilling and unpleasant. Feeling around his head carefully, he makes sure he's not gotten hit over the head or anything. He doesn't feel concussed – just like his brain's leaked out of his ears or something. He also feels like… like he's been working out, a bit. There's strain in his arms, his biceps and pectorals sore, like he'd been carrying something. Had he gotten into a fight?

He needs to check the bar. If there was something, if something happened…

Desmond hesitates for moment, waiting for the spike through his head to pass, but – lying down doesn't seem to be making the headache any better. So with a groan he gets up, swaying for a moment and rubbing at his aching eyes before looking down at himself. He'd gotten to bed clothed.

And he has a hoodie on. "What?" Desmond mutters, tugging at his hoodie and then looking at his wrists. Sitting up straighter with a speed that makes his head throb even harder, Desmond tilts his wrists until twin blades shriek out of their sheaths.

He's got his blades on.

"What the fuck?" Desmond breathes quietly. They don't look bloodied, but the fact that he has them on is bad enough.

His ancestors are still there, watching him seriously – side-eyed in Arno's and Haytham's case, but they're all still there. That's bad too. Ezio and Altaïr step back when Desmond stands up, making room. When Desmond steps out of his bedroom, the whole damn group follows him.

Something's wrong. He's all geared up – he wouldn't have done that for no reason.

Stumbling a little, Desmond checks his living room. His backpack is there, utility belt stuffed in – checking it with slightly shaking hands, Desmond finds he's missing a few sleeping darts. Counting them, Desmond rubs at his temple and tries to remember what the fuck he did the night before. What would he use sleeping darts for? He doesn't remember having anything on, no one had came up to him with issues, the area around his bar has been pretty calm lately… even Varghese had gotten the point…

Setting his kit down, Desmond gets up and then, stumbling, heads off to bathroom to throw up.

The bar is fine, it turns out. He's closed it normally, judging by the looks of it – he's even cleaned up a bit, though. Tables are cleared, the floor needs to be swept maybe, but aside from that… it all looks fine. Not too many customers the day before, though – only so many glasses have been used. Well, there have been quieter nights.

Desmond sets the dishwasher and goes to wash the bathroom, going about it slowly as he tries to remember what happened. Had someone came in, or…

"You know, you could be helpful for once and just tell me what you saw," Desmond comments to the ghosts of his ancestor – Edward is standing by the bathroom door, grinning at him as Desmond scrubs the toilet. "Yeah, screw you too, asshole."

Of course, they're not actually there. They're just figments of his Animus-addled imagination. Genetic memory demanding its due space in his head – and since he can't be those people anymore, they manifest themselves in other ways. Utterly useless ways. Would be much handier if they were actual ghosts with perception beyond what he could perceive – then he could actually get something out of his delusions.

But no, the most he gets is a very awkward audience on the days when he really doesn't need one.

Desmond sighs, rinses the toilet, cleans the drain, and then washes his hands. Glancing up at the mirror, he almost winces at himself. His eyes are bloodshot and he looks pale. Nice. Today will be the day he will scare all his customers away. With any hope Philip wouldn't come around today, he'd make the worst impression looking like this. Well, Philip has probably seen worse, but…

"Did I kill you?"

Desmond winces a little, closing his eyes as his throat throbs with a strange sort of echo of pain. He can almost feel something, a fading reverberation of an emotion, but…

Fuck, his head hurts.

Drying his hands, Desmond steps away from the bathroom, and looks over his bar, squinting. Echoes, echoes… if something happened at the bar, there'd be echoes. Afterimages. Connor is walking to the middle of the floor space and crouching down– reaching down as if to check animal tracks. Desmond blinks at him and then he sees it, the echoes.

Philip sheds psychic residue powerfully enough that it rubs on other people, it seems like. Like he's a light source, he's making others visible too. A young guy with a buzz cut, who's carrying someone on his shoulders in a fireman's carry. Someone being… Desmond.

"What…?" Desmond mumbles, watching the echo pass through the room, walking over Connor's ghost and towards the backroom – towards the staircase leading upstairs and to Desmond's apartment. The glow Philip casts fades and leaves behind the steps they'd taken, nothing more. Slowly, suspiciously, Desmond follows.

Philip and the other guy had brought him in, unconscious, and dumped him on his bed, Philip looking elsewhere all the while. Philip carried his backpack while the other guy carried Desmond himself – after dumping the backpack in the living room, he all but tucks Desmond into bed, fully clothed and strange. They talk, Philip and the other guy, but voice doesn't linger the same way, Desmond can't hear what they're saying.

They both look beaten up – Philip looks miserable. When the buzz-cut turns to go, Philip lingers, grasping Desmond's hand for a while. Then he rises, and leaves, smearing psychic residue by the door and then… then he's gone.

Desmond sits back on his bed where Philip had sat and rubs a hand over his forehead, watching the smear of gold on the floor. His ancestors have dispersed now, for the most part – Ezio is still lingering, but Ezio never really goes anywhere. Usually he's easier to ignore though, but today he's especially bright. Whatever happened, it… it feels almost as if it's knocked something in Desmond's head loose.

And that something involves Philip, somehow.

Desmond closes his eyes, thinking, trying to remember. Last time he'd seen Philip, the guy had to leave in a hurry – he'd lied about his pet and there'd been… there'd been a sound inside of him. A comm, subcutaneous. Desmond had sworn not to snoop and he hadn't  but before that, he'd ran Philip's DNA and it came out off and then…

For a moment Desmond lets the dead-end thought play out in his head, trying to reach a conclusion. Something happened, and he's forgotten. And Philip's involved. That's… probably not good. The whole subcutaneous comm thing kind of implied things, though what sort of things he has no idea, but now…

The one time he decides he maybe likes a guy, something happens, doesn't it? Shit.

"Shit," Desmond says out loud. His head is still pounding and it's showing no signs of stopping anytime soon. Should not be doing this with a headache, but… he's forgotten something. No other way around it, is there?

With a sigh, Desmond reaches for his bedside table, rummaging through the drawer there until he finds the bottle of painkillers. Like always, he checks the label – it's by a company named Sanofi, not Abstergo. Shaking his head, Desmond downs couple of capsules and then gets up.

For the third time in as many days, it's time to fire up the Animus.

"Philip," the blond woman says, sounding concerned and tense.

"I know," Philip says against Desmond's shoulder, not looking up. "I know – I know. Let me handle it, okay?"

She hesitates, glancing at Trevor who looks like he's between stepping forward and stepping back, full of anxious energy. The woman clears her throat, giving Philip's back an uneasy look. "Are you sure?" she asks quietly.

"Still have to question him, don't we?" Philip asks and sighs. "Can you give me a moment, guys?" Philip asks. "I can do it."

"You don't have to," the woman says. "Philip, it's much easier if you don't get too involved, you know, –"

"Yeah, because you're the one to speak about not getting involved," Phil snaps at her and then winces. "Sorry. Just – give me a moment here."

The two share a look, still looking worried. "Alright," the blonde woman says. She reaches forward and squeezes Philip's shoulder. "We'll be on the other side, okay," she says, looking a bit tense but stepping back.

"Yeah, call us if you need anything," the buzz-cut kid says, giving Philip's back a sort of wincing smile.

They move back to sit by a table near the other end – close enough to still hear, but far enough to give an illusion of privacy. While they pretend not to be listening and watching, Desmond looks around. While actually there and in the present, he'd glanced over the place superficially – garage with all sort of techy gear was cool, no doubt about it, but he hadn't really taken a moment to look. Now, with Animus, time stretches out and freezes – it's his turn to speak next, and for as long as he doesn't, he can look.

The garage looks old, but the tech is new. Really new. Desmond's seen the best present time has to offer where it comes to technology – even now no one can really beat an Animus – but this comes close. A whole wall preserved for what looks like a half supercomputer processor and half some sort of futuristic switch board. There's screens here and there, and there's a reflection of one on a window of an office booth – which looks like it's been made into a bedroom. The screen is covered in weird code.

There's cameras in the place – three that Desmond can see from his angle on the bench. He remembers the people – Philip's team of Travelers – looking at them when they realised Desmond wasn't one of them.

It's a bit much for some sort of underground movement. Some sort of hacktivist group from a TV show maybe might have computer set up something like this, but – what he'd seen with Philip's kidnapping, what he'd observed so far… plus, he's pretty sure the guy in the suit was some sort of a government bureau suit. Definitely looked the part.

Desmond peers over Philip's shoulder at the computer desk and smiles, both in memory and in the reality. There's a big terrarium full of fake plants there, couple of heat lamps aimed at it – he can just barely see the shell of a turtle past the fake leaves. Someone's written Poppy on the glass with red marker.

So, Philip wasn't lying about that, at least.

Desmond lets the memory resume.

"Is this my cue to start demanding to know what the hell is going on?" Desmond asks, turning his head a little and nudging at Philip's cheek with his own. He's smiling in the memory, nonchalant and calm.

Philip's hands tighten at his back, twisting at the fabric of his hoodie. "How did you find me?"

"I got my ways," Desmond says. "I'm good at finding things. Finding treasures."

Philip lets out a noise that's half complaint and half a laugh and pulls back. His hands clutch on Desmond's shoulder, tightening and relaxing, almost kneading at him. He looks flushed – still feeling the effect of the heroin. "That's bullshit and you know it," Philip says, shifting his weight in Desmond's lap. "Who are you?"

"Who are you?" Desmond asks, smiling and leaning his forehead against Philip's. The other two are watching them from the back, and judging by the way the blond rolls her eyes and the buzzcut grins at them, it looks just as sappy as it feels like.

Philip makes a face and then closes his eyes. There's a hint of a smile on his face, and it looks pained.

Desmond lets his eyes bleed into Eagle Vision, and Philip still glows gold in his hold, so brilliant that he works as a source of light. The other two are much the same, really. Each and every one of these people, whoever they are, are important.

"I have some skills," Desmond says quietly, smiling. "Very particular skills."

"You sound like a movie trailer," Philip mutters.

Desmond grins. "So says the time traveller."

Philip goes still and shudders, opening his eyes. "What?"

"Travelers," Desmond points out, arching his brows. "You know, like that crackpot on TV, what's his face… Rockwell? He had some crazy conspiracy theory about time travellers, a while ago. Called them Travelers."

He hadn't paid much attention to the whole thing, really – Shaun had gotten a kick out of it, though, and then gone into a rant about space time continuum, like that even means anything anymore. Considering what their lives have been so far, time travellers from the future might as well be a thing. Desmond's really got no leg to stand on, judging anyone about time travel. But… he hadn't really believed it. With Abstergo gone…

But now there's this. And Philip's and Joella/Liliana's DNA profiles, with their double dates of birth, one of which were set in the future.

Philip draws a breath and then sighs, relaxing a little in Desmond's arms. "Yeah, that's right," he says, grinning like it's a joke. "That's just what we are. Body snatching time travellers from the future. This is our secret hideout."

Desmond hums, watching him. "I should probably tell you that I can usually tell when people are lying," he says. "And that… didn't sound like a lie to me."

Philip swallows, looking at him seriously, his eyes flickering between Desmond's irises like he's trying to peer inside. Then he looks away, past his shoulder – at the blond woman and Trevor, who are both watching them from the other side. Both of them look serious. The woman is giving him a very pointed look.

"I think I should go lay down," Philip says, distant and unhappy, and gets up. "Come on."

Desmond follows amiably enough, while behind them the woman gets up and goes to get something - a judging by the casing it is in, it's medical. Desmond hesitates over it, but it's too far away to take a proper look at, so he casts a glance across the garage before letting Philip lead him into the little office booth. There's a bed there and it looks surprisingly cosy, with colourful duvets and throws and several pillows. There's a bookshelf there too, a desk, all the usual stuff – it looks very lived in. It looks very Philip.

Desmond's tempted to pause the memory again, just to have a closer look at the books, but… Philip is sitting down on the bed, running shaking hands over his face and up in his hair. When he looks up, his eyes look impossibly big – and sad.

Desmond crouches down, taking the guy's hands in his. "You don't have to tell me," he says.

Philip huffs out a breath, looking at their hands. "I'll show you mine if you show me yours?" he offers and then shakes his head, looking up at Desmond's face. "How did you find me? That's… that's more than just skill. My team was looking for me, and they couldn't find me. How did you?"

Desmond considers him, both in memory and in the reality. Obviously, Philip feels it's an unfair bargain – unfair for Desmond. Philip doesn't really know anything about him, though. "If I tell you the truth, will you hold it against me?" Desmond asks, smiling faintly.

"My truth is a lot worse than yours, trust me," Philip snorts.

Right. Desmond smiles, looking down at Philip's hands and rubbing his thumb over his knuckles. "I am an Assassin," he says.

Philip blinks and then his eyebrows lift. "I'm sorry?" he asks with disbelief.

"I'm an Assassin," Desmond says. "And I am very good at finding people when I need to find them. It's not something I do anymore, obviously, I'm very much retired these days – did my best to erase that part of my life. But you don't really forget that kind of skill set, you know."

"… an assassin?" Philip says again.

"Assassin," Desmond agrees. "Raised in a secret cult commune in the middle of nowhere in South Dakota and everything. It's about as ridiculous as it sounds like, really."

Philip stares at him for a long while like he's not sure if he believes him. Then he shakes his head in sort of, oh what the hell way. "I'm a time traveller from 25th century," he says flatly.

Desmond blinks. "Okay, that…" came out easier than he expected. It also explains why Philip knows jack-shit about common drinks. And board games, weirdly enough. "That's cool."

"You believe me," Philip says flatly. "You believe me? How do you believe me? No one ever believes me."

Desmond smiles sweetly at him. "I'm a very trusting person. And what can I say, I'm hanging off your every word. You could tell me you're from alternate reality and I'd believe you."

Philip shakes his head and then grabs Desmond by the sides of his face and kisses him. It's kind of painful, as kisses go – it's desperate, terribly desperate. Desmond rises to his knees and tries to calm it down a bit, but Philip feels urgent, almost frantic.

It feels almost like a goodbye.

"Hey," Desmond murmurs soothingly. "Come on now, it's okay…"

"It's not," Philip mumbles against his lips, his fingers almost clawing at the sides of Desmond's neck. "Gonna have to make you forget now – can't let anyone know because we've got Protocols, letting you know that - that breaks Protocol."

"Not gonna kill me though?" Desmond asks, wary. "How are you gonna make me forget?"

"We have a drug," Philip says, making a face. "It'll give you one hell of a headache and you'll forget the last twenty four hours."

A drug. It's risky, but… somehow it doesn't seem right to try and get into a fight with these guys over this. Not with how important whatever they are doing seems. Besides, while there's a lot of drugs that can addle the mind… there's not many that can do much about DNA.

"I'll take it over being killed, any day," Desmond says, feeling guilty and sort of vindictive all at once. Pushing it aside he moves up, kneeling over Philip, getting to his lap. While Philip draws a shaky breath, Desmond strokes his fingers into his loose hair. It feels smooth and slightly damp and greasy around his fingers. "While I remember, though, want to tell me about the future? What's it like?"

Philip lets out a sort of miserable laugh and draws him into the bed, lying down with an exhausted sigh. "Well," he says, urging Desmond closer. "The first time I saw real sunlight was when I got to the 21st…"

Of all the things Desmond forgot, he could've done without the guilt of making Philip share secrets he had no way of knowing Desmond would remember. But on the other hand, memory drug.

No good deed goes unpunished, it seems.

Chapter Text

Philip can't find anything about Desmond Miles the assassin. There are assassins aplenty in the world, some of them in the neighbourhood, but not a single Desmond Miles. The people from the Hasty Crane don't bring up any flags either. If there's anything there to find, it's hidden very well.

What he does find, after a lot and lot of digging, is a lot of the don't interfere orders from local members of organised crime. That, and a few ghost stories.

Philip had chosen the location for their base of operations carefully, and one of the reasons he decided on the garage was because the area was relatively quiet. Lot of abandoned buildings, not much of traffic, not much in way of local crime either. No gangs, no organised crime, there isn't even much in way of drugs moving in the area, the pace of just quiet. There's some homeless people, but that's about it. There are worse neighbourhoods in the city for homelessness too.

Now, after a day's worth of hacking and only one very blurry video to show for it, Philip starts to wonder if it was maybe for a reason. The video is of a man in white hoodie beating up a couple of bouncers from a club that used to be nearby, before heading off screen. It's the only proof anything at all happened – a week later there was an FBI bust in the place and the owner was arrested for drug trafficking, among other things. There were reports of some gang violence in the area after, but in the end, it had evaporated if into thin air. The area is now one of the few neutral zones on the outskirts, remarkable in how unremarkable it is.

And at the very heart of this zone of exclusion is Miles to go.

It's not a definite bit of proof, but it's closest he can get. There just isn't anything there to find. Obviously if Desmond really had been an assassin, he would have changed his name since, but even so… no one disappears like this. So either Desmond is – was – disturbingly good, or he was lying.

"You know you could just go and see him," Trevor comments. "That's what most people do, they go see people they love when they want to see them."

"I don't love him," Philip answers, glaring at the screen which refused to give him any answers.

"Sure you don't," Trevor says. "Still want to see him, though. I'm just saying, you should."

"After what happened?" Philip asks. "He saves my skin, arguably my life, and the thanks he gets is an amnesia? And you heard MacLaren – if he found out about us once, he might do it again – and whatever he is, he's not like Kathryn or David, he's not any old civilian, not if he could take on a whole bunch of the Faction like that and –"

"Phil," Trevor says, calm.

Philip shuts up and squeezes his hands into fists, drawing a shaky breath. Damn withdrawal – one single shot of heroin and here he is again, in a fucking withdrawal. "I don't want to risk ending up in a situation where I will have to drug him again," he says. "Once was bad enough." Quieter, he adds, "I don't know how MacLaren can do this."

"I think because ultimately Kathryn's presence in his life means more than the ease of losing her would give him," Trevor says. "Do you know how many people die each week, each day, from preventable causes?"

"I know exactly, thanks."

"How many of those people are loners with no family, no relationships, no one to miss them?" Trevor asks pointedly. "Still the Director chooses us hosts with connections more often than not. Families, spouses, children. Don't you think it's for a reason?"

"Don't look at me," Philip snorts. "My host is an addict with neglectful parents who still haven't tried to get in touch with him and we've been here how long? The only connection this host had was roommate, and he overdosed and died. Don't talk to me about what the Director in its infinite wisdom chooses for us, because if this was for a reason  I'm not seeing it –"

"The point I'm trying to make," Trevor cuts in, rising his voice a little, "is that we're all humans and usually even the Director sees that. We need connections, people we care about, people who love us. Whom we love. Take that out of our lives, and – it's not so good for us, is it?"

Philip presses his lips tightly together.

"In conclusion, you should go see him," Trevor says. "You've been living alone here for too long. The only reason I haven't moved in yet is because you started going to that bar and things started looking up for you – stop now and face the consequences."

"So it was just for my sake and had nothing to do with your parents?"

"Well," Trevor says, shrugging. "Don't change the subject."

Philip scoffs and looks at the screens. So nothing there. "What if it goes like with MacLaren and Kathryn – and he gets all suspicious of me?"

"In that case, wouldn't you want to know?" Trevor asks and looks at him. "Life is too short to dig your heels against the things you actually want, Phil, believe me."

"You're like the oldest guy who ever lived!"

"Which should only give more weight to my words," Trevor shrugs. "Every day with people you love is a gift, Phil. You don't want to start throwing them away."

Philip makes a face and looks away, undecided.

"Tell you what, I'll come with you," Trevor offers. "And if it goes horribly, I'll distract him so that you can make a quick getaway. How about it?"

Miles to go looks about the same. Why it would've  changed, Philip doesn't know, but somehow he expects it to look different. Forbidding maybe. He didn't think he should be welcome here anymore and the bar should reflect that, but – it doesn't.

The lights are still on, soothingly dim and warm. Music drones quietly in the background, calm and gentle. Most of the tables are empty, the few people there have gravitated towards the couches. There's a couple of people playing chess.

"This place looks lot bigger than I thought," Trevor comments, sounding pleasantly surprised.

A lot nicer than it did when it was dark and he was carrying Desmond's entire weight on his shoulders, he means. Philip nods and then, cautious, looks towards the counter.

Desmond is leaning to the outer side of the thing, talking to a customer – joking with them, judging by his grin and how the customer's shoulders are shaking with laughter. He looks amazing – he's got a button up shirt and vest on, his arms bared to reveal a tattoo on the left and burn mark on the right. Veteran, Philip had once thought, looking at him.

Well, he still might be a veteran, just not a former soldier.

Desmond looks amazing and happy, and Philip really shouldn't have come here. He shakes his head at Trevor, murmuring, "I can't," and goes to back away through the door again, but – it's already too late. Desmond's spotted him – and then he's coming for him.

For a moment, it looks like Desmond's winding his arm for a punch. Trevor even goes a little on the defensive.

And then Philip is being pulled into his arms, Desmond tugging him in with a noise like it's a relief – like he's happy to see Philip, but – but the last time they saw each other from Desmond perspective, Philip was just ducking out because he supposedly had a turtle-related emergency. It doesn't make sense.

That didn't stop Philip from going completely limp in Desmond's hold, or dragging in a lungful of his scent. "Hi, Desmond," he mumbles, his arms coming tentatively to the guy's sides. "Hell of a welcome, but I'll take it."

"Wasn't sure you'd be coming back," Desmond says against his hair and breathes in. "Hi, Philip."

"Why – why wouldn't I come back?" Philip asks, clearing his throat and giving a look at Trevor. The old man is grinning at him, he even gives him the thumbs up. Dork.

Desmond hums and pulls back a little to look at him, gently pushing Philip's hair behind his ear. He'd left it down, Philip realises – and without thinking he'd pulled on his old, baggy jacket. The last time he said he'll be making an effort, and here he is, in withdrawal again, looking like a junkie.

Desmond smiles, his thumb stoking down the line of Philip's jaw. What he sees is hard to say – he looks pleased either way. Then he looks at Trevor, blinking. "Hi," he says, a bit questioningly

"Hi," Trevor answers, grinning. "I'm Trevor, Phil's friend – I'm here as emotional support."

"Awesome," Desmond says and points a finger at him. "No alcohol for you," he says and then looks at Philip. "And I think you need a hot chocolate toddy?" he offers with zero apparent judgement for Philip's appearance.

Philip sighs. "Yes please," he says and lets Desmond steer him towards the counter, Trevor following closely after them. Desmond gives Philip's shoulder a quick squeeze before going around the counter to make the drink. The other customer by the counter gives them a curious look and then grabs his drink and moves to join the chess players.

Philip sits down, still a little awkward. Trevor hops onto the stool beside him, his leg bouncing giddily. How he manages to look even younger than his body is despite being so damn old, Philip doesn't know, but somehow Trevor manages it.

"Are you allergic to anything, Trevor?" Desmond asks while checking the electric kettle. "Dairy, nuts – citrus?"

"No sir," Trevor says. "I'm good with anything."

"Good to know. So, what's new?" Desmond asks, glancing at Philip while pouring the cream. "You've been gone for a few days."

"Yeah, sorry about that – I had a relapse," Philip says, looking down at the bar and then frowning. He'd never talked to Desmond about the addiction, had he? Trevor puts a hand on his back, encouraging, and swallowing Philip continues. "You know I had – have – a drug problem?"

"Wasn't going to mention it, but yeah," Desmond agrees, pouring the cream into the toddy glasses – he'd made the same drink for Trevor, sans the alcohol. "So you took time to work your way through it?"

"Yeah," Philip agrees and looks at Desmond. The line of his shoulders is calm and his expression is even. No judgment, no suspicion, nothing. Apparently waking up without any memories of the night before did nothing to dampen Desmond's usual spirits.

"Well, so as long as you're taking care of yourself," Desmond says, offering him a smile and then setting the glasses in front of them. "Here you are – on the house."

"Thank you very much, sir," Trevor says delightedly and reaches to get a straw from a jar on the counter. He looks even more delighted tasting the drink, making an appreciative hum, much to Desmond amusement.

Shaking his head, Philip turns to his own drink – and it's just as good as he remembered. Better even, rich and sweet with just a slightest bit of buttery thanks to the cream and a cool minty aftertaste. Philip sighs and guiltily takes another sip.

Desmond watches them with a faint smile, leaning his elbows on the counter. "So, Trevor," he says then, smiling. "How'd you meet Philip?"

Trevor glances up and then grins. "Funny story, actually," he says. "I have no idea. At some point I just kind of  looked and realised we were friends."

"More like you decided that we were friends and I had nothing to say to it," Philip says.

"It's how the best friendships are made, Phil – with hard work and dedication."

"And you needing a place to crash every now and then."

"And that too, yes," Trevor agrees, grinning.

Desmond watches them with a slight smile, and it seems to come out believable enough that he doesn't question it further. "Well, any friend of Philip's is welcome here," he says. "Just so you know, I'm not serving you alcohol before you turn twenty one."

"And I respect that, sir, truly," Trevor says with a nod and lifts his glass in a toast. "This works much better for me, really. How do you make it?"

Philip watches Desmond while he explains the drink in detail – the trick in getting the tastes right isn't just in the ingredients, but also in how they are mixed and the temperature, it turns out.  Desmond is happy to show it again – making himself an non-alcoholic version with gusto. He even offers to let them try making it themselves, if they want.

"How do you keep this place going with the number of free drinks you give out?" Philip can't help but ask.

Desmond smiles. "I have my ways."

Philip just barely stops himself from wincing at that. It's what he said before, about how he found Philip. Is that how he funds the bar, then – with pay he got from assassination contracts? Philip had taken a look at the guy's bank accounts – Desmond isn't exactly flush with cash. Not on paper, anyway.

There's a sound of door opening and closing and then Desmond's attention is drawn away.

"Hey, Dez – give me a hand with this? It's heavy as balls and Shaun's no help."

"Well, excuse me for being injured, Rebecca, I'll just regenerate the broken bones of my ankle for you real quick, why don't I?"

Philip turns with a sudden feeling of trepidation. There's Rebecca Crane, carrying in her arms a heavy looking reinforced box, while the man Philip had already guessed from Desmond's photos to be Shaun Hastings – he's moving awkwardly on crutches, his right foot in a cast.

"How's it going, you prat?" Shaun asks in a distinctive British accent.

"Jerk," Desmond answers, moving around the counter. "Excuse me, guys," he says to Philip and Trevor and then turns to the newcomers. "I thought your flight was still out?"

"Bill got us on an earlier one," the black haired woman says, dumping the box she's carrying in Desmond's arms and turning back to the door. "I'm going to get more – Shaun, get out of the way –"

"Broken ankle, anyone?" The British guy asks, but limps out of the way and to the counter. "I don't suppose you got any tea in this pigsty?" he asks Desmond.

"No – and don't touch my stuff," Desmond says, hauling the box a bit more securely into his arms. "Be right back, guys," he says to his customers. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

With that said, he heads to the back room, to obviously carry the box up and to his apartment.

Philip looks after him and then takes a look at Shaun, who's taking a seat beside Trevor, putting his crutches to the side with a lot of clatter. Trevor opens his mouth and the Brit hold up a hand. "Don't even, not before I got either caffeine or gin in me. Or alternatively, morphine."

"I don't think those things go well together," Trevor comments, amused.

"You'd be surprised."

What follows is an obvious process of moving some sort of equipment into Desmond's apartment – all of it carefully packaged and sealed in black containers, still with airport tags on them. Mentally counting the extra fees they must've paid to have all the stuff flown in, Philip looks over Desmond as he carries the stuff in with Rebecca – and then with a silver haired man whom Desmond calls dad.

The supposed treasure hunting, tomb raiding crew. For all that Desmond had supposedly retired from the business, it looks like he's the one who invited them here – and, Philip thinks with unease, they look like they're there to stay for a good while.

"... The seven point oh, it's gonna be a thing of beauty," Rebecca says as she, Desmond and Bill carry the last boxes in. "I mean we can use her, don't get me wrong, but it's never as good as seeing you take one of the babies out for a ride, you know?"

"I admit I have been wanting to see that too," Bill says. "We might get results, but not the level of nuance you do. And the current generation is something else, certainly."

Rebecca visibly preens at that.

"Alright, alright, I'll take a swing at it, later," Desmond says. "You good to set up in the living room?"

"Yeah, it sounds good," Rebecca says. "She doesn't take that much room, really – I'm going to have to fiddle with your chair, though."

"So as long as you don't fuck up the cushion, it's my favourite chair so far."

They take the boxes away, and while Philip and Trevor exchange looks, Philip trying to figure out what's going on and how worried he should be, Shaun stretches out his leg across two more stools with a sigh. He doesn't say anything with him so close.

Philip makes a slight hand gesture at Trevor, making a box shape and giving him a questioning look. Trevor shrugs, frowning – no telling what's in the boxes then, not outwardly anyway. Considering the weight and the care Desmond and the others had taken, though…

"Sorry about that, guys," Desmond says, coming back with Bill following him. "Do you want –"

"Don't apologise to them, apologise to me," Shaun says. "I'm hurting here, Desmond, in actual pain. Do I have to break another leg to get service around here?"

"With that attitude, yes," Desmond says flatly. "I can help you with that."

He turns to make something for Shaun, though – Philip glimpses a gin bottle and what looks like a bottle of mineral water. "Here," he sets the drink with a slice of lemon on the side of the glass down in front of Shaun. "I'll be having your first born for that."

"Take it up with Rebecca," Shaun says and drinks half of the glass in one go. "You still make it with too much gin," he says then.

Desmond rolls his eyes good naturedly and turns to his dad. "Brandy?" he offers.

"On the rocks, please," Bill Miles says and sits beside Philip – seeing as all the stools beside Shaun are taken by the guy stretching out his injured leg on them.

They look normal enough. Desmond has a lot of the same features as Bill – though his eyes are warm, amber brown while his dad's are almost unnervingly pale grey. Must take after his mother there. Though the guy looks somewhat distinguished, he also has faint old scars over his knuckles, like he used to fight quite a lot long time ago.

Shaun didn't look like fighter at all, in his cardigan and pleated trousers. He looks like an academic – like the historian Desmond had called the guy.

But he also got a broken ankle in action of some sort, and Philip isn't so sure it was actually while tomb raiding now.

Shaun drains his drink and then, with a great deal of annoyed huffing and clatter of crutches, gets up. "I'm going to go lie down," he says in tones of announcement. "Feel free not to bother me for the next several hours."

"Gladly," Desmond says with an amused snort. "Take it easy on the stairs, Shaun. I am not carrying you up them. Or calling an ambulance if you fall."

Shaun scoffs and heads past the counter and into the back room.

"So, do you guys want refills?" Desmond asks, looking at Philip and Trevor.

They should observe more, just in case this is what Philip suspects it might be. And he's pretty sure he's right about this one. "Yeah," Philip says faintly and drains the last of his hot chocolate toddy. "Another one, and double the liquor, please."

They'd given an assassin an amnesia – of course the guy got suspicious. Of course he called backup.

"Do you have any soda here?" Trevor asks. "I'd like a coke, please."

"Coming right up."

Bill watches them silently while sipping on his brandy, but says nothing, nursing the drink. Desmond glances at him every so often, but doesn't try to engage his father in conversation – which, considering how they'd been taking the first time Philip had seen them, is interesting and maybe worrying.

In the end nothing really happens, that they can see. Bill finishes his drink in dignified silence, leaves a couple of bills for Desmond and then he too heads up to Desmond's apartment. Then it's business as usual, with Desmond going back to tending to the bar and serving drinks with a smile.

Something is different, though. Philip can't put his finger on what it is, but there's a tension in the air.

"So," Desmond says to Philip, conversational. "This might be just me overthinking it, but it is a Thursday and here you are, with a high school kid for emotional support," he points out. "So I'm kind of hoping you have something to say to me."

Philip blinks, alarmed. "Like what?" he asks.

Desmond arches a brow, looking between them. "Something along the lines of, Desmond, I really like you… " he trails off meaningfully and when Philip doesn't get it, he continues, "it continues either with a would you, or a but. Kind of hoping it's not a but."

Trevor gets it faster than Philip does, and grins. "Desmond, Philip really likes you, would you go out with him?"

Philip sputters with surprise, and Desmond's smile widens into almost predatory proportions. "I'd love to," he says smugly.

Philip looks around helplessly and his eyes land on a shimmering vision in the back, by the couches. An alternate vision of Desmond sits with his legs crossed, playing monopoly with his team, grinning – and alternate-Philip is there too, sitting beside Desmond, waving a victorious wad of fake money in Shaun's face. They all look relaxed, aside from Bill, who's giving his cards an frustrated look. They look – cosy.

Like a family.

Philip blinks and turns to look at Desmond, who's watching him with a smile. He should, shouldn't he? If for no other reason than to see what's happening here, what these people are up to. Maybe he'd even figure out what they are really capable of.

And if not… maybe he could pretend to have a normal life a little while longer.

"Tomorrow maybe?" Philip offers. "Before you open the bar?"

Desmond reaches to take his hand, pulling it up to press a kiss on his knuckles. "Sounds like a plan."

Chapter Text

Rebecca and Shaun have migrated downstairs by the time Desmond starts closing up – they're lounging by the couches, playing poker. Or rather, Rebecca is winning at poker and Shaun is complaining about losing.

"Poker isn't even a real game, it's just – mind games, no strategy to speak off. If this was chess, I would be so wiping the floor with you," Shaun grumbles while Desmond goes around, collecting used glasses. He has his leg stretched out and is using a dinner knife to try and scratch under it.

"Which is why we're not playing poker. Stop scratching it," Rebecca says.

"It itches," Shaun says and then, "Hey," as Desmond snatches the knife from his hand.

"I'd love you to say poker's not a real game to some of my regulars who come here to play poker. You'd get your ass whooped. And get your own knives to stick into your disgusting cast," Desmond says and snatches the glasses from the table between them. "You're smearing DNA all over the place."

"When did you become a hypochondriac?"

"DNA, not germs, though arguably DNA is worse in our case," Desmond says. "Where's dad?"

"After we finished setting up the Animus, he decided to have a nap," Rebecca says and stretches, setting her cards down. "He didn't get much sleep on the plane."

Shaun, spying her cards, quickly slams his own down. "Two pairs! I win!" he crows. "Eat it, Becs!"

"Eat what, the pitiful wail at your impressive losing streak? Such a terrible loss to swallow," Rebecca snorts and starts collecting the cards. She shuffles the cards once and sets them down. "You done soon, Desmond? I can go fire up the Animus."

"Yeah, shouldn't take long."

"I still don't get what you see in this place," Shaun comments, looking around the bar with an unimpressed little sniff while Rebecca gets up. "The life you could have, and you want to wait tables. It's not even a nice bar or anything, most of your customers are bums. Bill's not wrong, saying it's beneath you."

"Bitch, bitch, bitch," Desmond says, making a yapping motion with his hand at him. "Some people are just happier with simpler life. I'm one of them. This is what I want and I am happy, no, ecstatic with it. And I think I damn well earned the right to live the way I want. Don't you think?"

Shaun huffs, disgusted. "Ugh. All your abilities and talents – which we worked so hard to install in you too – "

"And more bitching," Desmond says and shakes his head, turning to carry the glasses away. "Would you look at that, I regret calling you here already."

Rebecca grins. "He's just annoyed that he's the one who has to go spelunking now. If you were still in, we could just send you and all sit cosy behind screens."

"The burden I bear for my excellent good health," Shaun says. "Though at this rate, that'll be taken care of nice and quick. Help me up, Becs."

"You big baby," Rebecca snorts. "You can totally get up on your own."

"I really can't though," Shaun says, the pout audible in his voice though Desmond can't see. Judging by the sound of it, Rebecca pulls him up – and then some.

"No hanky panky in my bar," Desmond says without looking. "That's gross, guys."

"Says the guy flirting with the customers," Rebecca says with a grin in her voice. "Don't think I didn't see the cute blond with the hair because I totally saw. Seen him twice now, actually!"

"What, the junkie?" Shaun says, and there's a sound of crutches being set on the floor again. "I'd say your standards have hit all time low, but considering past experiences…."

"Yeah, I am definitely regretting inviting you here," Desmond says with a sigh. "Get out of my bar, you louts."

"I'll go get the Animus fired up," Rebecca says with a laugh and heads upstairs.

"Seriously, though, the junkie kid? He looked like an infant," Shaun says, limping towards the bar. "A bit young for you, don't you think? Though considering your ancestors, maybe it's given for you."

"Hey," Desmond says, turning to look at him with a frown. "He's old enough, alright, and are you trying to be an asshole today? I was joking before, but I am seriously starting to think about throwing you out that door."

"Just telling it to you how I see it – and you can be damn sure Bill is not going to be quiet about it," Shaun says. "And as I said, you could do much better – "

"Shut up," Desmond says, rolling his eyes and setting the last glasses down. "There was something about free will and choice and shit in the Creed there – why is it that when it comes to me having some freedom of choice, it's suddenly not good enough for anyone?"

"Because for the most of the time I've known you, you've been a complete dumbass," Shaun says without hesitation. Then he sighs. "Sorry, it's – this fucking leg. Plus the drugs. I got prescribed sedatives, because of my disturbed mental balance," he rolls his eyes. "Becs tells me they make me cranky."

"You don't fucking say," Desmond says and shakes his head. "Also, for your information, Philip is twenty two. Let's not get into it right now, alright? And don't call him a junkie again, I will break your face. Shit is hard enough for him without some random british asshole getting on his case."

"Yeah, fair enough. Sorry," Shaun says and hangs his head for a moment. "I'm just going to head on upstairs. Slowly. Step by step."

"Have fun with that. I'll be right there."

Desmond waits until Shaun's limped halfway up the stairs before sighing and running his hands over his face and then going back to finishing his chores. Of all the things to be an issue at this point of his life, it's a fucking age gap. Christ.

Once he's done wiping the tables and has checked that the bathroom is clean enough, Desmond leaves the dishwasher on and heads upstairs. His dad is awake again, sitting on the living room couch with Shaun while Rebecca tinkers with the Animus settings. She's dragged Desmond's writing table in to serve as her computer table, spreading out three screens and two keyboards across it – across from it, Desmond's own Animus-cabinet is wide open.

"We're all set up here," Rebecca says and looks up. "Congratulations on your non-purchase of Animus 7.0, Desmond. I'm sure you will be very satisfied with its performance."

"I'm sure it will be thrillingly advanced," Desmond says, peering into his cabinet. She'd replaced the processor, it looks like. Who knows what's she's done to the software. "What's different about it?"

"Pretty much everything. Deeper integration, improved scanning, the software is ways ahead of the old one, so on and so on. We've improved the predictive environment simulation, too – and we can export now," Rebecca says, grinning. "You'll see once you hop into it."

"Which brings us to the question of why all of this," Shaun says, motioning to the Animus set up. "What's going on that you needed an Animus upgrade?"

"Well. My old one couldn't figure out the samples I got, not… not the way I tried to read them," Desmond says. "Also," he adds, pointing at both Shaun and Rebecca. "Guess who owes me a hundred bucks."

They share a look, confused, and then, recalling in the true union of the not-quite-married, they both perk up. "You found something?" Rebecca asks while Shaun asks quickly, "Isu or Abstergo related?"

"Yes, and neither," Desmond says. "It's actually potentially worse."

Bill clears his throat and sets his coffee cup down. "At the fear of sounding like an old man here," he says flatly. "What are you talking about?"

"Back when we split – back when Desmond split – we made a bet about who would eventually run into earth shattering conspiracy," Rebecca shrugs. "Hundred bucks to whoever got it first."

"I want proof, it's got to be some properly earth shattering stuff for me to pay you," Shaun says.

Bill frowns and then leans forward. "What did you find out, Desmond?" he asks seriously.

"Remember that weird double profile DNA sample I called you about?" Desmond asks, sitting down on his coffee table and looking between them. "Turns out, it wasn't because of altered mental states or anything." Reaching out, he grabs plastic case, inside which he has plastic vials – inside which there are needles from sleeping darts, all with viable blood samples. "Got six people here with two DNA profiles each."

"Okay, that's… something else," Shaun says while Rebecca takes the case, peering at the vials inside. "You sure it's not just wonky reader?"

"That's partially why I wanted Rebecca's newly improved baby here, so that we could check," Desmond says. "also, because my Animus couldn't access the memories that were… off the timeline, let's say?"

"Off the timeline?" Bill asks, casting a look at the case. "What do you mean?"

"Run 'em, Rebecca," Desmond says. "Let's see if I'm nuts."

Rebecca gives him a look and then quickly reaches for her bag, getting out DNA collection kits. In short order she's taking swipes of the needles, collecting the DNA samples present before feeding them, one by one, into the Animus 7.0.

Six samples – including Joella/Liliana. Not all of the darts had had viable samples, but six was already more than enough. Six different people – twelve DNA host profiles.

"Okay," Rebecca says slowly, as they all lean over her screens to look at the profiles being churned out. "I got to admit, that is – that is weird."

"Yep," Desmond agrees.

"Where the hell did you get these?" Shaun asks, looking at the plastic case of samples.

"I might've had a – thing," Desmond says and clears his throat. "Raided a base, rescued someone – not terribly important who right now. Most of the samples came from the defenders – there were more of them, but the couple of the samples got contaminated by the anaesthetic in my sleeping darts."

They look at him. "A thing?" Shaun says. "With a base to raid and defenders and a rescue? Desmond, what have you been getting into?"

"Apparently, time travellers," Desmond says with a shrug. "What can I say. I wasn't exactly expecting it – or planning for it, but… there you have it," he motions to the screen. "In black and white."

"Those dates can't be right," Bill says with a frown.

"That's what I want to figure out," Desmond agrees and looks at Rebecca. "Theoretically there should be memories from the latter DNA profile, right? I tried to get into it on my Animus, but it just sort of glitches out on me. I figured that, since your 7.0 is more powerful than my 5.4…"

"That she could work out these future memories?" Rebecca asks with a frown and then leans forward, her fingers working quickly on the keyboard. "In theory, but… " she stops and then motions on the screens – with a whole lot of Animus code spread out over them. "I can see why your Animus would have a problem with it. The encoding is – inorganic. Baby 5.4 wouldn't know how to make heads or tails of it."

"What?" Desmond asks, leaning in to look.

"So they are fake memories?" Shaun asks.

"I don't know about fake, but they weren't written the usual way," Rebecca says, isolating bits of the code. "Look, here? Timestamps. They're all in one big cluster – not like they were written over months and years but like… someone copied and pasted these in, somehow."

"So, like.. someone took a body, replaced the consciousness in it with another one with a full set of alternate memories?" Desmond asks.

Rebecca frowns and Shaun and Bill turn to look at him.

"You know more about this than you're telling us," Bill says, frowning. "What have you found out?"

"This and that – I'll tell you what I know, but first I want a second opinion on the basic idea," Desmond says, uncomfortable. Philip had told him a lot, thinking he'd never remember, but… there's tales and then there's DNA files. And sadly, Desmond is a little more inclined to trust DNA. "Just tell me if it's possible. And if this is like… a side effect of what - what I did."

Everyone stills at that, looking at him. Rebecca is the first to speak. "I have no idea Desmond," she admits and looks at the screens, stroking a hand over her chin. "I've never seen anything like it. I mean, in sci-fi, sure, but…" she trails away, and then leans in to type. A moment later one of the screens zooms out, from code into a DNA chain. "Huh," she says.

"Good huh or bad huh?" Desmond asks warily.

"It's a huh," she says and motions to the screen. "Look here? The first set of host memories ends here – and here," she motions at a strangely twisted bit of DNA, "Is where the second set begins. Looks like – a few months ago. Let me just…"

With a little bit more typing, she has all the five sets of DNA zoomed into their chains, stamped with time markers. All of them got switched over from one set of host memories to this new, alternate set – with birthdates in the 25th century.

"Okay, that's a little spooky," Shaun says, leaning heavily on one crutch. "We're hundred percent certain these are all different DNA, right – Desmond didn't just mess up the samples?"

"Hey," Desmond complains and Shaun waves a hand at him.

"No, they're all different," Rebecca says, tapping a few keys and scrolling up and down the memory chain. "The – what can you even call that. Future past memories? These clusters here," she motions. "It's almost like they're packaged. Zip files of human memory, forcibly written on host DNA. That's so weird."

Desmond leans back. So, that part of what Philip told him was about right then. "Is there a way to access them?" he asks. "Properly, in Animus, I mean?"

Rebecca considers it and then looks at Shaun. "We might be able to get locations out of it?" she says hesitantly.

"Yes, probably will have to write a new algorithm for the rest," Shaun says, eying the screen. "This barely even looks like a DNA file, clustered as it is."

"Yeah, we need to decompress it, somehow," Rebecca says, turning back to the screens. "If we want something more coherent out of it, anyway. We might be able to generate an environment out of this, though. I mean, if there's one these people are familiar with enough, anyway. I doubt there will be much of a linear timeline, though – Animus used the DNA chains' own time markers for that, and these are all crammed up into a single date, it's weird."

Desmond runs a hand over his neck. "Okay, if you can get environment out of it, that could already tell us something," he says. "If these people really are from the future… you'd be able to tell from how things look, right?"

"Right," Rebecca says. "Give me ten, I'll see if I can find a stable enough code for the Animus. Shaun, give me a hand here."

"Move your ass over and I will."

The pair of them settle down behind the screen to work together. Looking between them, Desmond leans back, blowing out a breath. Okay, so… this is happening.

Boy, doesn't it feel like good old times.

"Son," Bill says. "A word while Rebecca and Shaun work?"

"Can we not?" Desmond sighs but nods and leads his father to the kitchen, going to check the fridge for a bite to eat before the session. He doesn't really… metabolise stuff while in the Animus, not anymore, but it's still easier coming out of the thing with a full belly, as opposed to an empty one.

"How did you find out about this all?" Bill asks, rather neutral for an opening for the argument Desmond is pretty sure they're about to have, again.

"Just good luck, I guess," Desmond shrugs.

"Desmond," Bill says, severe. "This doesn't seem like something we should get into blind – if you know something, you should come outright and say it."

"Time travellers from the 25th century is about as much as I know, really," Desmond says, flexing his hand and looking at it. The burn doesn't feel like anything, most of the time – it doesn't have sensation, really – but somehow it always starts aching and burning when his dad is nearby. "I called you here to find out more."

"Don't think I can't tell you're lying," Bill says. "I learned to read auras from you."

"No, you learned it by inhabiting my memories, that's different," Desmond says flatly. "I had no say in the matter."

Bill blows out a breath and leans back against the kitchen table, folding his arms. "Whichever it is, I can still tell you're lying," he says, searching Desmond's expression. Then he sighs. "Fine. At least tell me why you're lying? Either you're just being difficult with me, or someone is threatening you – "

"What, seriously?"

"Or," Bill says, empathetic, giving Desmond a pointed look, "You're protecting someone?"

Desmond clears his throat and looks away.

Bill is quiet for a moment and then nods. "Alright," he says. "We'll go with that for now, until we know more. From what I can tell though, this is pretty damn serious. This person you're protecting – you might want to consider how important they are, in the grand scheme of things."

Desmond hesitates, glancing at him. "Be careful with what you say," he says quietly. "This is my city, and this is my issue, my mission, if it turns into it. And I don't take orders from you - I choose how this is handled."

"Are you trying to pull rank on me?" Bill asks with mild interest.

Desmond makes a face at that, uncomfortable.

Bill's brows arch a little at that and he smiles. "'Bout the damn time," he says.

"I'm not –" Desmond says and grimaces. "I am not doing that. I don't want to, and I am not going to."

"You know, you really should know by now – there's no declining the position. It's not something you choose," Bill says. "No Mentor ever has. You start throwing your weight around and eventually it will come down on you, whether for good or ill."

"I am not going to be the Mentor of the Brotherhood!" Desmond snaps and then looks up.

In the living room, Shaun clears his throat loudly. "Before you get into a fist fight, O Great Mentors, we're ready with the first location!" he shouts almost cheerfully. "Just in case you were still interested, I mean, it's just time travelling we're talking about here, nothing big or important or anything!"

Desmond sighs. "I regret everything," he mutters and throws his hands up. "I should've just forgotten the whole thing. Goddamn. There isn't even an Assassin Brotherhood left for anyone to be the Mentor of!"

Bill snorts at that. "Not yet, anyway," he says and pats his shoulder. "Looks like things are about to change. Come on, son, let's go see what the future has in store for us."

Desmond groans – does that constitute a dad joke? Does he even want to know? Probably not. Shaking his head Desmond marches into the living room and into the Animus, happily welcoming the moment of true Animus escapism from reality. Anything is better than having to endure the proud smug look on his dad's face.

The Assassin's Brotherhood is gone for a reason, and still Bill Miles is so damn certain it should be remade. And that Desmond should be the one to do it. Just fuck his life.

And then it turns out that what the future has in store for them is a frozen apocalypse and the end of humanity as a whole.

Chapter Text

Philip is alone at Ops and the comms are quiet. It's not that unusual, really – it's how it goes most of the times. Back at the start, when they'd just arrived, sometimes a week or two could roll by without a sight or sound of his teammates as everyone concentrated on their Protocol 5, waiting for the next mission to arrive. They weren't so tightly knit back then – despite the years spent training together, they weren't… close.

That's changed with time – and with the timelines. They don't speak about it, but having become part of a future-past that technically no longer exists, it's… isolating in a way. Plus, of course, there's all the shit they've had to deal with as a team, which has naturally brought them closer and so on and so forth – but Philip thinks, it's the isolation. Isolation of being in the past, isolation of Protocol 6, isolation of having to lead their sometimes bullshit lives, and then finally… isolation of the timeline.

The future they came from doesn't technically exist anymore. They've changed the timeline – several times now, and with each Update the grimmer the changes seem. Except – not really. The core of the future remains the same, it's just the nuances that change – and get worse. And yet here they are, in the past, results of a future that they don't quite understand anymore but try to save anyway, despite all the people telling them it's getting worse…

Yeah, Philip isn't used to being alone with just his thoughts much, anymore. If it's not Trevor getting underfoot, or MacLaren shepherding them at a distance like the good team leader he is, then it's Marcy needing assist with something to do with David, or Carly, asking for good tunes. There aren't that many days when he's just – alone. Not anymore.

Philip swivels back and forth in his chair, forcibly restraining himself from checking the clock. Still early, too early – he can tell it's early, a Historian doesn't lose track of time. Still, there's the instinct to check. Guess it's human, to feel nervous. That's something. Normal.

MacLaren is taking the day off with his wife, Carly is going to see Jeffrey Junior, Marcy is having a day in with David and Trevor has dinner with his parents – and for once, Philip isn't the only one with nothing. For once, on a Friday, he has plans. That's very normal, isn't it?

Philip has no idea what to do with plans though. Dating etiquette wasn't exactly vital to the Mission, so… it wasn't a part of his training. And though Updates have information about Philip's future too, sans his time of death of course… they had nothing about Desmond.

Desmond is still a ghost in the system.

Squeezing his hands into fists and then opening them, Philip turns to the screens, glancing over them. Nothing on the backchannel, for once, the stream of code is calm and steady. Nothing going on with the Faction either, hopefully, though that's probably not going to last. He'd count it as a blessing for as long as it lasts, and yet… Nothing to take his mind off the time.

Fuck, he wants a hit. Fucking 001 and fucking Dawn, giving him heroin. Shaking it off is easier now than it was in the beginning – he knows how this goes now, so the craving isn't so bad, but it's still there. It would be so, so nice to take the edge off, to – to relax a little while he waits. He'd still be riding the high when he'd go out, it would make everything easier. It would…

Drawing a breath, Philip runs his hands through his hair and then reaches out to press a couple of keys on the keyboard. The background hum of code switches off and a camera feed pops up on screen. The front of Desmond's bar, shown in slightly grainy pixels. Nothing going on there, the alley is quiet, the bar still closed – it wouldn't open for another six hours, normally.

Maybe he should've planted cameras inside.

No.

Fuck, there are enough privacy violations in his fucking existence as it is, and for once – just for fucking once… it would be nice to be surprised. Even if Desmond is an assassin potentially planning something nefarious. Even if he isn't.

Damn, Philip's bored.

Sighing, he turns away from the computer, turning the security feed off. Poppy is quiet and stationary in her terrarium and the cameras around the Ops scan the room steadily. Everything is calm. The calm before the storm.

After a moment of silence, Philip gets up and goes to pick through his clothes for the fifth time for something decent to wear.

He's at Miles to go exactly when he promised he would be, on the actual dot even. The alley is quiet, and lighter than he's used to. It's usually the evening when he comes here, but it's daytime now, and the light of the sun overhead does little to hide the imperfections and flaws in the world.

Miles to go has a crack in one of its windows and the stones on the front step are broken and dirty. The asphalt is cracked, and Philip can see permanent outlines of dirt left on divots where puddles would form when it trains – like year rings of neglect. It has been this many seasons since this place was power washed.

Philip's palms are sweaty, and inside Miles to go there is movement and the lights are on. The windows, tinted and dirty as they are, make it impossible to see what's happening though.

The door is locked, so, hoping this isn't a colossal mistake on his part, Philip knocks. It takes a moment before he gets an answer.

It's not Desmond.

"Yes?" Bill Miles asks, frowning slightly at him.

Philip has cleaned himself up, he'd washed his clothes, he'd done his best to get rid of the wrinkles on his shirt – he'd even shaved and everything. Still, it feels like he must look like a homeless guy, what with the way the guy is looking at him – and isn't this a situation you wouldn't think you'd get into, with time travelers and assassins – having to deal with the father before being able to take your date out for the night.

"I was supposed to meet with Desmond," Philip says. "Is he in?"

The older man looks like he's thinking of telling Philip off, but before he can, a familiar female voice calls from inside, "Don't be a dick, Bill – let Desmond's boyfriend in."

"Excuse me?" Bill Miles asks, now infinitely more interested – and displeased. He looks Philip over and Philip does not shift his weight nervously, no sir. "What's your name, young man?" Bill asks, his tone foreboding.

Philip definitely is not enjoying this part of the 21st. "It's Philip," he says. "Lovely to meet you – is Desmond in or not?"

"What exactly is your –" Bill stops as someone elbows their way in front of him. "Rebecca!"

"Go be a cranky old man elsewhere – hi, Philip," the black haired woman says with a grin. She has shadows under her eyes and looks a lot like she hasn't gotten any sleep the night previous – and then she's hugging him.

"Um," Philip says, uncertain.

"I feel for you," Rebecca says with complete sympathy, squeezing him and then patting his shoulders. For a moment she looks at him oddly, seriously, like she wants to say something and then obviously changes her mind and just smiles. "Bill Miles for a Father in Significant-Otherness is not for the faint hearted. Desmond is still asleep, I'll go kick him out of the bed for you. Don't take anything Bill says to heart, alright?"

Then she heads off, stretching as she goes, leaving Philip staring after her with confusion and Bill glaring at her retreating back. Philip clears his throat, and with obvious discomfort, Bill let's him in.

It looks like they were eating takeout, judging by the boxes and plastic cups. No sight of Shaun, though – he must still be upstairs then.

"I suppose you are one of Desmond's customers," Bill says, obviously displeased.

"I guess I am," Philip says, uncomfortable.

"And you met Desmond in this – bar?"

Philip looks at the man and Bill's lips tighten, obviously not impressed with his appearance. All of a sudden, Philip is angry. With what, he's not sure – the look Bill is giving him, the knowledge of what he looks like with the piercings and the tattoos, and the never ending bitterness with his host body and his inability to fucking change things. With Desmond too, a little. Philip has spent enough time fretting about this, and just like that, with a look of disdain from Desmond's father, he's done.

"You don't like it, Mr. Miles?" Philip says and looks away. "Take it up with your son."

Bill narrows his eyes and opens his mouth to answer, but Philip knows he'll end up saying something stupid if he does, so he just walks past the man and up to the counter, to wait.

Two minutes later Desmond stumbles into the bar, hastily pulling on a white hoodie and looking like he just rolled off the bed. "Philip – shit, I'm sorry, I forgot to put an alarm on–"

Philip would have answered, except then he's being smothered against Desmond's chest as the man hugs him. Desmond smells sort of soft, feels that way too. The shirt he's wearing is the one he obviously wore to bed – it's soft and worn and somehow smells sleepy.

Somehow, it all cheers Philip up immensely. He's not the only one who can be a bit of a mess, it seems – and sleepy Desmond is just nice.

"Late night?" Philip asks against Desmond's chest, grinning slightly.

"Was there a night?" Desmond asks with a laugh and pulls back a little, looking down at him. His hair is flattened on one side and sticks up on the other.

Laughing as she passes them, Rebecca reaches up to ruffle through Desmond's hair, straightening it up a little. "Sorry about keeping your beau up, Philip, there was a lot to catch up on," she says. "Go take him out for a fancy breakfast, he deserves it."

"You don't have to – anything is fine," Desmond says quickly. "Don't listen to her – don't you have work, Rebecca?"

"What I have is a passed-out partner – we'll get back to it once Shaun wakes up," Rebecca says and sits by her takeaway dinner on the couch. "We'll get it done before tonight, you'll see. Baby 7.1 will be all set and ready to go before you know it."

"Desmond, a word before you go anywhere?" Bill says tightly.

Philip frowns at that a little, but Desmond just lets out a snort. "Considering the last word we had? Hell no," he says and looks down at Philip. "Ready to go?"

"More than," Philip says vehemently, and with a grin Desmond pulls him off the stool and to to his feet.

"Desmond –" Bill starts to say and is silenced by the elbow from Rebecca.

"The Eagle has flown the nest, Bill, I think you better get used to it," she says while taking a tablet and turning it on. The screen is full of code, Philip notices before Desmond pulls him away. "Now, help me with this – there's a lot to unpack here…"

The first thing they do is grab a coffee. Desmond gets a ridiculous concoction with cream and caramel and hot chocolate, which is twice the usual size and looks more like a smoothie by the end. Philip gets the same – and it's just as sweet and sugary as it looks like.

"I'm guessing diabetes isn't a concern for you?" Philip comments, amused. Desmond also grabbed a pastry on his way – it's got a triple glazing thing going on and looks absolutely lethal.

"If sugar kills me, I'll consider myself lucky," Desmond sighs between big bites and bigger gulps. "Sorry – working with Rebecca and Shaun always leaves me craving sugar."

"So you were working all night, not drinking?" Philip asks, smiling.

"Yeah. Honestly, I'd take drinking over this hangover," Desmond says. "It's very cranial work, leaves the brain starved of fuel, honestly."

He finishes his pastry and throws the wrapper into a trash can with impeccable accuracy. Then, in the same motion, he puts a hand on Phillip's back, casual and easy. "So, what do you have planned for us?"

"What do you want to do?" Philip asks. Honestly, he had a hard time deciding, so… he's got five different things lined up and reservations to three different restaurants – at this point, he can't really choose in between. Whichever happened to be the closest would be the one they'd go for, unless Desmond had preferences.

"Maybe just a walk for a start?" Desmond asks. "There's a canal not far from here, where I go jogging – I think you'd like it. And I'm still half asleep, might wake me up a little."

Philip agrees and they meander in the vague direction of the canal. It is a pretty place – remnant of the time when the easiest way to get stuff into the city was by waterways. Now it's an outdoorsy park with meticulously maintained trees and bushes and gravel paths which are nice to walk and probably run on too – there's certainly more than a couple of joggers around, enjoying the paths.

It is nice, to walk under the shade of the maple trees and listen to the ducks in the canal as they beg for food. It's not something Philip has had the time to enjoy before, even with Trevor expounding on the beauty of parks and greenery.

Desmond, though he's making an obvious effort, seems a bit distracted though, looking at nothing and getting lost in his own thoughts.

"You know, if you have work to do, we can always cut this short and do it another time," Philip says slowly.

"What – no, definitely not," Desmond says and then sighs. "Sorry – working with the guys just brings up some old memories."

"Like what?" Philip asks. Something to do with the whole assassin work? All things considered, with the memory inhibitor and all… it probably makes sense. "Or is that too personal?"

Desmond clears his throat and looks at him – and it's a lot like the look Rebecca gave him after hugging him. Then Desmond looks away, towards a park bench. "Do you want to sit down?"

"Sure," Philip says and they sit, Desmond sipping his caramel coffee while Philip warms his hands on his.

For a while they watch as joggers hurry on past them, Desmond with a look of thoughtful consideration on his face and Philip getting increasingly concerned about what Desmond and his assassin team was actually working on.

"There used to be this group once," Desmond says slowly. "Known as the Templars. Order of the Knights Templar, they were called when they started out, but that changed over centuries. It was like the granddaddy of all conspiracy theories of rich assholes secretly controlling the world – manipulating nations and governments, starting wars. Basic conspiracy stuff."

Philip blinks at that with surprise and then frowns. "I've never heard of them," he says, trying not to sound as disturbed as he feels, because – he's seriously never heard of them. And sure, there are a lot of things that weren't included for not having been mission vital, but he tends to have a general knowledge of most every cultural milestone, and conspiracy theories were more mission vital now than they used to be. And he's never even heard the word.

"You wouldn't have," Desmond says distantly. "They don't exist. Not anymore."

Philip frowns. "Okay," he says slowly. "And you're thinking about them because…"

Desmond looks at him and then shrugs. "Just been reminded about them lately," he says and checks his wristwatch. "They had this set of beliefs, that people are fundamentally incapable of governing themselves and they needed to be controlled and ruled over for their own good. With politics, propaganda, money, religion, drugs, war, actual mind control… your know. Peace through absolute tyranny by the Templars – who, so it happens, would get very rich and powerful because of it."

Philip looks at him. That's – not something he expected of Desmond. And he isn't sure he likes the implications of what he's saying. "Sound like a lovely bunch of people," he says warily.

"Yeah," Desmond agrees. "Not a fan, personally."

"And seeing your friends again made you think about this?" Philip asks, covering his unease by taking a drink of his coffee. "I think you need lighter topics of conversation."

"One would think," Desmond agrees and looks at him seriously. "What do you think?"

"About what – absolute tyranny?" Philip asks. "Generally opposed."

"Generally?" Desmond asks, frowning.

Philip hesitates and looks away. "Sometimes a system can be so broken that when you try to fix it, it just gets worse. Like," he searches for an example. "You have one tyrant and he's ruling with iron will and cruelty, okay, kill him and problem solved, right? But then you have a region prepped for tyranny and a power vacuum, and someone is bound to step up to the podium – and they start a mass genocide and ethnic cleansing. Personally, I'd stick with the first guy."

Desmond blows out a breath. "That's not much of a defence. And you can't know the second guy is worse."

Yes, he can actually. "It's statistically very likely," Philip shrugs and looks at him. "Of course you'd rather fix the system, but – that's a project that takes a lot of resources to accomplish and it's still likely to go wrong. And has, several times."

Desmond looks away, frowning.

Philip looks down at his coffee cup, increasingly uneasy.  "Bit heavy subject for a date," he comments.

"Yeah," Desmond agrees and crumples his empty cup and throws it, again with perfect accuracy, to a nearby trash bin. "I don't think it's right to go about dating under false pretenses though, so, serious stuff is kind of demanded."

"What – what do you mean?" Philip asks but he's pretty sure he already knows.

"Do you believe in free will, Philip?" Desmond asks, looking at him seriously.

Philip looks away. His blood feels sluggish in his veins, like it's been replaced by icy slurry. "It's a fallacy," he says. "Free will. Possible only for psychopaths, at most."

"Okay, that's… hell of a thing to say," Desmond says warily. "Can you explain?"

"Unless you completely lack emotions and any moral or ethical aptitude, you're always beholden to something," Philip says distantly. We, the last unbroken remnants… "To good manners, to social mores, to general decency and common sense. To the laws of the culture you're a part of. To the society and to the history that produced you – anyone that can go about life without caring about anything, not thinking about what anyone thinks or following the laws, spoken or otherwise, of the culture they exist in, they're… probably not right in the head."

Desmond blinks at him and then he looks thoughtful. "All of that is technically nonexistent, though," he says. "Laws, culture and morals – they're all human inventions, they don't exist in nature."

"Well, neither do we," Philip says, frowning. "Anyone is welcome to fuck off to the middle of nowhere and give themselves an existence of true free will. I bet it's going to be really fun for them."

Like it was for those early objectors who refused to live under the Director – so, bravely they set out to build their own utopia and form their own communities centered around their very human free will and decision making, and where did that lead them?

Desmond makes a thoughtful sound.

"Social obligations and currency might be just products of human brains trying to make sense of their own relationships, but they built all of society," Philip says. "You can't really say that they don't exist."

"I guess not," Desmond muses, shifting a bit where he sits, resting his arm on the backrest of the bench and looking at him with new interest. "That's not what people usually mean when they say free will."

"That's because most people's observation skills are narrow focused. Society is too expansive to be looked on through the lens of human perception," Philip says and makes a motion with his hand. "It's like – if you look at time from the viewpoint of an outside observer, it's all interconnected, everything leading to something else, endlessly. You can make choices inbetween, and yeah they make a difference, but it's just another branch in an infinite tree – and it's going the opposite way from what people think. Choices ultimately narrow the sum of opportunities and possibilities, not the opposite. You choose to go this way, you cross out all the thousands of other ways you could've gone, you know?"

Desmond hums, leaning his cheek to his knuckles. "I think I get that," he says thoughtfully. "But like – I don't know.  Like, who gets chosen to be the President. Who gets in is voted, right? Isn't that the result of free will? Anyone can vote for anyone they want, right?"

What a very 21st century American way of making the argument. Land of the free indeed. "You could theoretically vote for your next door neighbour, sure," Philip says. "Are they going be a President, or is it going to be the guy with the funding and the tour bus and a million dollar marketing strategy?"

Desmond says nothing for a moment, frowning thoughtfully, thinking about it. "That's incredibly depressing," he decides.

"If you decide to value your own ability to change the world above your actual place in it, sure," Philip says with a shrug. "Nothing wrong with being a cog in the machine."

"But not having any control over the machine at all?"

"Have you ever seen a machine working property when the cogs get uppity?" Philip asks pointedly. "Break one thing and usually the whole system breaks. If you go with the machinery metaphor for society – the better the machine, the better and stronger the cogs are too. Do you know what the Tragedy of Commons is?"

"Uh," Desmond thinks about it for a moment. "Something about communal fields?"

"It's one metaphor for it. Basically a common resource, usually one that slowly replenishes, meant to be equally shared, gets expended when individuals start acting out of self interest," Philip says and closes his eyes. "I need the water more now, and since this is a communal fountain, I'll take a little extra. And they get more and it's good for them, yay. But have enough people thinking that way, and eventually the resource is spent, the fountain drained and dried up, field trodden to the ground – and the ultimate gain from it is, even summed up between individuals, lesser than it would be if everyone took their share equally and with restraint and just let the resource pool replenish."

Desmond says nothing, watching him with a serious, even fascinated expression when Philip opens his eyes. Philip clears his throat. "Well-maintained, well-oiled machine has a better chance of keeping its fuel reserves in order," he says and looks away. "It might not be as fun for the individual, but the system as a whole…"

"And moral obligation to the society demands the preservation of communal resources over individual gain – and thus, free will," Desmond says.

"Right," Philip says, a little awkward.

"Huh," Desmond says. "So even if the ruler is an absolute tyrant, if the society works better for it, it's okay? Greater good trumps the needs and wellbeing of the few?"

"Ideally no, of course, but," Philip says with a sigh and looks at his coffee cup. "Ideally everyone would be equal, and the tyrant would be omnipotent and omniscient and only have the good of the whole in mind. But that would take –"

"An apocalypse to justify?" Desmond asks, arching a brow.

"I was going to say limitless power, endless resources and a perfect world," Philip mutters. "But yeah, let's go with that."

They fall silent there, staring at each other, Desmond idly running his fingers through his own hair. It's pretty damn obvious that he knows something, that he and his team had found out something, but… Philip isn't sure he wants to ask.

They're sitting in the view of a CCTV camera, and he's not sure he wants the words to become part of public record here.

"You know, I had bowling planned," Philip says, looking away. "And a trip to this art gallery which is having an exhibition, and a museum, and to this old timey brewery, which seemed up your alley – and a visit to an amusement park, just in case, though I really hoped you wouldn't go for that one, rollercoasters aren't really my thing…"

He trails off when Desmond takes his hand in his, winding their fingers gently together.

"... Also got reservations to three different restaurants," Philip murmurs, embarrassed.

"We can still do that," Desmond says. "Just, you know. With a bit more honesty maybe?"

"Shit," Philip mutters and runs his free hand over his eyes. "You don't know the number of Protocols I'm breaking here."

"I've broken a few myself," Desmond says. "Never compromise the Brotherhood was one of ours, I mostly just gave it a high five while I passed it by. Not the same as compromising the future, though, I get that."

Philip snorts and lifts Desmond's hand in his, pressing a kiss on his fingers. He doesn't know what else to do, really. He's terrified and excited all at once, and he has no idea whatsoever how to proceed from here.

It's kind of thrilling, in a way he really shouldn't enjoy.

"We also have this thing about safeguarding mankind's free will, " Desmond says quietly, watching him. "So you see my dilemma."

"Yeah," Philip says. "So, uh, how much do you know?"

"Not everything yet, but I have a pretty good idea. I do remember everything you told me, though," Desmond says. "And it's been way over twenty four hours now, so no erasing my memory again, sorry."

"Damn," Philip says. The memory inhibitor just doesn't work as advertised, does it?

Desmond hums. "I am, however, kind of betting a lot on the promise that your Director can't take a life not already doomed to end, though," he adds and waves his fingers at the CCTV camera. "Please, o lightning, don't strike me."

Philip snorts. "I don't know if you're terrifying or adorable," he complains, shaking his head and shuffling closer.

Desmond grins and wraps an arm around him. "I can be both," he offers, and Philip just has to kiss him.

Chapter Text

They go bowling. Of all the things Philip had planned – and apparently the guy over-plans when nervous – it's the place where they're most likely to be left to their own devices. Amusement park would be full of people, museum would have guards, the brewery would be too closed up and it would be too easy for people to overhear them… and Desmond still can't quite look at art without getting the impulse to buy all of it. So, bowling.

"Hey, you're not perfect," Philip says, watching him make the first shot. He sounds surprised.

"Give me a break, I've never gone bowling before," Desmond says, scowling as the ball rolls through half of the pins – and leaves the other half standing. "Also I don't know if I should be insulted or not by that tone."

"No, it's just, so far I've never seen you miss a shot yet," Philip says, testing the weight of one of the balls and then making a face and changing it to one his fingers fit in better. "Is that like, a thing? For guys like you?"

"Kinda, kinda not," Desmond says – and how weird is that, guys like you meaning Assassins? When was the last time he talked about being an Assassin to anyone? "I got kind of… overkill as training goes. You? I'm thinking you got some kind of training."

"Yeah, of course. It depends on what you do, though – and there are some who get chosen because they already know how to do something and do it well, and only have to be trained for like… team dynamics," Philip says, letting out an oomph as he sends his ball rolling down the lane. He doesn't make a perfect hit either, couple of pins stay upright, but it's a better throw than Desmond got.

"So, you got training to do…? Or should I not be asking?" Desmond asks.

Philip makes a face and glances at him, and then at the security cameras in the place. "I don't actually know," he admits and checks his phone. "No messages so far, so I think we're still in the green, but… I kind of don't want to push it."

"Is there a chance of punishment?" Desmond asks, waiting for the machine to set the pins back.

"Well. We've toed the line and sometimes outright broken the Protocols before, but…" Philip makes a face. "There were usually extenuating circumstances? I don't know. Usually when I do this, I'm high. It's weird, sober."

Desmond arches his brows at him, surprised. So far Philip had only sort of indicated somewhere in the vicinity of his drug problems – this is the most straightforward he's been about it.

The Traveler glances at him and shrugs. "I inherited it from my host," he says. "Don't get me wrong, I don't enjoy it, but I don't feel any personal shame about it – it's not something I had much choice or control about. The later lapses, yeah, but the habit kind of just… happened."

"Ah," Desmond says, frowning and taking another bowling ball. The things are heavier than they look on TV. "That's a thing I don't get, like… morality wise. You guys choose hosts on their historical time of death, right?"

"We do – the Faction doesn't give a shit," Philip agrees.

"Uhhuh. But you're also changing history, which means changes in times of death too?" Desmond says. "So where does the moral red line in the sand lie, there?"

Philip doesn't answer, watching as Desmond makes his throw – it's a complete miss this time, the ball rolls to the side and down the gutter. "Hell if I know," Philip says then. "Sometimes it's clear – sometimes the death would've been unavoidable unless a Traveler arrived, but sometimes…" he shakes his head. "The Director has its protocols too, it can't take a life not already doomed to death. There's pretty solid coding there, I'm told – it goes a bit beyond my understanding, but it can't take a life unless that life fits certain criteria. But sometimes… events do shift that criteria a little."

"Okay. Comforting," Desmond says, casting him a look.

Philip snorts in agreement. "It can't actually manipulate events to cause a death, I know that much," he says. "They spent years making sure of it. I understand that it might seem – weird, but…" he makes a face. "Cognizant of the fact that the Director can and has made mistakes... the Director is the way we made it and I trust it with my existence. It's the only reason there's still so many of us left, in the future."

Desmond hums, standing back to watch as Philip sizes the lane up. From what he'd seen in the genetic memories of the Faction members, people had some doubts about that. "Can you tell me how it ended up in that state, though? I mean… AI, governing all of humanity – and you created it specifically for that task?"

Philip hesitates, and then takes a moment to make his throw, watching the ball roll and the pins tumble. Then he turns back to wipe his hands and glance at the camera. Desmond does the same. Nothing happens.

"You know the Earth is unlivable in the future, right?"

"Yeah, something about ozone layer being depleted."

"More like blown to smithereens," Philip mutters. "It wasn't just that. The atmosphere was ruined, the global temperatures went to hell - mass extinctions, radiation... Then nuclear winter, which turned into the ice age."

Desmond hums in grim agreement. Shelter 41, the Faction shelter which he'd seen in the Animus, was under a lot of ice, and from what he's seen, people didn't go out except in spacesuits. It was kind of telling.

But even so, the Faction believed humans could still fix it - granted, by the same way the AI was trying to fix it, by changing history. Desmond had seen some of their side of the argument - and to be honest, he wasn't particular to the idea of a mass culling of population. Hearing the other side of the argument should be interesting.

"So, that constituted the use of AIs as leaders?" Desmond asks.

"We were already way past the point of no return when I was born," Philip says, thoughtfully. "So this is only what I learned – didn't actually have to experience it, thankfully. But at some point, when the shelters were starting to be built, a lot of really, really smart people put their heads together, tallied up all the people, all the resources, and all the technology available and they came up with a number. Eighty one years, until total extinction with the current rate of environment degradation, population growth and resource use. About a lifetime in total."

"... Shit," Desmond says quietly.

"Yeah – the deadline came and went a while ago, we survived past it. We got a new doomsday timer, a little further along but still ticking," Philip says. "Anyway, the reason we got past it is because we gave resource management up to AIs. Not the Director, we didn't have the Director yet at that point, but there were other AIs before it. They churned up the numbers, spread out the resources, calculated the odds, and in the end we built more shelters than estimated, we could double the population numbers and we survived. Had a couple of technological breakthroughs too, once the AIs begun managing the educational system."

"That sounds crazy to me, gotta say," Desmond says and makes a face.  "Just having machinery make that sort of decisions? Man."

"AIs are really good at figuring out the optimal solutions," Philip says with a shrug. "It was an AI that figured out changing the past was the only way to ultimately save humanity. We're still on a brink of extinction."

He falls silent, and Desmond doesn't know what to say. There's so many things he wants to ask, the glimpse of a future he got in the genetic memories was a lot, but getting actual first hand answers? But it doesn't exactly look like a happy topic of conversation for Philip.

It's really nice, hearing the guy talk this much and this confidently, though. In the bar and all the other times, it always felt like he was holding back a lot. Here and now, he isn't.

"Well, I can get behind that, at least," Desmond says. "Saving humanity from the eventual apocalypse, I'm all for it."

Philip throws him an awkward smile. "Glad to hear it," he says and takes a seat in their booth while Desmond considers the bowling balls. "My turn to ask something," he says. "You said you were raised in a cult – and you called it a brotherhood," he says. "I'm guessing assassinhood isn't something you precisely chose?"

"I was born into it, yeah. The Assassin Brotherhood. It was – different back then," Desmond says, lifting one of the bowling balls. "Things are way different now. My dad's one, my mom was one, my grandparents, their parents, all the way down… " he pauses to think. "Thirty six generations back. That I know of."

Philip's brows arch. "That's…. a lot of generations."

"Yeah. It was a bit of a bloodline thing," Desmond agrees. "Like being a blue blood, except with blades and killing people. Hashashin they started out as, in the Levant somewhere in… the 11th, 12th century? There were proto-Assassins before, started out sometime in the 500 BC or something? But it was in Masyaf, in what's a modern day Israel, that they got to be called Assassins properly and we've kept the name since."

"Okay, that's… a lot more history than I expected," Philip says and frowns. "And all throughout these centuries you've just... killed people?"

"Well, no. And yes. Kinda," Desmond says and makes a face. "Originally the Hashashins were a lot like you'd think assassins are, killing the enemies of their masters, but - it changed with the Templars. They became a thing around the same time, and Templars and Assassins became enemies. Templars wanted order and peace by any means, subjugation and slavery if necessary... and Assassins, standing in opposition, protecting people's free will and freedom in general. A proper ancient feud."

"I can get behind that, though I got to say - it still sounds like a movie plot to me," Philip says. "Ancient orders working in secret. I'm pretty sure there are movies like that."

Desmond grins. "It's a lot weirder for me, trust me. Anyway, Assassins tried to protect people. Working in the shadows to protect the light. Sometimes it worked like that too, sometimes not. It wasn't exactly a perfect ideology, killing people for the good of people."

"And not profit?" Philip asks, arcing his brows.

"Well  sometimes there was profit too," Desmond agrees with a snort.

Philip shakes his head. "How have I never heard of any of this? Something this big, I should know this."

"Don't sweat it," Desmond says guiltily and makes his throw. It's a little better hit this time – still, some pins are upright and standing. Philip is in the lead. Ah well. "No one knows about it anymore. Just me, my dad, Shaun and Rebecca."

He goes to join Philip, who makes him some room by the table, turning to him. "Were they raised to be Assassins too?"

"Dad, yeah," Desmond agrees. "Shaun and Rebecca were recruits – they got some training, but mostly they're on support. Or were, back when this was still a thing."

"Uh huh," Philip says slowly. "You make it sound like it isn't a thing anymore."

"It ain't, really," Desmond shrugs, leaning his arm on the backrest so that he can turn to face the Traveler, considering him. "You've already changed history, right? Have you changed anything big yet?"

"Define big," Philip says, smiling.

Desmond arches his brows and grins. "In a non-innuendo sense, big. I don't know – mass collateral damage, panic, hysteria?" he asks. "Something borderline world-ending?"

"Not exactly world ending, but… we did avert an asteroid impact," Philip admits, teasing, almost smug. Then he snorts. "Never gotten to brag about that before. Huh."

Desmond grins a little at that. Bragging is a good look on Philip. Hell, a smile in general is a good look on him. "No shit?" he asks, watching him. "What, like, Deep Impact level, or…?"

"Thereabout, yeah. Helios-685," Philip says, grinning a little. "It would've landed on the eastern seaboard in a… not that distant future, actually," he says and then makes a face. "In forty three days, seven hours, eighteen minutes and twelve seconds."

"Thereabout," Desmond says, amused.

"Forty three days, seven hours, seventeen minutes and fifty nine seconds now," Philip says, looking at him and smiling. "It was actually our – my team's – primary mission, averting the Helios impact. It would have killed millions, but we shot a massive laser at it. Now it's going to make a really impressive flyby, nothing more."

"Now, that is impressive," Desmond says, and smiles a little. "You do a lot of saving people from asteroids?"

"Just this one, but we've saved people from other things. Explosions, deathly plagues, and so on," Philip says and looks at him. "We're practically superheroes."

"Mmm," Desmond says, smiling – though Philip sounds a little less smug when he says that, and a little more bitter. "Here to save the world, huh?"

"Hmm," Philip says and looks down, frowning. "Truth be told, it's not had that much of an effect on the future," he says then. "When we signed up, it was at the peril of our birth – literally, we thought we might just cease to exist when Helios was averted. Millions of people would live who would have otherwise died, it should've caused massive changes, and… it didn't."

"No change at all?" Desmond asks.

"Well, in no-Helios future, there's the Faction – wasn't a thing when we left the future behind," Philip says. "The biggest change averting Helios did was that a shelter that collapsed on our timeline didn't – and the people who survived there turned into a Director-opposing faction. And people are still living in domes, and the world is still dying."

Desmond frowns a little at that, at his tone of voice. It sounds bitter. "Huh," he says. "That's odd." Also sounds eerily familiar in a way. "So changing the past is not changing the future? How does that work?"

Philip lets out a frustrated sigh. He seems to think about something for a moment, almost says something, and then obviously changes his mind. "I think it might be because there's a variable about this we're getting wrong."

"Variable," Desmond repeats.

"Yeah. Like…" the blond man draws a breath and then shakes his head. "I've got – good sense of time. And sometimes it feels like it's… like a rope with a knot on both ends. And what we're doing is just fraying the rope in the middle, pulling apart any loose strand and string we can, thinking, this will break the rope, but it doesn't," he says and presses his lips together. "We can't break it, because there's million of strands and million strings that make those strands, and they all lead to this big old knot at the end, and we can pull at the rope and twist it into any shape we want, but the knot is going nowhere."

Desmond arches his brows at that. That's quite a lot. Also one hell of a metaphor, if accurate.

"Yeah," Philip says. "It's – nonsense, probably. Sometimes we just seem to have such little effect on everything. Timeline just bounces back. Worse than it was before."

"Hmm," Desmond answers, running a hand over his chin. From what he'd observed of the future through the Faction members memories… it seems about right, yeah. "Damn."

"Yeah," Philip says and makes a face. "So that's depressing."

"Yeah. Let's change the subject. You got to know some good things about the future, though," Desmond says. Now that he's seen Philip really smiling, he kind of wants to see more of it. "Right? Like maybe not the 25th century, wherever you come from, but… immediate future."

"Quite a bit, actually," Philip says and smiles wryly. "I know a lot about the future. Ask me anything."

"Okay. Winning lottery numbers," Desmond says, grinning.

The smile fades from Philip's face immediately.

"I'm kidding, I'm kidding – shit, you actually could?" Desmond says, his eyes widening a little. "You - you actually know winning lottery numbers?"

"Also sports scores, horse races and can predict the stock market at 99.9 percent accuracy," Philip says, looking at him seriously. "We need to get our funding somehow. Yeah, I could tell you winning lottery numbers. Make you a millionaire."

"Damn," Desmond says, shaking his head. "Okay. Jesus Christ, that's kinda scary. And awesome."

Philip hesitates, reaching for his soda sitting on the table of their booth. "Do you… want me to tell you winning lottery numbers?"

Desmond narrows his eyes, thinking. "I'd like to be a bigger person and say no," he says slowly. "But I've never been a millionaire before. Hm. I think I got to think about this – ask me again next day, when, let's say, Super Draw is going."

Philip gives him a narrow look and then hits him across the shoulder. "Asshole," he says, and Desmond grins at him, leaning in a little. Philip makes a face at him but leans into the kiss – it seems to make things much easier, kissing every now and then. Philip also kisses like he doesn't know what he's doing – it's lovely.

Desmond hums against his lips and pulls back a little. "I got my own funding, thanks," he says, smiling. "It's really tempting, though, I gotta say. Especially with dad thinking I should start recruiting people and rebuilding the Brotherhood. If push comes to shove, I could use that kind of money."

Philip gives him a curious look. "Why not do it himself?"

"Weirdly enough, I have more experience," Desmond snorts and reaches for his own glass of coke. "And he's convinced it's my destiny. It's… not as weird as it sounds, but twice as annoying."

"I'll take your word for it," Philip says, shaking his head and obviously not getting it at all. "It's still so weird to me that I know nothing about you guys. I think I should."

Desmond hums noncommittally and takes a drink. "Which actually brings me back to world ending events, believe it or not," he says and rests the glass against his knee. "What do you know about the date 21st of December, 2012?"

He tries to make it sound nonchalant, but it obviously fails. Philip glances at him like he thinks it's a trick and then sets his glass down. "It's the date of the Lightshow?" he asks warily.

Desmond arches his brows. "Mm-hmm, and?"

Philip gives him a look. "And… it was when the Mayan calendar moved onto the next b'ak'tun, something which a lot of people thought meant the mayan calendar would end, which they then mistakenly and hilariously thought meant the world was going to end?" he ask in tones of humouring him and offers Desmond a dry grin.

Desmond smiles a little. "Yeah, it was really eerie. What else?"

Philip gives him a narrow, suspicious look and then lets out a breath and closes his eyes. "There were protests in Alexandria, a terrorist attack in Kenya, shoot down in United Nations Flight 544 – a cold spell in Ukraine killed 83 people –"

"Okay, that's incredible, but yeah, it was actually after the Lightshow," Desmond says, laughing. "Damn, how do you remember all that?"

"Very specialised training from since I was an infant," Philip says with a frown and clears his throat. "The Lightshow of 21st of December, 2012 – a solar event, a sequence of powerful solar flares, caused disruptions in the Earth's magnetosphere for the duration of 58 minutes, during which time Aurora Borealis was observed all around the globe, in some places even during daytime. Approximately 132 satellites were lost to technical malfunctions during the solar events due to disruptions in earth's magnetic sphere, but the impact on Earth itself was minimal."

Desmond leans his cheek to his knuckles, eying him in wonder. Even he doesn't remember the details that precisely – and he caused the thing. Damn. "You are so flippin cool," he murmurs, reaching a hand to stroke a thumb down Philip's cheek. "That must be some training."

"Yeah, it was a ball," the Traveler says and coughs, awkward, leaning into his hand. "The Lightshow wasn't Traveler-caused, though – it was impressive, but it didn't actually cause any loss of life."

"Yeah, I know," Desmond says, weighing his options. Dad definitely wouldn't approve him talking about this, but… fuck it. "That's… all you know about it?"

Philip frowns, considering him. "Well," he says. "There were rumours at the time that the solar flare should've been more severe – the satellites in the L1 point between Earth and Sun were lost and it was theorised that the solar event should've caused much more damage…" he shrugs. "But obviously it didn't, so that part of the historical record is inaccurate."

"Hmm," Desmond answers, still trying to decide.

"Okay," Philip says, leaning back a little and looking him over. "What's the interest in half a decade old solar event? One would think you'd want to know more about the future, not the past. I mean, from this viewpoint, you know more about it than I do, probably."

Desmond looks away, at the scoreboard of their rented bowling lanes. Still hour or so to go on the clock before they'd have to vacate the lane or pay more. "Well, it's not without reason," he admits slowly. "But – in the future, that's all you know about 21st of December 2012, like in all of the futures, even the changed ones?"

Philip just arches his brows at him, waiting.

Desmond hesitates and then reaches for Philip's hand – as if by osmosis he can explain the weird non-concept he is trying to convey. Doesn't seem to be working, sadly. "I don't know how to put it. You've changed the future – and I'm going out on a limb here and assuming that it has probably been changed before," Desmond says. "I know first Travelers came back to 2001. 001, right?"

"Well," Philip says, looking at him expectantly even as he squeezes Desmond's fingers. "Yes…?"

"In the future 001 came from… did they think the same about the 21st of December  2012?"

Philip hums suspiciously. "You're making it sound like the historical record is wrong about it," he says. "Or was altered?"

Desmond clears his throat. "Do you know?" he asks. "Is there a way to check?"

"Maybe," Philip says. "But I'm really going to need a reason why. What was supposed to happen on 21st of December 2012?"

Desmond shrugs and gives him an awkward smile. "Well… The world was going to end in fire."

Chapter Text

"…I don't want to set the world on fire," Philip sings quietly to himself while working on the keyboard, multiple code windows up, talking with 4 different Historians across the United States. "I just want to start a flame in your heart…"

So far, 21st of December, 2012 is not bringing up much. Everyone knows the same thing about it – the same events, the same incidents, the same Lightshow. A historian in New Mexico cited a new age cult who was damn certain that it was aliens – of course – and in Florida several people, possibly high on drugs, started breaking into buildings and stores and looting places… but aside from the various minor incidents, there's nothing.

The fact that he's digging is sending others doing the same, though. Previously dismissed as just another 21st century eschatological fad. 21st had a lot of them. But now…

"In my heart I have but one desire…" Philip hums, turning to another screen.

Without even all that much digging required, he's found some scientific papers about the matter of the Lightshow, including the ones actually omitted from his training and his Updates – the ones that claimed that the solar event should have caused more damage. How much more, it's hard to say. Damage to the power grid and breakdown of delicate electronics seemed to be on the low end of the spectrum – EMP-like effects at least, all the papers agreed, should have been observed across the globe. Some papers state that the damage should have been catastrophic, on the level of the Toba Catastrophe, that it should have caused shifts in the Earth's mantle, causing volcanic eruptions.

"And that one is you…" Philip continues tapping a few keys and then leaning back to eye the scans and images captured by the L1 point satellites before they were completely fried. "No other will do…"

The first flare of the solar event alone had registered at X 120 range, which, if true, would have stripped portion of Earth' upper atmosphere and caused electromagnetic storm lasting potentially days, not just single hour. Never mind what it would've done to the Earth's magnetic field.

It's… actually kind of spooky, having all this evidence of an event which should've been the greatest catastrophe of the last seventy five thousand years, and – and knowing it didn't do anything. Because as far as all the satellites and radio telescopes and even the earth bound telescopes aimed at the sun at the time, it did happen. And all Earth got to show for it were pretty lights in the sky.

"I've lost all ambition for world acclaim," Philip sings distractedly while the comm under his ear beeps. "I just want to be the one you love…"

"Philip?" Carly's voice asks in his ear, sounding a little startled.

"Yep, I'm here," Philip agrees, frowning at the images. "What can do for you today, Carly?"

"What's wrong?" she asks, tension in her voice.

"Why would something be wrong?"

"Well, considering the last time I heard you singing?" Carly asks. "Is everything alright? Are you on comm with someone?"

"No, it's just you," Philip says, putting the images away and leaning his elbows on the computer desk. "I was just working on something – never mind. You want some tunes?"

"Working on what?"

"Just a bit of extracurricular research," Philip says and frowns. "Ever heard of the Lightshow?"

"That like a party or something? No – wait, the time Northern Lights happened around the world in, uh," she sounds like she snaps her fingers, "in 2012? I was so disappointed that we missed it, really wanted to see that."

"Yeah," Philip hums. "Hm. Never mind – what can I do for you, Carly?"

"I was actually going to ask for some tunes," Carly says. "While I'm packing here."

"Yeah, sure, let me set up a playlist for – wait," Philip says and looks up as knock sounds in the garage. "Hang on a moment, someone's here."

"I'll be hanging on," Carly says. "You expecting anyone?"

Not since Desmond had dropped him at the doorstep like the most ridiculous good boy ever, considering that Philip's doorstep is a garage door. "Not that I know of," Philip admits and then sees the shadow against the faintly transparent door. It's a short, small one. A kid. "Shit, I think it's a Messenger. Stand by, Carly."

She says something, but Philip turns the comm off and walks up to the door, drawing a breath. Honestly, he'd been expecting a Messenger since Desmond had told him he remembered, but… since none had appeared in the hour since, he'd gotten his hopes up.

Time to pay the piper for his moment of self-delusion, then?

The Messenger is a boy, maybe seven years old, with a bruise on his cheek and a missing tooth and blank look of the programmed on his face.

"Traveller 3326," the boy says, sharply robotic, "Engage Desmond Miles in contract to locate and, if possible, secure Traveller 001. Offer monetary compensation if necessary. Further breach of Protocol 2 may result in punitive action. End of message."

"What?" Philip asks incredulously, but the program has already run its course and now there's a very confused looking seven year old boy staring at him. "Um. Kid, I think you're lost," he says. "Do you know how to get home?"

"Um, duh – I got google maps," the boy says, touching his pocket where he obviously has a smartphone.

"Okay, go, get out of here," Philip says, still a little stunned. Staring after the kid as he runs off, he almost wishes he could believe that he just misheard the whole message, but – Historian. He remembers everything he hears, whether he likes to or not.

Engage Desmond Miles in a contract? Really?

"Shit," Philip murmurs and closes the door, turning around and leaning against it, blinking at nothing. Okay, the Director had definitely been watching and making conclusions – and this one, he… actually gets. Desmond found him when he was kidnapped where MacLaren and the others failed. Desmond just – found him in the Director's blind spot and Philip still has no idea how he did it, just that he did and didn't break a sweat doing it. Therefore…

Desmond might actually be able to find 001, despite the fact that they don't even know what body the asshole is in now. Since Perrow died…

"Shit," Philip breathes out, running a hand over his face. Of all the things he'd imagined and feared, all the repercussions for trying to have something just for himself for once, this… the Director engaging Desmond in a hit contract, this he had not expected, not at all.

There's a beep at his neck and with only slightly shaky hand Philip hits his comm. "Yeah, Carly?"

"Well?" she asks impatiently. "What was the Messenger about – should I come in, should we call the others?"

"I – have no idea. This might be a solo one," Philip says, though – even if Desmond found 001 somehow, securing the asshole wouldn't be easy. Still… the others don't yet know that Desmond knows, and honestly, Philip isn't in any hurry to tell them. "Carly, I'll get back to you on that, I gotta go," he says quickly and goes to fetch his jacket.

"Philip –" Carly says, alarmed, as Philip turns his comm off and heads out of the door.

Miles to go isn't yet open – it's another hour until opening time – but lights are on, and through the dirty tinted windows Philip can see Desmond working idly around the bar, cleaning. Side effect of living in your workplace, Philip muses – something he shares with Desmond. You kind of always end up working.

Desmond turns to the door before he even gets the chance to knock, and in no time at all they're staring at each other again. "Hi," Desmond says, looking delighted and wary at the same time. "I'd say something along the lines of did you miss me already, but considering it's been… less than two hours since we saw each other, I have a feeling this is something else."

"Yeah – can I come in?" Philip asks.

"Of course," Desmond says and lets him in. The bar is empty, no sign of his team anywhere – they must be upstairs, working at… at whatever they work at, whatever 7.1 is. Their take-away has been cleaned away too.

"So?" Desmond asks, looking worried. "What's up? Should I be worried?"

"Probably," Philip says, looking at him. Desmond has changed to a grey button up shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal his tattoo and scars – he looks lovely and not at all like someone you engage to find someone as dangerous as 001. But then again… appearances aside, he did go against the Faction before, and not just lived to tell the tale, he came out of it victorious.

"I got a Messenger – I mean… I don't know if you know what they are, but the Director can send messages through kids, prepubescent teenagers, without causing damage, and – it doesn't matter," Philip says. "I was told to engage you in a contract to find someone."

Desmond's brows arch at that, but he doesn't look terribly taken aback or worried. "Okay. Who? I'm guessing someone the Director has trouble locating itself?"

"Yeah – he's been evading the Director for almost eighteen years now," Philip says with a grimace. "It's 001."

"… ah," Desmond says and frowns. "Hmm."

Philip looks him over – Desmond doesn't look apprehensive or anything, he's just thinking about it and somehow that's even worse than him saying no outright. "We've been trying to find 001 for months now," Philip says. "We've gotten close only once, and that was just to find his previous host, dead. We don't even know what body he is in now, never mind where he might be. He could be in Bahamas, for all we know."

"Gotta be pretty important to find him, since the Director is engaging in the services of an 21st outsider," Desmond comments.

"Well… yes," Philip says and grimaces. "And his people did kidnap me."

Desmond blinks and looks at him sharply. "I thought that was the Faction?"

"We've reason to believe that 001 is either part of the Faction, or outright leading it," Philip admits. "We don't know for sure, but they're definitely working together."

Desmond's expression hardens at that. "I see," he says. "So, contract to find him, and secure him? Not kill him?"

"The messenger didn't say anything about killing, no. The Director can't order that – I mean, Protocol 3 is suspended for the Faction, but…" Philip grimaces. "I think the Director wants 001 alive for questioning. And though I'd personally wouldn't mind seeing 001 dead, there are unanswered questions about what he's done and been up to."

"Hm. So no killing," Desmond says and nods. "Alright. I'll take it."

Philip arches his brows. "I – was told to offer monetary compensation if necessary," he offers. "Honestly, I didn't think you would – um. Are you sure?"

"Hell, finding the first Traveler - from what I assume is the earliest stage of the Traveler program – and so, from the timeline before your alterations, right?" Desmond asks and hums. "Kind of want to have a word or two with the guy myself, if I'm honest."

That's not concerning at all, Philip muses. "Okay," he says, a little uneasy. "If you're sure."

Desmond looks at him. "What's wrong?" he asks.

"Oh, you know. The general murder, torture and kidnapping that 001 is known to do. Never mind the human experiments and body jumping," Philip says and blows out a breath. "And I kind of didn't want you involved with our mess, if I'm strictly speaking honest."

"Aww, Philip," Desmond says and pulls him closer, into his arms. For once they're both upright, hugging, and pretty much nose to nose. "Are you worried about me?"

"Yeah," Philip says, gripping him by the waist and leaning his forehead against Desmond's. "I thought the Director might have something to say about this, but… directly involving you in the Grand Plan, I did not think that was even a thing. I mean, we are cooperating with law enforcement and Federal Bureau of Investigation, but still…"

Desmond smiles, bringing one hand up to tilt his face slightly, pressing a soft, slow kiss on his lips. It's dry and warm, and altogether insufficient to settle Philip's nerves. "This is what I do, Philip," Desmond says. "And honestly, I'm thrilled to get involved with your mess. I already am, but being sanctioned to stick my nose into your business? Hell yeah."

"You are so weird," Philip mutters, swaying against him slightly. "This is dangerous."

"Thrilling," Desmond says, smiling and pressing another gentle peck on his lips before pulling back. "I promise I'll be extra careful. And also, you're gonna be there too, right?"

"Well, it's my mission to engage you," Philip says, wrapping his arms loosely around Desmond's waist. "I guess I'm gonna engage."

"Oof, a bit early for that, but I like the way you think," Desmond grins and kisses his cheek before pulling back completely. "Serious talk though, I am going to need some intel to start with. Anything and everything you know on 001, and – you said you found his last host body, dead? I'm going to need a name and either the body's location or wherever they died."

Philip blinks. "I can do that, but – why? The intelligence I get, and I'll get that to you, asap, but why do you want Perrow's body?"

"Well, not the whole body," Desmond says, and smiles. "Just a DNA sample."

"What?"

Desmond holds out a hand, inviting and grinning like a lunatic. "Come on, let's head upstairs. I want to introduce you to the others properly – if I'm going to do this right, I'm going to need their help. And I'd rather kick my dad's ass now and get it out of the way, and won't have to round back and do it in the middle of everything."

"What?" Philip asks again, increasingly apprehensive now.

"Come on," Desmond says, obviously excited now. "It's gonna be great."

What it is is alarming. For one, Desmond's team is not happy to see him in Desmond's living room, Shaun and Rebecca both looking taken aback at the sight of him – Bill Miles looks actually angry. For two – the room doesn't look much like it had the first time Philip had seen it, when delivering supposedly memory-addled Desmond to his house after Philip's kidnapping had been resolved. There's quite a bit of tech strewn around there now – Rebecca and Shaun are both sitting behind a table with three screens on it, and there are cables running in and out of processors and into what Philip had thought was a normal chair, but…

Are those EEG sensors around the headrest? They're set in transparent plastic arms, shaped so that they arch in a curve over the head of whoever sits on the chair. They're glowing faintly, obviously powered somehow.

Philip blinks - and then he sees a shimmering vision of Desmond, sitting on that chair, his face lit in the glow of the EEG sensors, his eyes partially open and sightless. His face is completely expressionless, and there is no reaction at all as Rebecca moves over him, reaching forward to close his eyes gently. He looks...

Philip shakes his head and takes the room as a whole in. None of it looks even remotely like what Philip expected the active Ops of an assassin team to look like. He expected guns, weapons, maybe a cork board full of pictures and files and red string, or at the very least a monitor full of mission files, not… whatever this is.

"Desmond, what the hell do you think you're doing, bringing him here?" Bill Miles asks, standing up, while Shaun and Rebecca share worried looks.

"I'm thinking it's my house – also, shut up," Desmond says and looks at Philip. "Philip, my dad, William Miles, the former Mentor of the former Assassin Brotherhood, these days a not so well educated fake archaeologist, historian and a general pain in my ass," he says and while Bill opens his mouth to obviously argue, Desmond rolls on. "Shaun Hastings, the actual historian with actual degree – used to be a history professor. Also a hacker, programmer and also a general pain in my ass. And a terrible tomb raider."

"Hey," Shaun says, in tone of confused complaint. "I am an excellent tomb raider, at least I know what I'm on about when doing it, unlike some –"

"Also he looks great in booty shorts," Rebecca says with a grin, looking at Philip with great interest – and understanding.

"And Rebecca Crane, the actual only decent human being in this sorry group," Desmond says. "Engineer, hacker, programmer and general jack of all technological and electrical trades."

"Yo," she says, giving Philip a cheeky two fingered salute.

"Desmond," Bill says through gritted teeth. "What are you doing?"

"Guys," Desmond says. "This is Philip Pearson – also a Traveler. And he has a mission for us."

That silences all of them – except for Rebecca, who hums, obviously having expected it. "Gotcha," she says. "Nice to properly meet you, Philip. Welcome to the madhouse."

"Wait, you knew?" Shaun demands her.

"Desmond –" Bill says, again, more urgent.

"Yeah, I mean – wasn't it obvious?" Rebecca asks. "Desmond getting involved with anything like this Traveler stuff? Never happens without a reason. Plus there was a talk of kidnapping and rescue… Also there are records on his Animus about recent samples, which he's since deleted, which means right and wrong got in the way somewhere along the way. It was kind of obvious that personally compromised was happening somewhere in the background, and when have you ever seen him getting interested in anyone normal?" she asks and grins at Desmond. "Dem Assassin genes, they're like a radar for Historically Important Stuff."

Everyone looks at her, Desmond with a grin, Shaun with disbelief and Bill with a look of frustration. Philip is just – very confused. He's – not quite missing something here, but there's something he doesn't know about which he doesn't like and what is an Animus? He's never heard about it.

"And you call yourself Assassins," Rebecca says, tutting mockingly as she leans back in her chair, looking smug.

"Seriously?" Shaun asks. "Desmond, you dog."

Desmond shrugs, shameless, and Philip clears his throat, a little confused. "Um, hi," he says warily. "Nice to meet you all, I guess. Wish it was under better circumstances," he says and gives Desmond a look. "Thanks for the warning," he adds flatly.

"Sorry," Desmond says, offering him an apologetic smile. "But if I am going to go tracking people, I am going to need their help, and they would figure it out eventually, and this way I get to control first impressions – and no, dad, I am not going to have a word in private with you," he adds to Bill Miles, who is starting to look like a man at the end of his rope.

"You've been keeping secrets," Bill says dangerously, looking at Philip like he's a danger to be put down pre-emptively.

"Oh yeah, I wonder how it feels, being kept in the dark and all," Desmond says flatly. "Don't you even think about it. We already had this talk – and it still stands. My city, my call."

There's a moment of tense silence, with Rebecca and Shaun looking interestedly between father and son while Desmond tries to stare his dad into submission. There's something going on beneath the surface there, a previous argument obviously being re-played in silent glares. Philip feels woefully unprepared for all of this.

Then Bill narrows his eyes slightly, glancing Philip over. "Fine," he says then, unimpressed. "As you wish, Mentor. Now what's this mission, then?"

Chapter Text

"Honestly, knowing the capabilities the Faction seems to have – that all Travelers seem to have – I wouldn't go with an online research – even on their back channel," Rebecca says thoughtfully.

"Yes, loathe though I am to admit, they are better at it and being discovered at this early juncture would be detrimental," Shaun agrees.

"I can do it without detection," Philip says, tough a bit dubiously. 001 had caught him hacking before. The guy had insidiously good grasp of the Deep Web, and though Philip has had an update or two since and he's learned both from Simon when he was alive and from Grace…

"I agree with the others, it's better not to risk it," Bill Miles says and looks at Desmond. "Not while we have other options. Do you think the samples we have might offer some current intelligence?"

"Maybe – and if not, Philip knows 001's previous body," Desmond says and looks at him. "Do you know where it is?"

Philip considers it, resting his hands against his knees. "Cremated," he says then. "I guess the Director didn't want to risk prolonging the investigation there and getting 21sters involved."

"Damn," Rebecca says. "You know how creepy that is, AI from four hundred years into the future manipulating funeral proceedings in the present? Just how much can the Director do?"

Philip clears his throat and doesn't answer, looking at Desmond. "You said the place where the body died might be enough?"

"All we need is a valid DNA sample," Desmond says and shrugs. "Just a few hairs would do."

"You can track someone down by their DNA?" Philip asks dubiously. Even the Director can't do that, not until the DNA is analysed and put into a file. And what would Perrow's DNA even do to help here? 001 isn't in her anymore.

"Not exactly," Desmond agrees, evasive.

"You haven't told him yet?" Shaun asks.

"Perhaps you shouldn't," Bill says quickly.

Desmond shrugs. "There's no way to explain the Animus without sounding like a complete madman," he says and while Rebecca let's out an insulted little huff, he turns to Philip. "Figured I'd just show you, but first, we need the sample. Can you take me to the place where 001's body died?"

"Yeah, I can," Philip says slowly, folding his arms. "But I'd really want to know why now."

"You don't want to let me wow you?" Desmond asks with a pout. "It's really cooler in action than in explanation. Explained it just sounds ridiculous, trust me. I'd really rather show you instead."

Behind him, Rebecca hums the tune of I can show you the world, and Shaun punches her lightly on the shoulder. Bill looks like he's suffering from high blood pressure.

Desmond just looks ridiculous, pouting.

"Fine, but only because you're cute," Philip says and shakes his head at Desmond proud grin. "I can take you to where Perrow's died but we're going to need a vehicle. It's not exactly close by."

"Sweet, let's go," Desmond says and grins. "By the way, how are you with motorcycles?"

Desmond doesn't have a car, he has a motorcycle. A really nice one too, from what Philip can tell, well maintained and polished with all the right chrome bits gleaming.

Funnily enough, knowledge about motorcycles wasn't included in Philip's training. He actually has a vague idea that the Director is semi-against motorcycles as a rule – something about user mortality rates and accident statistics and not wanting even for a moment to risk  Travelers in such dangerous mode of transport when cars are more readily available and much safer as a whole. So Philip knows how to hotwire a car – but he has no idea how to ride a motorcycle, what brand Desmond's motorcycle is, or whether it matters. It might matter a little.

The thing is so well polished that there must be societal standing boost there somewhere, same as with sports cars and whatnot. Obviously Desmond is also proud of the thing – it's a penis extension if Philip has ever seen one.

"Here – put this on," the Assassin orders, handing him a helmet while pulling on one himself.

"Do you know how many accidents involving motorcycles there are each year?" Philip asks warily.

"I don't, and don't tell me, please, I don't want to know," Desmond says, pushing the visor up and grinning. "I promise you, we're not going to crash. It might even be fun, who knows."

Philip can't decide how he likes it, riding a motorcycle. Fun isn't the right word anyway. Desmond is obviously a skilled driver, from the way he weaves through the traffic, and he's fast too, speeding through just barely within the speed limit. It's thrilling and terrifying at the same time, and Philip can't decide if it's like being high or completely unlike it.

An excuse to plaster himself all over Desmond's back and hug him for dear life is very welcome though. Philip doesn't mean to cop a feel there, but – Desmond feels nice. Solid and sturdy to the core – and tightly packed, in a way. Muscled in a way how people who use their bodies hard are, as opposed to people who go to gym and pump iron just for looks.

It's grounding – and distracting all at once and makes the ride seem both shorter and longer than it is. Phil isn't sure if that's a good thing – either way, his knees are shaking by the time they arrive at the facility where the Faction once holed up and where they found Perrow and what looked like a handful of Faction members, dead.

Desmond turns the engine off and hangs his helmet on one of the handlebars. "You okay back there?" he asks.

Philip still has him in a death grip. "Give me a moment," he grumbles. "I was not ready for motorcycles."

Desmond laughs, sympathetic, and helps him take his helmet off. "You did great," he says and distracts Philip from the thrumming of adrenaline by making everything worse and kissing him. And then, frustratingly, he pulls away and gets off the bike. "Come on. The quicker we get this done, the faster I can ply you with hot chocolate and cuddles to earn your forgiveness."

"I'm holding you to that," Philip says and gets to his feet with a groan.

The bodies have long since been cleared out, of course, and even the FBI investigation has run its course – there's still bits of FBI tape here and there, but most of it's been cleared out.

"Right," Philip says, steeling himself while Desmond takes out a DNA collection kit from his backpack.  "It was this way –"

"Don't tell me," Desmond says. "Let me find out myself – only tell me if I get the wrong one."

"What? Why?" Philip asks, confused.

"It's better to have confirmation after the fact than to start out with confirmation bias," Desmond says and narrows his eyes. "I'm good at finding what I need, but it can be influenced sometimes. Just – let me lead, okay?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about – how are you going to find the right DNA sample among half a dozen identical looking pools of dried blood?" Philip demands. "What are you, a bloodhound?"

Desmond grins and then his expression goes smoothly serious and he pulls his hood up, casting his face in shadow. "Just let me show off for you, okay?"

"Fine. Being left in the dark is not very charming though, just so you know," Philip says, though he's curious despite himself. "Lead the way then. Why the hood, though?"

"It helps me see, strangely enough," Desmond says and sets forward. "Something about dark vision, I guess."

It's eerie, how he goes the right way without hesitation, almost like he knows where to go despite obviously not having been to the place before. Maybe it's the remnants of the FBI tape leading him, but, with the way Desmond is looking around and what he's concentrating on… it doesn't look like it. He's following some trail, staring at seemingly nothing, and –

For a moment Philip sees something too. A glowing shard of an alternate timeline – or maybe alternate past – where Dawn is pushing Perrow down the corridor in a wheelchair, talking rapidly about how, "... Take the advantage now while the Historians are in one place. With the ones we already have, I'm sure we can persuade the others and show them the right way –"

Philip blinks as Dawn and Perrow – her neck in a brace but healing – continue down the corridor. Desmond has stopped and is looking at him.

"What do you see?" the Assassin asks.

"Just the corridor – why?" Philip asks defensively. "What do you see?"

"A lot of people, running with guns," Desmond says and motions. "There was a firefight here, people taking cover over there, shooting – that way." Where he's pointing, there's bullet holes in the wall. "And there's that woman, Dawn – she took another woman in a wheelchair down this hall."

Philip blinks and then turns to look at him. "What? You can see it – how?"

"It's a sort of residue," Desmond says, looking up and down the corridor. "People here were terrified for their lives, it leaves a mark on the place."

Philip stares at him. "That's –" not possible, he wants to say but here he is, seeing visions himself. "I see an alternate reality where Perrow lived and this place was used as their base."

"Huh," Desmond says.

"You mean to say that you – see things?" Philip asks, stepping to his side. "And not like – hallucinations? Things that happened? Do you know how, why – what triggers it –"

Desmond waves a hand. "It's a genetic ability," he says, considering the corridor. "Tell your all about it later – right now I want the sample."

He continues on down the corridor, and Philip hurries after him, his mind whirling. Desmond sees things, somehow – and trusts the ability well enough to use it to track people and things. He's leading them unerringly in the place where the final showdown happened and where Perrow was found, and – he does it by following visions?

There's a brown smudge on the floor where Perrow had laid, and Desmond crouches by it. "This is the one, right?"

"Yeah," Philip says, bewildered. There's half a dozen smears of blood in the place, and Desmond had picked the right one on the first try. "How can you tell?"

Desmond doesn't answer immediately, opening the DNA collection kit and getting out a swab. "It's gonna sound like pseudo science," he says then.

"Time traveling sounds like pseudo science," Philip points out.

"... True," Desmond says and grins, sealing the swab in a test tube. "I can see when things are important. They sort of glow when I look at them just right – all the blood here which belongs to Perrow glows golden at me." He takes out a pen and writes Perrow on the tube. Then he takes out another swab and goes to collect the other blood samples too.

"Sounds to me like you're trying to claim you have actual psychic abilities," Philip says warily, watching him work.

"Yeah, sounds that way, doesn't it?" Desmond asks and looks over the room, narrowing his eyes. "Have you ever heard of people with, basically, ESP? Like a sixth sense?"

Philip frowns. "Not out of science fiction, fantasy and reports about crackpots," he says, shaking his head.

"Not even in the future? There aren't people with – special genetic qualities?" Desmond asks.

Philip is quiet for a moment. "Like Historians and Archivists?"

Desmond looks at him, arching a brow in question.

"I'm not sure if I should be telling you this," Philip admits. "Already got a warning for breaking Protocol 2. Don't compromise your cover, don't tell anyone about future."

Desmond hums. "I think I already know," he says and stands up. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but your DNA folds an unusual amount of information into itself. Archivist, judging by the name, actually archives information – do they do it in their DNA?"

Philip blinks. "There is no way you just guessed that," he says slowly.

"Didn't," Desmond says. "I already knew you had the DNA markets for triple helix DNA, and I know what that means. I don't know how you use it, in the future, but you do. Right?

For a moment Philip says nothing, staring at him. Sometimes he can't believe that Desmond is really a 21ster, he just knows so much and makes these leaps of logic…

"You ran my DNA?" he asks quietly. "Where did you get the sample?"

"Hairs on my couch," Desmond answers and gives him a look. "And you broke into my phone first, and don't tell me you didn't do a background check."

"I did and I'm not – insulted or anything that you did it," Philip says, frowning a little. "Just kind of annoyed about just how much about you I missed."

"To be fair, there wasn't much to find," Desmond says. "I've made sure of that. So, am I right about Historians and Archivists?"

"Yeah. You need a certain genetic mutation to be a Historian – and even more so to be an Archivist," Philip agrees, shaking his head a little, still bewildered. "It makes our brains – different. Makes it possible for us to take and store huge amounts of information, beyond what human brain usually can cope with. Both the original Historian in the future and the host body have to have the generic markers," he says and frowns. "Even so, Historians have the most Misfires."

"Misfires?"

"They fail to land in the bodies they're sent to – the Arrival Misfires," Philip says. "And the Traveler dies."

"Shit. Sorry to hear that." Desmond hums and looks at him with interest. "So, you're a Historian?" he asks then.

"You are really bad for my ability to keep secrets," Philip says with a sigh. "Please stop."

Desmond grins. "That's what the Faction called you, I just didn't know the significance then," he admits and waves the DNA collection kit. "Good to know you have DNA information exchange thing going on, maybe it won't be that hard to explain the Animus, after all."

"It reads DNA? I don't think Perrow had nanites in her blood writing her data out," Philip says, frowning.

"Doesn't matter. Regular old genetic memories are still a thing," Desmond says. "That's how you do your data thing then, with nanites?"

Philip hums, eying him. "DNA information storage is tech that won't be even theorised about for another thirty years," he says slowly. "Where did you get the Animus?"

"Rebecca built it," Desmond says, shrugging. "And a crazy scientist invented it in the eighties, derivating it from ancient technology that isn't really around anymore – it's a long story. The training Historians go though, how does it work? I mean, the host body doesn't have that training, right? So how…?"

Philip coughs, awkward, and looks away. "We're taken as infants and toddlers and trained to compartmentalise our memory. Our way of internalising and recalling memories becomes basically computerised – a Historian's mind works like a program with dormant direct access memory. If successful, the way we think actually reshapes the structure of our brains and we can download information into our minds. It's fed to us on a screen like a movie, and just… uploaded into our brains."

Desmond says nothing, staring at him in astonishment. Philip shrugs. "Archivists are modified in similar ways, but they can take in an entire order of magnitude more information than a Historian can. It's then written into their DNA by the archival nanites in their bodies. It's how the future gets information about the past now, the DNA is planted in people with living descendants in the 25th. Also works vice versa – Archivist Arriving from the future carries with them all the new information to be distributed among the Historians in the 21st."

"Huh," Desmond says. "That's… something. I'm not sure amazing is the right word. Awe-striking?"

"Yeah," Philip says, awkward. "It's kind of the backbone of the Traveler program – and I am so getting punitive action for telling you all of this."

"I might have something to justify it, maybe," Desmond smiles wryly and steps closer, winding arms around him and humming soothingly. "Tell me something first though. Did you have a choice, entering the Traveler program? I mean, being trained since you were an infant… the implications sound kind of awful."

"It happened only at my mother's permission. The training I got, it's valuable – could've made me anything, even a Programmer, if I didn't volunteer to become a Historian," Philip sighs, swaying into his hold. It helps. "You can only get into the program by volunteering and going through a whole slew of psych exams, and even after that the training can take decades. The Traveler program isn't something you can just force anyone into and not to expect them to fuck everything up – highly trained fully consenting volunteers in a sound state of mind only."

"That's good to know," Desmond says softly, stroking his fingers through Philip's hair. "Sometimes when you talk about this stuff – it just sounds a bit freaky to me."

"Yeah," Philip sighs. "Me too. You are taking all of this amazingly well though, gotta say. Most people would freak out."

"Well, it's not really that new to me. The way you do it, yeah, that's new... but time travel, freaky DNA, training, even downloading stuff into your memory?" Desmond lets out an awkward laugh. "It's old news in new covers to me."

Philip blinks and looks at him. Desmond shrugs and smiles, a little sheepishly. "You have Historian potential," Philip realises. "You have the mutation, don't you? Except – you don't have training, so it manifests differently. You – you must naturally be able to take more information than most people and your subconscious mind then reworks it into visual cues, hallucinations –"

He stops as Desmond presses a thumb to his lips. "You are absolutely right," he says fondly. "But you're missing still some vital information. I can't wait to tell you, but – I think your team just arrived in the front."

"What? How do you know that?" Philip demands and hits his comm – which he hadn't remembered to turn back. "You can't know that –"

And then MacLaren is on his ear, growling, "Damn it, Philip, come in! Trevor, isn't there a way to activate his comm remotely?"

"On it, boss."

"Shit," Philip says, letting his hand drop and looking at Desmond. "How did you know?"

"I can see people through walls," Desmond says with a grin.

"Bullshit," Philip says, incredulous.

Desmond grins, pulling him in. "I got so much I wanna show you now," he says, leaning his forehead on Philip's and humming. "And you – you have no idea how happy I am that I met you."

Philip kind of melts at that, and that's how his team finds them, necking at a former murder scene like goddamn teenagers.

Chapter Text

And then there are people with guns. Somehow, most of Desmond's dates end up with people with guns showing up. Not all of them, granted, but more of them than he'd like, really.

"Philip?" the guy in a bureau black suit demands, aiming a gun at them. "Fancy seeing you here – mind stepping away from each other?"

Philip draws a breath and sighs and turns to look at the gun. "MacLaren, it's fine," he says. "Put the guns away."

They're all aiming their guns at them – or rather, at Desmond. Desmond hadn't caught all their names, which makes all of this a little awkward. He knows Trevor and the blonde, he thinks, is Marcy, since she was the doctorly type and at one point Philip had mentioned her. The other two he doesn't know.

"Hi, Trevor," Desmond says, giving a look to the gun the kid is pointing at him. He's holding it steady and perfect. "There is no way you have a permit for that."

"Hi, Desmond. I do have training though," Trevor says, a bit apologetic. "Sorry."

"Philip, are you alright?" the black woman asks, neither her eyes nor her gun moving away from Desmond.

"Yes, I'm fine, put the guns away," Philip says, exasperated. "Why are you even here?" He kind of sounds like he knows though – and it makes him sound a little embarrassed.

"Well, Philip," the suited guy says, flatly. "Carly heard you get a message after which you stopped answering our calls, which made us understandably a little uneasy – especially considering the last few times that has happened. Would you mind stepping back and explaining what the hell is going on?"

"I'm on a mission," Philip says.

"A mission constitutes hugging?" the blond who is maybe Marcy asks, arching her brows.

"In this case, yes, I think it might," Philip says, little irritated now. "Guys, the Director ordered me to hire Desmond, and I – did. And we're here carrying out the mission."

There's a lot of arches eyebrows at that. "That doesn't actually make the hugging at the crime scene better," the suited guy says slowly, looking between Desmond and Philip. "What mission?"

"I'm going to find 001 for you," Desmond says, holding his hands apart from his centre mass to show that he's unarmed. "We're here collecting DNA samples, which I can hopefully use to get info about his current body."

"Excuse me?" the suited guy asks, unimpressed and confused at the same time.

"You can't use DNA for that – not unless it's been loaded with –" the blonde says and then stops, looking between Desmond and Philip suspiciously.

"Guys, put the guns away, come on," Philip says. "No one's going to hurt anyone here, and not only did the Director want me to hire him, but he's also my boyfriend – so please…"

Boyfriend. Desmond casts Philip a look and then feels himself preen, unable to help it. Boyfriend. Aww.

There are looks exchanged – Trevor is the first to turn his gun downward, snapping the safety back on. He looks a little relieved to do it. The guy in a suit is the next, and following his lead the women do the same, though the black lady obviously doesn't like it, her eyes narrowing at Desmond dangerously.

"Desmond," Philip says, sounding almost embarrassed. "My team. Grant MacLaren, Traveller 3468, he's the team leader – also an FBI agent. Carly Shannon, Traveler 3465, the Tactician of the team. Marcy Warton, 3569, the Medic of our team. And Trevor you already know, he's our Engineer, Traveler 0115."

"Pleasure to meet you all. Hi, I'm Desmond Miles," Desmond says, waving his fingers.

"Yeah, we know who you are," Carly says.

"No, you have no idea," Philip says and casts Desmond a look. "I didn't really – tell you everything, exactly. Also, the memory inhibitor doesn't work on him. So he remembers everything."

"What?" Marcy says. "How – I can understand remembering glimpses, but – everything?" she narrows her eyes at Desmond. "Do you have a history of drug abuse?"

"No, but I have technology that can recover memories from people's DNA," Desmond says and shrugs. "Knowing you were going to try and erase my memory for rescuing Philip – which, by the by, is not cool, guys – I didn't exactly tell you everything either. Waking up without a memory of previous 24 hours was a bit suspicious, so… I recovered it."

The team exchanges looks, but there's a rather refreshing level of acceptance there – no one goes that's impossible the way most people would've at the sound of it. There's still suspicion, and they obviously don't like it, but – the incredulity is missing. Guess that's just how it goes with time travellers – their tolerance for unusual bullshit gets pretty high.

"Okay," the FBI guy says, blinking and then making a face, looking at Philip. "The Director ordered you to hire him?" he asks, incredulously.

"Yeah," Philip agrees. "Trust me, it was just as freaky for me. But," he looks at Desmond. "He did find me the last time the Faction had me, in a place the Director couldn't find me in, so… I'm thinking at this point the Director is starting to get a little bit desperate about the Faction."

Desmond frowns a bit at that, wishing he'd had the time to go through more of the Faction memories. Most they'd gotten was the Shelter 41, and couple of Anti-Director rallies by the central support, before Rebecca had thrown up her hands and told them they had to update the Animus before trying to get more. He got that there was a conflict going on, but Director getting desperate about the Faction is something else.

"And he can find 001?" Carly asks, eying Desmond. "Really?"

"Ours is not to reason why," Philip says, shrugging and eying Desmond. "I figure it doesn't hurt to try."

"And the hugging?" Trevor asks, amused.

"That was just generally nice," Philip admits and Desmond grins, much to the disgust of Carly Shannon and rolled eyes of the FBI guy.

There's a moment of silence as the team takes them in and Desmond runs a hand over his chin, wondering. There's still so much about all of this he doesn't know. It's really time he gets some more concrete answers. "Okay, so, this is tense," he says. "How about we head to my bar and I'll get everyone drinks?"

He gets a lot of incredulous looks at that.

"It's also where I need to go to start working through 001's – Perrow's? – DNA for information," Desmond says and looks at Philip. "What are the chances of it not ending up in bloodshed if your team meets my team?"

"You have a team?" Carly asks sharply.

Philip blows out a breath. "I don't know. Bill seemed a little trigger happy," he points out.

"Eh, I can handle him," Desmond says. "What I don't know if these guys will shoot Shaun when he runs his mouth."

"Ah," Philip says and smiles a little. "I think we're good. We have a thing about not killing people. Even when they are annoying."

"Okay, that's comforting," Desmond says and looks at the others. "So, drinks?"

It takes a little more confusion – and in the end Philip is marched to MacLaren's car, probably to be thoroughly questioned on the way – but they head to Miles to go. Desmond is the first there, and quickly takes the moment to stow away his motorcycle and to mark that the bar's closed for the night – closed on a Friday night too, ugh – before heading upstairs to warn everyone.

"So, Philip's Traveler team showed up and we're about to have company," he says as way of greeting, making Bill startle awake on the couch while Rebecca and Shaun look up from the computer screens.

"Is this everyone grab a weapon sort of company or quick, hide the suspicious advanced technology sort of company?" Shaun asks suspiciously.

"It's worlds colliding, let's put our best foot forward sort of company," Desmond admits and takes out the DNA kit. "How goes it with 7.1?"

"She's ready to be tested," Rebecca agrees, taking the kit. "The sample was viable?"

"You tell me. Eagle Vision seemed to think so, though. Collected every other sample too, just in case," Desmond says. "They looked a couple weeks old, though, but it was indoors, so the DNA is hopefully still intact. Start with the one marked Perrow, that's 001's previous body."

"Speaking of which – why are we working with them?" Bill asks sharply. "Desmond, you saw what's in those memories, what these people do – and this Philip is obviously on the machine's side of things."

"Yeah, but Faction's the one who touted population statistics on a rally and cheered at the idea of killing 30% of the population in the 21st," Desmond points out. "How much is the 30% of the current population?" he asks, glancing at Shaun and Rebecca.

"2.2 billion," Rebecca says while taking the swab with Perrow's blood and feeding the sample to the Animus scanner. "Two billion two hundred and eighty nine million eight hundred and forty five hundred thousand and seven hundred ninety seven. To be exact."

"Blood of the innocent and all that," Desmond points out. "I know, the Director thing is weird, it's weird for me too… but from what we've figured out so far, the Director's side is all about saving people. I'm a bit more inclined to go with that, than the opposite."

"And the total unquestioning obedience to an all-controlling computer?" Bill asks wryly. "How can you accept that, knowing what we do of AI?"

"Juno wasn't an AI, just an ancient bitch who managed to survive past her proper time of death," Desmond says flatly. "And she's gone."

"Are you sure about that?

Desmond gives him a cool look. "Yeah, I'm pretty fucking sure, thanks," he says and rests a hand at his hip. "You know, you talk a lot of shit about me becoming the Mentor, like it's my duty to the humanity, but when it comes to it, you don't trust my judgement worth crap, do you?"

Bill presses his lips tight together.

"Make up your damn mind – either you follow me in this, or you fuck right off," Desmond says and turns to Shaun and Rebecca. "In the meanwhile, Rebecca, can you get Perrow's last moments out of the DNA?"

"On it," Rebecca says, leaning back and tapping her keyboard with one hand. "We already got a viable chromosome, the whole DNA string intact and – hoo boy, look at this."

Desmond frowns and leans to look as she turns her screen slightly. There are memory profiles, multiple of them like they'd expected – but unlike with all the rest, there isn't just two of them. There's three.

Name: Katrina Perrow
Name: Vincent Ingram
Name: 001
Date of Birth: 28th August, 1965
Date of Birth: 4th of February, 1963
Date of Birth: 12th of June, 2380

"Huh," Desmond says. "So it really does keep track of all the host bodies?"

"I mean… it keeps track of all the sets of memories, yeah," Rebecca says, frowning. "Starting from the latest and going back to the first, that's useful. I think I can now…" she trails off and taps keys for a moment, running a scan of some sort through the DNA chain and then spitting out a linear timeline.

32 years as 001, then 16 years at Vincent Igram, and finally less than 1 year as Katrina Perrow.

"Huh," Desmond says again, while Bill and Shaun both lean in to look.

"Hell yeah, it works," Rebecca says and grins. "It's damn annoying, shuffling all these memory lines, but I managed to isolate the time actually experienced from host DNA. Also it looks like – yeah, like with the original Traveler line of memories, the secondary host body's Ancestral Line isn't included. Just the current host's ancestral line."

"Am I the only one who has the sudden urge to start screaming about the attack of the body snatchers?" Shaun asks. "Jesus. They just jump bodies willy-nilly, don't they?"

"This one does, anyway," Desmond says. "Which the Director and the others aren't too happy about – which is why they hired me to find him. Generate Perrow's last moments for me, will you, get them ready," he says and looks away. "Philip and the others just arrived."

"Will do – oh, before you go, we got something you might want to take look at. Shaun?"

Shaun hands Desmond a tablet, with a long scroll of text on it.

"The Grand Manifest of the Faction," Shaun says. "I haven't gone through all of it, but the first few lines are rough enough."

"Thanks," Desmond says, looking it over and then setting it back on the table. "I'll look through it later. Hey, can you throw video of Shelter 41 on my TV?" he asks.

"Yes, I can – why?" Shaun asks, blinking.

"Got a thing to prove to our guests," Desmond says with a shrug. "Also I kind of want to see their faces, when they see it."

With that said, he heads downstairs – and as expected, Bill follows him. "Following or fucking off?" Desmond asks. "Last chance."

"Following," Bill says and sighs. "Old habits die hard, and this is a bit beyond my comfort zone."

"You think for me it isn't?" Desmond asks flatly. The old man gives him a look at that, and Desmond shakes his head. "There's no time for this. If you're going to be questioning me at every turn, I'd really rather you just go back upstairs and stay out of the way."

Bill hesitates and then runs a hand over his chin. He still looks uncomfortable but eventually he says, "I'll observe quietly, for now."

"Wonderful. Keep to it."

Philip and the others are waiting behind the front door, and with a flourish Desmond lets them in. "Team briefing done then?"

"Yeah – you own this place?" MacLaren asks, surprised. "It's nice. I didn't know there was a place like this so close to the Ops."

"Yeah, I'm a regular old business owner. You're welcome here any time it's open," Desmond agrees and looks at Philip, looking him over. A little irritated and frustrated, but otherwise in a good mood. Desmond smiles. "Agent MacLaren, Ms. Shannon, Ms. Warton, Mr. Holden – Philip. My father, William Miles," he introduces. "Dad, Agent Grant MacLaren, Carly Shannon, Marcy Warton, Trevor Holden, and Philip you already know. They're all Travelers."

There's a moment of tension as Philip's team sizes them up and Bill eyes them suspiciously.

"Great," Desmond says and claps his hands together. "So, drinks and sharing of information, anyone?"

"How does the memory recovery technology you have work?" Marcy says quickly, looking at him levelly. "How is that possible to get that sort of information from DNA without nanites?"

Cutting straight to the business, huh. "Don't ask me, the tech still goes a bit over my head," Desmond admits and lifts his hand when she glares. "I'm not trying to be obtuse, I really don't understand how the tech does it. I'm not an engineer. I just know how to use it. Rebecca can probably tell you exactly how it works."

"But I'm guessing there's going to be some laying of ground rules first," MacLaren says, eying him.

"First, drinks," Desmond says emphatically and holds out his hand for Philip.

Philip doesn't take it – he shimmies under it and against Desmond's side, wrapping an arm around his waist. "Sorry about all of this," he says with a sigh.

"Eh, things were going to come to head eventually. At least no one's been shot yet" Desmond says, tucking him in and pressing a kiss on the side of his jaw. "Hot chocolate toddy?" he offers, turning them towards the counter.

Philip hums. "Double the liquor, please."

"You got it."

There's a moment of silence, tension and general pretence of relaxation as Philip's team – and obviously disapproving, but thankfully still silent Bill – awkwardly take seats by the counter and Desmond goes around it to mix drinks. He makes Philip's first, because he's Desmond's favourite. The others get their turn, one by one.

Ginger ale for MacLaren – interesting. White Wine Spritzer for Marcy, with only third of the wine. Trevor gets caramel coffee sans all alcohol, and obviously is thrilled about it. Carly gets a sour look on her face.

"I have a thing about alcohol," she says flatly. "I'll take just water, thanks."

"I could make you a non-alcoholic cocktail?" Desmond offers. "Not drinking alcohol doesn't mean you don't get to drink fancy stuff."

Despite her obviously professional stance of not liking him until proven otherwise, that gets her interest. "Hm. Fine. Do your worst."

Desmond considers her, then takes a look into his fruit basket, considering what he has. Then he makes her a non-alcoholic Sangria, just to show off a little.

"There," Desmond says, finishing with whiskey for his dad and beer for himself. "Now everyone is watered and can stop glaring daggers at me, please."

"This is a bit new for us," MacLaren says, leaning his elbows on the counter and watching him. "The Director generally doesn't involve 21sters, and the matter of 001 has been an ongoing issue for us – to have the mission transferred to an outsider and not even another Traveler team… it threw us for a spin."

"Yeah, I can see how that would be annoying," Desmond muses, taking a gulp of his beer and leaning his hip to the counter. "You don't work much with the locals, huh?"

There are some looks exchanged. "There is some cooperation between us and the Federal Bureau of Investigations," MacLaren says. "But it's strained at best."

"They know you're from the future?" Desmond asks. "Huh."

"And they don't like it," Carly says, giving faces to her fancy cocktail of fruits. She's already half through it.

"And we don't expect much aid from them, mostly they just… observe," MacLaren says, grimacing. "And intervene."

"Uhhuh," Desmond says. "We'll, I'm in no way law enforcement and I am not going to butt into your business. I'm an Assassin and finding people is what I do – which is why I figure your Director wanted to use me."

"So you can kill 001?" Carly asks sharply.

"Wasn't part of the message," Philip says quickly. "Find and secure if possible. No killing was mentioned."

"Which I am going to stick to," Desmond adds.

"And you have ways to find him, even though the Director can't?" Trevor asks, leaning in a little. "001 stays away from electronics, leaves no trace in records – and we don't even know what body he is in right now. Since Katrina Perrow died…"

"Working on it," Desmond says, pointing upstairs. "Reason I wanted Perrow's DNA is because I'm hoping she saw the new body before dying. If she did, we can recover an image of it."

"But how? Perrow didn't have Archival nanites," Marcy says, shaking her head. "We checked, her blood was clean. There's was nothing in her that would have been able to write information like that down."

Desmond shrugs and takes another drink. "You write stuff in human DNA," he says. "Why is it so odd that the thing you do artificially might be done organically too? I'm really curious how you got this far in DNA information tech and did not end up finding out about ancestral memories and genetic memory in general."

Marcy squints at him thoughtfully. "You mean to say it happens in nature? But then..." she trails off, looking away and thinking. "Do you have proof of this?"

Desmond snorts and lifts his glass. "First things first," he says and looks at Philip's team. "Are you going to actually let me do the thing your Director hired me to do… or are you going to try and stop me?" he asks. "I'd like to know right now."

There's a moment of silence at that before MacLaren speaks, obviously taking the lead. "We trust in the Director," he says firmly. "If it decided hiring you was the most optimal path, that's what we'll go with," he adds and then glances at Philip. "We just wish Philip hadn't tried to keep us in the dark about it."

"Honestly, it just slipped my mind," Philip says with an embarrassed sigh. "I would have told you later."

MacLaren arches his brows and then looks at Desmond. "We want 001 captured more than anyone. He captured and tortured my team – he captured and tortured the people we know in the 21st," he says darkly. "If you can find him, we're going to do all in our power to help."

Desmond looks at him and the others, who nod in equally serious agreement, even Carly, who still looks a bit suspicious. Desmond nods. "Alright then," he says. "Wonderful. Come this way then," he says and moves around the counter, motioning them to follow. "And I'll introduce you to the rest of my team."

The faces they make when they see footage of Shelter 41 playing on his TV screen are damn near priceless.

Chapter Text

"How can we know you didn't get this footage from the Faction? How do we know you aren't Faction?"

"If we were Faction, why on Earth would we be stupid enough to actually get you in here and show you this? In what world exactly that makes sense?"

"Okay, then explain to me, how do you have this technology?"

"What, us poor 21sters can't have secrets now? Or is it that this tech is too advanced for us poor antiques, because how condescending can you be?"

Philip leans lightly against Desmond's side while watching his team somehow get dragged into the most headache-inducing argument with Shaun Hastings. It's obviously by design – Desmond is doing nothing to stop his teammate from claiming the spotlight and derailing everyone, he actually looks pretty entertained. Shaun for his part seems to have no problem looking them all down his nose, while beside him Rebecca Crane grins as she works, like it's the best TV show she's seen in a while, and Bill Miles looks to be suffering from a headache.

The team looks like they want to tear out their hair. Well, Carly, MacLaren and Marcy do, anyway. Trevor is crouched by Desmond's weird futuristic chair, examining the EEG sensors with interest. Carly is still casting furious looks at the TV and MacLaren looks like he's trying to comprehend a colour he's never seen before. Marcy seems just generally troubled.

Philip feels tired. It's not that late, and nothing much has happened yet, they'd just gone to the crime scene and come back, that's not much, but he feels weirdly drained by all this questioning and confusion. His knowledge doesn't help here at all – the future doesn't know anything about these people – and though he kind of enjoyed that before, the uncertainty is getting to him a little.

Seeing crystal clear images from the 25th had been… startling.

Desmond's arm, wrapped loosely over his shoulder, helps. It's a warm, grounding weight and makes Philip feel oddly secure – like it's one place in this sudden chaos which is stable and just his. There's just too many people here – and Philip has forgotten to take his pills.

"You okay?" Desmond asks, leaning his temple against Philip's.

"Emotionally exhausted," Philip murmurs and closes his eyes. "Didn't exactly expect to be questioned for my life choices today. Also got a headache coming up."

"Poor Philip," Desmond says and tightens his sideways hug. "If you want to time out, you can go take my bed, close the door. I might even have some earplugs here, if you want."

Philip smiles and turns a little, so that he's leaning his back against Desmond's side. Desmond, predictably, turns a little too, so that he can pull Philip backwards into his arms, wrapping them around him and resting his chin on Philip's shoulder. It's nice. "This'll do," Philip says. "And what's the fun in getting into your bed without you in it?"

"Hmm," Desmond hums interestedly. "A bit too many people here for that."

"Yeah."

The argument in front of them goes around in circles – like with Desmond, the Travelers have little chance of getting the truth out of Shaun as to where the Animus came from. Ancient technology was mentioned once, Philip thinks, but how serious Desmond was about it, he isn't sure. And it's not like he isn't curious himself, but there's something there that makes him wary. Something about how Desmond and the others treat the thing.

Like seasoned veterans handling explosives – with easy confidence and infinite care.

"Desmond," Rebecca calls over the general noise. "I got it now."

"Time for me to get to work," Desmond says and presses a kiss on the side of Philip's neck, just under his comm. "Sorry, babe."

Philip hums, displeased, but lets Desmond disengage and move towards the centre of the chaos. Ignoring the way MacLaren throws his hands up and the suspicious look Carly throws his way, he peeks into the screens Rebecca is working at and then nods. "Load it up for me," he says, and then goes to sit in the techy chair.

Philip rubs at his temple against the stinging migraine as he watches a split of alternate realities doing the same – it's like Desmond sits down several times in a row, in several different ways. One collapses down with a breathless grin, another sits down like he's sinking into the icy cold water, another falls down, blood on his face and cut on his hairline, struggling to get into position -

 Marcy moves to his side. "Philip?" she asks.

"Headache," he says dismissively.

"I have something for that, if you'd like?"

He shakes his head and looks at Desmond, trying to concentrate, until he's the only one there. His face is lit from the sides by the EEG sensors, casting it in bluish glow – it makes him look paler and stranger. His eyes are very dark as he relaxes on the chair.

"Ready?" Rebecca asks.

"Mmhm. Throw the feed on the TV, will you?" Desmond asks and closes his eyes, swallowing, Adam's apple bobbing up and down.

Rebecca hits a few keys and the TV goes white. "Firing up the sequences, now," Rebecca says.

Desmond goes completely still on the chair, as if losing his consciousness in an instant. Philip stares at him long enough to see him breathe – it's slow, really, really slow – before glancing uncertainly to the TV.

Desmond is on it, standing in the white space, looking around, waiting. "Never done this with this kind of audience," he mutters, the voice coming eerily through the TV speakers. "Bad moment to get performance anxiety."

"If you could do this in Abstergo, you can do it for your friends," Shaun says, answering the TV. "Just don't make us watch you pee in a cup."

"Funny," Desmond-in-the-TV says, and just like that it dawns on Philip's team what the Animus is.

"Is it like a black box?" MacLaren asks.

"Mm, don't think that's what this is, boss," Trevor answers, shaking his head and standing up. "This tech is something else."

"Like what?"

"Can't tell you, boss. Not quite sure yet," Trevor says and glances up. "Doesn't look anything like our tech though."

"Rude," Rebecca says.

On the screen, the white begins to get covered up. Walls grow out of nowhere, appearing to surround Desmond, who is idly taking a seat in a wheelchair, drawing a breath before changing on screen. His dark hair shifts to blond, his clothes turn into a hospital gown – and just like that, he turns into Katrina Perrow. Dawn appears behind her, pushing her wheelchair and then -

The memory starts playing.

"Get it fired up, quickly!" Dawn is shouting. "There isn't much time."

"It's – it's hard to breathe – it's –" Perrow says and then makes a face and says, oddly, "Is she blind? I can't see anything."

"Uh, is she?" Rebecca asks, looking at Philip's team. They look at her, confused. "Katrina Perrow, was she blind?"

"What – no," MacLaren says, making a face. "What?"

"What is this?" Carly asks, glancing between the screen and Rebecca and Shaun.

Marcy hums, folding her arms. "001 was forced to abandon the host," she says then. "It's not unlikely that she was suffering from brain damage – the Faction ran her off the road and she was injured pretty badly. And she died on her own – she wasn't shot."

"You get that, Desmond?" Rebecca asks, grinning slightly at MacLaren and Carly

"How can he still see the surroundings if the host's memory is from a blind subject?" Shaun asks, folding his arms.

"She must've seen enough of the facility before going blind," Rebecca says, shaking her head.

"And I saw it when me and Philip visited the place, it's enough to build up an estimation," Perrow says and on the screen closes her sightless eyes. "But if she was blind when the transfer happened…"

"Then she couldn't see the body 001 jumped into next," Philip guesses, and shrugs when MacLaren and Carly glance at him.

Bill steps forward. "Play out the memory anyway, maybe other sensory data will give you some clues."

"Right," Perrow says, and the world around her resumes, Dawn continuing to push her down the corridor. Things around them are getting blurrier, fading into darkness – soon, all they can see clearly is Perrow and the wheelchair, and some glimpses of Dawn. "This is so creepy," Perrow murmurs on screen and draws a breath.

Philip glances at Desmond, sitting on the chair, lit by EEG sensors. He looks like he's sleeping, hands resting  lightly on the armrest, his face calm. He looks peaceful.

Philip kind of wants to crawl in his lap. Maybe it would stave off the headache.

On the screen. Perrow is moved – hands come out of darkness, lifting her by her arms, supporting her head. "Who – who is going to be the host?" Perrow asks. "I-I haven't prepared, everything – everything is in Perrow's name –"

"We'll take care of the details later, sir," Dawn says, her face appearing, blurry, in the darkness in the approximate location her voice is coming from. "It's just a matter of some hacking."

"I don't know how to explain this to my son," Perrow breathes out and then draws a breath. "She's remembering something," she then says, her tone different – Desmond speaking through her.

"I'll isolate it," Rebecca says and her fingers fly over the keyboard. "What's the trigger?"

"A sound, a hum…" Perrow stops and something starts materialising in the darkness around her. A machine, a terribly familiar one, with two powerful scanners aimed towards a chair, towards the head of a whoever that might sit there. It's bigger than Philip remembers – in the future, it was big, but not this big.

"That's the consciousness transfer machine," MacLaren says, stepping forward, along with all the other Travelers other than Philip. "It must be."

"It's in a container," Desmond says through Perrow's mouth. "I think – in the back of a truck?"

The container – a shipping crate – is built up around the machine, with monitors and processors around it, and with coolers lining the edge of the ceiling. Perrow, still blind and obviously losing the use of her body now, is carried to it and put into the machine. "It's cold," Desmond says through her. "She's terrified, she doesn't think it will work, the brain damage is so severe."

"It would affect the data," Marcy says, grimacing. She would know. "It's why people with severe sensory disabilities are usually rejected from the Traveler program – there is a 43% chance of the disability being replicated in the host, even if the host is perfectly healthy."

"Anything on the next body?" Shaun asks. "That's what we're here for, right?"

Perrow turns her head, weary and obviously in pain. "Who is it going to be?" she asks. "One of you?"

"Unless you have alternatives?" Dawn says, appearing again in the darkness. "There isn't much time."

"The driver," Perrow sighs and her expression twists. Her breathing is shallow and difficult. "If he's here, the driver – of the truck – Jason. I have already paid him for it, and my son – my son knows him, it won't be – it won't be too difficult to…"

Things blur around Perrow and her head lists forward. There's a moment of confused silence, and then Perrow sighs and looks up, shaking her head. "That's where it ends," she says and gets up from the wheelchair. "Rebecca, is there more?" Desmond asks, rubbing at Perrow's neck. "Shit, she got whammied bad."

"No, you're right, that's it for the entire memory line, she must've lost consciousness," Rebecca says, working on the keyboard again. "But since she mentioned someone she knows, a driver… I think we can pull him up."

The image on the screen changes, and the whole area around Perrow changes. Even her clothes change, turning into a business suit while her injuries vanish, and she becomes healthy and whole again. Around her, the sun starts shining, there's a street growing out under her feet and then she's turning to look at a truck – the truck where she housed the consciousness transfer machine, apparently.

There's a guy in a black suit in front of her, with a wire running to his ear and professionally aloof look on his face. "Just keep within sight," Perrow says to him. "I'm not expecting any trouble, but just in case, keep pace with the escort."

"Yes, ma'am," the guy, apparently Jason, says. "Shouldn't present any difficulty."

The moment freezes there, and on the screen the guy's face is isolated into its own image. "I'm thinking this is our Jason," Rebecca says. "The next host."

"Unless the Faction couldn't get him in time and they used someone else," MacLaren murmurs, stepping closer and peering at the image. "You really got all this from her DNA?" he asks them.

"You just saw it happen," Rebecca points out.

"What do you want us to do, dance a jig to prove it?" Shaun asks wryly. "I don't know how much more proof we can provide. And no, you are not taking the Animus apart."

"Rebecca," Bill says tightly. "Pull Desmond out."

"Right," Rebecca says and turns to the computer again. She hits couple of keys and Desmond draws a deeper breath, coming out of whatever trance the Animus sent him to.

"Oh man, I think I adopted her pain," Desmond groans and runs his hands over his face. "Ooh, this blows. I think she has spine damage too –"

"Slow movements, deep breaths, it'll pass," Rebecca says, amused and looks to the TV – and the face of Jason on it. "So, this is the guy we're looking for?"

"We should take this to the Director," MacLaren says. "It can track this guy down faster than anyone of us."

Philip presses two fingers into his temple, sighing. "If we get back to Ops, I can look through the files the Director already got for us about Perrow's affairs – if 001 hired this guy legally, we can find him there," he says.

"Great," Carly says, shaking her head. "What are we waiting for?"

"Well, for one, this is a mission that was apparently given to Desmond," Shaun says, leaning his chin to his palm. "You guys just decided to be nosy and get involved without any orders to do so – which is bad for your lot, from what we've been able to tell."

"And for two – all of this, when did this happen?" Rebecca asks, motioning to the screen. "Was it before or after the whole kidnapping thing with Desmond's beau? Because we got those samples too, and if they're more recent there might be something useful in there – if, you know, 001 and the guys from the Faction work together."

"What?" MacLaren asks. "What samples?"

"When I rescued Philip, I used sleeping darts on a bunch of people. I collect my stuff after I use it," Desmond says and sits up in the chair, rubbing his neck. "Later I collected samples from the darts – I got samples from 6 Faction members from the place they took Philip to. And from I think – four? In the place where Perrow died."

Philip looks up at the sound of his name and then winces a little – there's a glowing tear of a vision on Desmond's couch, and it hurts to look at it. Desmond, sleeping on his back across the couch, one arm loosely hanging off the edge. Philip, collapsed on top of him, sleepily playing with the strings of his hoodie. They look cozy.

"And you can do with those what you did with Perrow's DNA?" Marcy guesses, brining Philip's mind back to the present. "You can get their memories out of their DNA."

"And if there's something useful there…" Desmond shrugs. "But it will take time to do that – so if the Director can track this guy faster, more power to it. Rebecca, can you put what we just got on a flash drive or something? And the stuff we got on the Faction too, the Manifest and the rest."

"On it."

"You could just transfer it to us," Trevor says, peering towards the screen. "Or email it."

"And hook up the Animus to the internet and give you people an access to our databases?" Rebecca asks. "No way, Jose, this stuff is staying strictly offline."

"I guess that's better than the Faction becoming aware it exists," MacLaren murmurs, eying the Animus. "A black box simulator combined with DNA archive reader. Sure you guys don't use nanites?"

"Pretty sure," Shaun snorts.

"I still don't get how this technology is even possible," Carly murmurs. "How can you get memories out of DNA without nanites writing it?"

"Sometimes the natural way works too," Rebecca says, shrugging with a grin and then handing a flash drive to Desmond.

"The fact that you guys can artificially rewrite this stuff is so mental," Shaun mutters and turns to the computers. "It's like finding a Rosetta stone and watching it change under your eyes, it's beyond disturbing."

"Hah," Desmond murmurs and stand up. "Wait until you hear about their Archivists, I'm still a bit creeped out about that one."

"All of this is creepy."

Desmond walks over to Philip, holding the flashdrive out to him. "Guess it's your place next," he says with a grin.

"Guess it is," Philip agrees as he accepts the flash drive, staring at it blankly for a moment. It's just a normal flash drive – but for a moment it looks like something else. It looks like a blade. Like one of those things Desmond straps to his arms. Like a bullet. Like a jewellery box with a ring in it.

It looks like a future, shifting so fast Philip's brain can't keep up with it – and for a moment he wonders why is it that he sees glimpses of timelines the Director can't possibly know about. If the Director doesn't know, then the Archivists can't know either, therefore it couldn't have possibly been part of the Update. These things have no place in his head. Desmond isn't known by the future, none of the Assassins are, they are an anomaly. They can't be part of the data.

And still, wherever Philip looks, he can see glimpses of them. In one future, cheekily grinning Desmond is presenting him with a ring, saying, "Well, traditionally it's the left ring finger," he says. "A bit better than branding too, yeah?"

Philip blinks against the vertigo and squints until he can see the actual Desmond in the present. He's looking at him worriedly – surrounded by a halo of alternate timelines, still moving behind him. "Are you alright?" he asks.

Philip looks down at the flash drive. It's just a flash drive again. Flash drive, which he would be taking to Ops and hooking into their systems, which the Director would see and scan, which would lead into action concerning 001, which would lead…

"Something just happened," Philip says at the flash drive, while Desmond grips his shoulder gently. "I don't know what, but… something's changing in the future. I think we need to head to Ops, now."

Chapter Text

There's a sense of urgency to Philip's team as they enter the garage. Desmond hangs back, a little awkward, as Philip is ushered to the computers to enter the data Desmond had gotten from the Faction and from 001. Even if Philip hadn't said it, it's obvious just by the taste of the air around them all – there's something going on.

Desmond quietly adjusts his wrist straps and looks to the cameras, at the little active lights shining under their lenses. The Big Brother is watching, closely, as the ducklings all fall in a row. That's… what it feels like, anyway.

Well, something was bound to happen.

When reliving the memories of the Faction members, Desmond hadn't gotten much out of the people – but he did get a sense of the culture of the Shelter 41. People living on the edge of collapse, it felt like, eating from vats and pushing on by the sheer force of will and spite and their own righteousness. Everywhere in Shelter 41 there was Anti-Director propaganda, everywhere there were people, perfectly free of all things electronic, shouting over eagerly listening crowds how bad the Director was. They reminded Desmond of nothing more than the heralds of Renaissance Italy, expounding the rhetoric of the Signoria or the Papacy, or whatever the Borgia wanted them to say.

Looking over the grey space of the garage to where Philip stands behind the monitors, his face lit in a dim golden glow, Desmond folds his arms and wonders.

The conflict of the 25th isn't really… He gets it, as much as he can from the viewpoint of such a complete outsider. Maybe he even gets it more because of it. It's not like the end of the world is a new thing for him. The hatred the Faction felt for the Director and the strange sort of resigned fealty Philip has for it… it all just weirds him out.

And then there's 001. His thoughts still kind of circle and blur in Desmond's head, deliriously thinking – how victorious, how mighty he had been, when Simon finished the machine, and he tricked the Mechanical God they made, how he won. They built their own God, and he, 001, Vincent Ingram, Katrina Perrow, beat it.

"The fate of our existence just handed to an AI with the ability to monitor each and every shifting timeline, while we blindly obey its orders with the belief that salvation will come…"

To 001, it wasn't really about whether the Director was right or wrong, whether it was good or bad. He remembered its building, how vital it was, and how hateful. The defeat, the withering death in the ice they were trying to stave off. It was necessary, and the Director did what it was supposed to – it created the Traveler Program, and if there was any chance of saving the Future, it was in the 21st. It wasn't about whether the Director could do it. The Director was just a machine, built by people, to serve a purpose.

But it was meant to be as close to all-powerful as possible, and he, 001, had beat it. And didn't that, really, make him more powerful than the 99% omniscient artificial intelligence they'd made in the image of God?

"There, it's uploaded, it's –" Philip says across the room, tapping keys while his team leans in to watch the screens, holding their breaths.

001 was damn well humbled in the end, but something of his thought patterns lingers. The guy was – in a weird, insidious way – very charismatic. His thoughts are almost horrifyingly confident, even when housed in a body of a dying, blind woman.

"What's happening?" MacLaren asks. "Is anything happening? You said something was going on."

"Yeah, something is, but –" Philip taps more keys, fingers flying over the keyboard. "Oh, we've missed out on a lot of action. It looks like Traveler teams all over the county have been pulled in – there was a joint operation just… half an hour ago."

"What – why weren't we informed?" Carly asks.

Desmond looks down at his hands, turning his right hand so that he can see the burns on his palm. He can still see the lines of the Eye, imprinted on it in burns – they've replaced the natural lines of his palm. He doesn't even have fingerprints on his right hand anymore. Sometimes he wonders, if he got a microscope and looked into the burns, would there be Isu code there, imprinted on the cell layer of his skin?

It's unnervingly probable.

"At a guess," Trevor says and looks over to Desmond. "Because we were the source of information."

Desmond glances up, arching a brow, and nodding to himself Trevor continues; "I bet you hundred bucks there haven't been any new Travelers in a few hours, probably not since Philip got the message," he says meaningfully to his team. "The Director has been busy, going after 001 – using the information it's getting now from us. That must be what Philip's been feeling."

"Maybe," Philip says dubiously. "Kinda feels bigger than that, honestly."

"Did they capture 001, can you tell?" Carly asks.

"Let's see," Philip says and they all concentrate on the computers again.

Desmond rubs his hands together and then glances towards the door to the garage. There's someone coming to the door, a golden… presence, for the lack of a better word. Glancing at the busy Travelers, he shrugs and goes to open the door, unlocking it and pulling it open.

There's a kid behind it, a little girl in a hoodie and shorts, just fucking blazing with importance.

"Um, guys?" Desmond says, calling at the Travelers over his shoulder, as the girl begins to speak.

"Desmond Miles," she says, robotic, while Desmond's eyebrows shoot up in alarm. "I would like to extend an invitation for discourse at Dr. Teslia's Artificial Intelligence Research Laboratory, where through an emerging AI named Ilsa we might converse. End of Message."

The kid jerks slightly while on the other side of the room the Travelers go completely silent. Then the kid looks up, completely confused. Desmond blinks at the little girl and then, a little uncertain, he crouches down. "You okay, kid?" he asks, wary. "The heck was that?"

"The heck was what – where am I?" she asks, sounding alarmed. "Who are you?"

"Hey – sweetie, I think you took bad turn somewhere," Carly says, hurrying across the room to talk over Desmond's head. "The streets here are a maze – come on, let's see if we can find your way home." She sends Desmond and the team of Travelers a meaningful look and then ushers the confused girl away from the garage and down the alley.

"What the fuck was that?" Desmond asks.

"That was a Messenger," Trevor says, arching a brow. "And I have never seen a Messenger address a non-Traveler before."

"The fuck?" Desmond asks. "The Messengers are kids?"

"Um, yeah," Philip says. "Didn't I say?"

"It's how the Director communicates with the past," MacLaren says, eying Desmond strangely. "It's generally safe for the kids."

"Generally?" Desmond asks, standing up. "Sometimes it isn't?"

"The process is safe for prepubescent minds," Marcy says. "The program takes them over momentarily and then kills itself, no harm done. Adult minds, on the other hand, can't withstand it – so only adults on the brink of death are ever used, because the act of giving the Message kills them."

Desmond stares at them as they stare at him, looking about equally as alarmed as he feels. "Yeah, that doesn't make me feel any better," he says and makes a haphazard motion after the kid. "So, I take it that was the Director? And he was – it was? – inviting me for a chat?"

"… yeah," MacLaren says. "Which is… unusual to say at least."

Desmond looks between them and then after the kid, making a face. "Huh," he says. "That was… yeah, I'm going to stick with creepy."

Philip comes around his computer desk, quickly approaching Desmond. "It's alright," he says. "It's – yeah it's creepy, but it really is mostly safe for the kids. Just… unnerving."

"You don't say," Desmond says, shaking his head. "How often does that happen?"

"Less these days, the Director has other means of communicating, with Ilsa – it only uses the Messengers when there's no other choice or when there's danger of the Faction monitoring other means of communication," Philip says, his hands coming to Desmond's arms, rubbing soothingly up and down. "You alright?"

"Yeah, just…" just 001 lingering still in his head a little, being weirdly melodramatic. Voice of God through Mouths of Babes. Ugh. Katrina Perrow must've had higher percentage of Isu DNA, for it to linger this much. "Yeah, just did not expect that," Desmond says and looks at Philip. "I guess I should go talk to the Director then." Which is something neither he nor 001, nor any of the Faction members whose memories he'd tried out, knew the sanctioned Travelers could even do.

Damn, this is wild.

"Yeah," Philip says, making a face and gripping Desmond's shoulders, glancing towards MacLaren. "I guess we should."

"Not exactly an invitation that's wise to reject," MacLaren agrees and gives Desmond a look. "Any thoughts on what the Director might want to talk to you about?"

Desmond's palm is itching. "A few," he says and looks at Philip. "From one to ten, how scared I should be?"

"One, because if Ilsa tries anything I will break it with a hammer, and if the Director is paying any attention, it should damn well know it by now" Philip mutters and Desmond grins.

"In that case," he says and takes Philip's hand in his. "Let's go."

During the drive to the laboratory of Dr. Teslia – which doesn't sound at all like he's heading to the lair of an evil scientist, no, of course not – Desmond takes the chance to call his team. It's kind of funny that both he and Philip have teams they have to juggle, but also weirdly fitting. It's about as equal as Desmond has felt with anyone he's dated since after 2012, really, what with all the secrets he's keeping. Which is why he hasn't really done much dating at all, in the last couple of years. It just gets weird.

But Philip is as weird as he is, if not more, and it's kind of wonderful in so many ways.

Bill isn't happy to hear about Desmond going on a small field trip, which is not surprising at all. He still holds onto his earlier promise to stand back and observe. It's still through somewhat gritted teeth he says, "I hope you know what you're doing," while Shaun and Rebecca call encouragements from the back.

Desmond has no idea what he's doing anymore. He's kind of floating on happy endorphins and Eagle Vision enhanced gut instinct here. And the belief that the Director is what it is because that's how people made it, and at least it is firmly against the mass genocide. And doesn't kidnap people. That Desmond knows about, anyway.

It's not much to go on, but sometimes you just got to take a leap of faith. Hah.

That definitely doesn't stop Desmond from seeking all the security from holding Philip's hand when they enter the lab, led by determined MacLaren and Carly and met by a nervous looking scientist. Dr. Teslia, it turns out, is kind of the furthest thing from an evil scientist.

Desmond finds himself weirdly disappointed.

"Agent MacMillan?" the nervous scientist asks.

"MacLaren," the Traveler says. "Were here to talk to the Director."

"Oh? Um – we haven't heard from the Director in a couple of days, it's, it's just been Ilsa and me –" Dr. Teslia says and without further ado MacLaren pushes past the mousey Doctor. "Could I stay in this time?" he asks, a little plaintive, as Philip leads Desmond past him.

"A bit rude," Desmond comments.

"Yeah, well," Philip says. "The guy is on the verge of building the algorithms that eventually enable us to create the Director in the first place, we're already messing with his timeline enough. The less he hears, the better for future."

"Ah," Desmond says. "Still kinda rude."

"Yeah," Philip says. "But he has the habit of calling the feds on us."

"Isn't your team leader a fed?"

"That  only makes it more awkward, really."

Desmond hums and looks around. The laboratory kind of… reminds him of Abstergo, with its clean lines and shiny panels and big important looking box in a glass cage, and of course that's where MacLaren is heading, opening the glass door and motioning Desmond in.

"That's Ilsa, I take it," Desmond says, eying the box. It looks like… yeah, like a big old AI-storing supercomputer. Who decided to give it a huge big eye like HAL freaking 9000 though? "Is Teslia bit of an AI nerd?" Desmond guesses.

"Oh yeah," Philip agrees with a snort.

"Right. Okay," Desmond says, drawing a breath and stepping inside. And since he's got Philip's hand in a death grip, Philip gets pulled along too. MacLaren gives them a look, glancing at Ilsa, and then, stepping back, he closes the door, sealing Desmond and Philip inside.

And the creepiness just keeps on creeping, huh.

Then the computer speaks. "Good evening, Desmond," it says in a masculine voice. "I am pleased that you accepted my invitation."

Desmond frowns, and – suddenly and very vividly he imagines a descendant, 500 years down the line, riding his body in his memories, seeing this all happen second-hand and getting their minds blown like he did when he rode on Ezio's memories and saw Minerva. It's eerily similar. At least the Director is addressing him – and doesn't have a face and eyes to look at the unseen camera just behind Desmond's shoulder.

"I'm just glad I didn't have to fight a whole city to get here, or get into a fist fight with a pope," Desmond murmurs, and then shakes his head at the look Philip gives him. "Never mind. What can I do for you, Director?"

"I have observed your effect on multiple timelines now, and first would like for you to confirm or disprove a hypothesis, so that we may proceed accordingly," the AI says. "You are from an alternate timeline."

Desmond arches his brows while Philip jerks with surprise. "Well. You're not wrong," Desmond says after a moment. "Can you tell me how you came to that conclusion?"

"I have observed the technology of the Animus  as you introduced it to Traveller 3326 – it is unlike anything created in the 21st, nor could it have been created in any of the timelines I am aware off. Furthermore, your DNA proves you are an outsider to this timeline."

"You… have my DNA," Desmond says, not sure how unnerved by that he is.

"If this meeting did not take place, you would have eventually offered a sample to study for Traveller 3569 –"

"That's Marcy," Philip says quietly, glancing backwards through the glass at his team, listening closely.

"– who would then use it to confirm her own, still emerging hypothesis concerning her host's DNA," the Director continues.

"She has Isu DNA?" Desmond ask, arching his brows and also looking back at the rather alarmed looking woman

"Yes," the Director agrees. "She has experimented at recalling host memories and unknowingly stumbled upon the concept of genetic memory."

Desmond whistles. "If she managed to retrieve any without an Animus to use, she must have a really high percentage."

"Yes, unbeknownst to us, her host has Archivist potential," the Director says. "You measured her at 0.45%."

"Damn," Desmond says, stroking a hand over his mouth. "So, Archivists really have higher DNA percentage. Huh"

"Not as high in the 21st as in future," the Director says. "In our time, most Archivists, Historians and what you would call high percentile individuals who are capable of DNA data storage are related to –"

"Oh boy," Desmond says, leaning back a little. "Oh, don't tell me, I can already guess –"

"– to you, or your father," the Director continues on, merciless, while Philip looks between them, wide-eyed. "The higher percentile DNA of your bloodline was in fact a key to discovering the concept of DNA information storage."

"Was it my blood that was used? Or was it that of my entirely hypothetical kids,  because I do not have kids yet?" Desmond asks, wincing. "Or do I?"

"You do not," the Director assures. "And the blood used was of your progeny, yes."

"Oh, thank god," Desmond sighs with relief. "But I will have kids. Huh. That's… a thing," he mutters and shakes his head. Considering Philip and all, he wasn't really sure he'd ever get there, but then again… Assassin. Even without the Isu and Destiny forcing his hand – or other body parts, really – it was still bound to happen, wasn't it. Maybe he could persuade Destiny that surrogacy was a good way to go, as opposed to other means?

"Okay," Desmond says, not really wanting to continue down that line of thought. "I don't think you called me here to talk about my hypothetical future progeny," he says.

"No. Do you confirm that you are from an alternate timeline? Timeline without the future we know?" the Director asks.

Philip is gripping his hand hard enough that it kind of hurts, and Desmond glances at him. His face is set, but his eyes are alarmed. Gentle, Desmond lifts his hand and presses a kiss on his knuckles. "No," Desmond says. "I mean, I don't know. I'm not from the future."

"Please explain," the Director says.

"I'm not really sure how," Desmond admits, giving Philip an apologetic smile and then turning to look at the glowing ring of the AI's eye. "This is already kind of the future to me, and we've been living here for a while now. The timeline, the alternate timeline I come from, it's long gone. It ended years ago."

"… on 21st of December, 2012," Philip murmurs in realisation.

"Yeah," Desmond agrees. "The date when the Sun was going to burn all life from the surface of the Earth. 21st of December, 2012. The moment of the Lightshow."

The Director is quiet for a moment, the LED ring dimming slightly. "Technology in the timeline you came from was more advanced?"

"Yeah, it was, in some ways. No so in others," Desmond agrees. "But we had advantages this timeline doesn't have."

"Please explain these advantages."

"First, I need you to answer something," Desmond says and draws a breath. "Was there ever a timeline where Abstergo Corporation existed?"

"I do not know this corporation," Director says. "None of the timelines I am aware of has a company of this name."

"Yeah," Desmond murmurs. "I kind of figured. Another question. Do the names Juno, Minerva and Tinia mean anything to you?"

"Minerva is a name still commonly in use, generally given to female children. Juno is somewhat rarer. They and Tinia are the names of deities in ancient pantheons once worshipped by humans," the Director answers, and somehow it manages to sound impatient. "I do not understand your line of questioning."

"One more question, please, just one more," Desmond says and looks at the light. "Do you know what a Piece of Eden is?"

"I do not."

Desmond closes his eyes. "Okay," he murmurs and bows his head a little. "Okay."

So, the future where everything ended in ice, it was in some way caused by what he did. If the Director doesn't know of any other version of history except the one Desmond altered, then… then the altered one is the only one where the world ended up in ice. And maybe, in a world with Assassins, Templars and Abstergo Corporation in control of the world… it wouldn't have.

Well, shit.

Chapter Text

"Please explain how you left the timeline you originated from."

Philip looks at Desmond's face, watching emotions race over it. He'd known there was plenty about Desmond that was unexplained and flat-out inexplicable – even coming from a background of cult upbringing in the middle of nowhere didn't explain everything. Lack of early digital records, maybe. The things Desmond said or could do or the technology he had. The easy acceptance of time travellers…

Philip likes to think Desmond didn't lie to him, but how good does he really know the guy? There's obviously huge swatches of information he just left out. And it's not like Philip told him everything either, but still…

Alternate timeline. Between time travelers, you'd think that would come up. If it hadn't come to now, would Desmond have told him?

Behind them Philip's team is quietly watching, but their shock is palpable. So is Philip's own – wonder if the others think he knew. Maybe in part he did know. Still it's one hell of a surprise, and he can't say he enjoys the doubt.

"No," Desmond says. "Or rather – well, no."

"Can you explain why?" The Director asks.

"The way we got here was a one time thing, and I can't explain the tech we used because I barely understand it myself," Desmond shrugs. "And the tech was sort of fried in the process, I still bear the marks of that," he adds, lifting his right hand and waving his burned fingers.

"But you made the cross over in your own, physical body?"

"It was really more the matter of us standing still in a secure place while the timeline changed around us," Desmond answers and shakes his head. "I don't know how to explain it. Not sure I should – there were other things going on at the time, things back in our original timeline that are probably best left there."

"Even if knowing about them might aid me in saving humanity in the future?" The Director asks.

Desmond looks at the glowing ring around Ilsa's eye and then looks down, biting his lip, indecisive.

"You are concerned about the negative impact knowing about alternate technology might have on this timeline," the Director guesses – or it has the transcript of the conversation and is reading from a list of perfectly chosen options, whichever. "You fear that what you know might be absurd by the likes of the Faction and 001."

"It crossed my mind, yeah."

"The danger already exists," the Director says. "You are the as of yet childless progenitor of many key bloodlines in the future, including two of my own Programmers. Should you be prevented from producing heirs to your bloodline, it would cause severe changes to the timeline."

"By which you mean, if you so happened to get killed prematurely," Desmond says, and unable to help himself, Philip squeezes his hand tighter. Desmond answers in kind and clears his throat. "I hope that's not a threat."

"An observation," the Director answers. "A factual one. Your impact on the timeline is already marked. It is only going to get more so as you continue to interact with Traveler 3326 and his team."

Desmond breathes out a curse and looks at Philip. Philip swallows. "What?"

"You trust this thing?" Desmond asks.

"Yes," Philip answers, not hesitating.

"Absolutely?"

"With the timeline and continued human existence in the future, yes," Philip says and then had to add. "The Director is the best chance we got – but it's not perfect or omniscient, it makes mistakes just like everyone and everything else. And it had been corrupted once before." That he knows of, there might have been other timelines…"

"Glowing recommendation," Desmond mutters and looks down for a moment. Then, making a decision, he faces the Director. "Can you make sure what I tell you won't get to the wrong ears? I do not want the Faction knowing what I'm about to tell you."

"There is no way of being hundred percent certain of anything," the Director admits. "But I will do everything in my power to keep the information confidential – and should it not prove useable for the Traveler Program and non-essential to the Grand Plan, I will delete the data from my memory."

"... Alright," Desmond says. "I guess I can't expect better than that."

"Travelers," the Director says. "You are dismissed."

Philip jerks, feeling a little slapped by that. Desmond looks not too pleased either. "Wait, don't you trust your own people?"

"Their loyalty has been proven, but they are not invincible and have been captured and manipulated by the Faction on several occasions," the Director explains and isn't that a knock in the teeth. "And until I know the information you have to offer, it is not wise to risk their continued well-being by making them potential targets for interrogation."

"Ah," Desmond says while Philip tries to figure out whether they're being subtly reprimanded or coddled. Shaking his head, Philip moves to disengage from Desmond and leave, when the guy tugs at his hand to catch his attention.

"We'll talk later?" Desmond asks, a little plaintively. "Please?"

Philip glances at the Director and then shakes his head. "Yeah – we'll just be outside, probably," he says. "But, just your know, if there was bedroom action happening, you'd be on the couch. You'd be in the dog house."

"Yeah, I figured," Desmond says miserably and looks down at their hands. "This has been one hell of a day," he mutters and lifts Philip's hand to press another kiss on it. "I'll make it up to you?"

Philip looks at him and then sighs. Partially to reassure and partially as a small fuck-you to the Director, he wraps his arms around Desmond and pulls him into a quick but firm kiss. "There will be words, " Philip promises.

"I'll take them over blows any day," Desmond sighs, leaning to him for a moment. "Sorry. Thank you."

Philip squeezes his shoulders. "You're lucky I like you a ridiculous amount."

"I like you a ridiculous amount too," Desmond grins.

On the other side of Ilsa's faraday cage, the other Travelers are leaving, MacLaren making motions at Philip to hurry up. Philip sighs  and with a last squeeze he backs away, first out of the glass cage, then out of the laboratory itself, leaving Desmond alone with the Director behind two barriers of glass, seemingly as impenetrable as the ice covering the shelters.

"Did you know?" is the first thing his team asks.

"No, I didn't," Philip admits. "I knew there was something I didn't know about, but – I didn't exactly think it would be something like this."

"What does it mean?" Marcy asks. "For us, for the Grand Plan?"

"I think it's best we leave that to the Director to figure out," MacLaren says, looking to Ilsa's faraday cage with a look of suspicion and awe. "I'm sure the implications go way beyond our understanding."

There's a tense silence at that, everyone looking the faraday cage. Then Trevor pats Philip on the shoulder. "Bagged a fellow time traveler. Of sorts. Philip, you dog."

"Shut up, old man," Philip says and relaxes a little.

And then they watch as Desmond turns to the Director and they begin to talk.

It takes a good long while. Desmond talks, listens, talks some more. He makes hands gestures, starts to pace, stops to pantomime something, though what he's trying to convey goes completely beyond Philip's comprehension. Desmond looks like he's getting increasingly more and more frustrated, stopping and starting again and then giving up, his shoulders slumping tragically before he tries again. Half an hour goes by like that, tense and confused, and Philip is sure he isn't the only one who's getting the impression that Desmond is getting nowhere, explaining whatever it is he's trying to explain to the Director. It's almost frustrating to watch.

Eventually, the Director seems to almost release Desmond from the task of explaining – the Assassin listens to it for a moment and then nods, says something, and marches out of the faraday cage.

"Well?" Carly asks, impatient.

"Yeah, I'm getting nowhere," Desmond says while pulling out his phone. "I can't explain it, and it's taking too damn long trying to figure out how to explain concepts which I barely understand. I mean, the Director probably does, but – it's just losing a lot in translation. And the Director is apparently using up a lot of power to talk to me like this, so – we need a quicker way to do this. And there is no cell reception here, of course," he sighs, peering at his phone.

"It's Ilsa's cage, it blocks cell signals," Trevor says and points. "You can make calls from just down the hall there."

"Wait, you've been there for half an hour and you're not done?" MacLaren asks, incredulous.

"I don't know the science lingo," Desmond shrugs. "And trying to explain fundamentals of the universe when I don't get them myself, it's – yeah, we're not getting anywhere."

He gives Philip a smile and then heads out to make a call, already dialing as he walks.

"Yeah, Rebecca? How fast can you pack up the Animus? Yeah, the sooner the better, I need it – no I can't, is kind of location sensitive. Yeah – no, don't give it to –" Desmond stops and sighs. "Hi dad. No. No. Not on the phone. Just – just pack the Animus up and bring it here. No, I'm sure I have no idea – just trust me this once, alright? Yeah, it's an AI research laboratory…"

Philip shares a look with the others. "I guess showing the Director his memories is faster," Philip says.

"The use for the Animus technology is…" Trevor trails off and shakes his head. "Who knows how much information the Director could get out of genetic memories. DNA stores much more information than almost all other conventional information storage methods. Written organically…"

"Would be hell of a way to make a report," MacLaren muses.

"Can they even make the Director see what Desmond sees in the Animus?" Marcy asks.

"If they could throw it on a television screen, they can probably show it on computer screen here," Trevor says. "And maybe even hook it directly into Ilsa – it's not like the Director needs to see in order to understand something as simple as video data. Might even be safer that way, considering."

Desmond hangs up and turns back to them. "They're gonna be here in a bit," he says and gives them a look. "Any chance there a vending machine here?"

"Think I saw one in the lobby," Philip agrees. "You hungry?"

"Not yet, but I don't like going into the Animus with an empty stomach. It does weird things to metabolism," Desmond shrugs and at him. "You wanna come show me?"

Philip glances at the others, but since none of them seem against it… he nods and together they walk out of the laboratory.

"I suppose I shouldn't ask you," Philip says.

"Not in view of the cameras," Desmond agrees, holding out his hand. Philip looks at it and then takes it, much to Desmond's obvious relief. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I was kind of working my way up to it."

"Yeah, I figured that out," Philip says. "But when we were laying the cards down, you kind of kept the biggest ace up your sleeve, huh?"

"Sorry," Desmond says again and sighs. "I guess I was hoping it wouldn't ever really matter."

"You're – how would it not matter?" Philip demands.

"Because – it sort of doesn't," Desmond says and shrugs helplessly. "This place and where I come from, they're not that different. Honestly, I thought just the worst bits were different. Assassins, Templars, the influence of the Isu," he trails off. "But I guess that's the thing. They aren't different enough."

"What does that mean?" Philip asks, frowning.

Desmond shakes his head. "Ask me again once we're done here," he says and then looks at Philip. "How mad at me are you?"

He doesn't quite give Philip the puppy dog eyes, but it's a close thing. Philip rolls his eyes and bumps his shoulder against Desmond's. "I'm just a little annoyed I wasn't the first to know," he admits. "Feels like I really should've been."

"You should've been, you're right," Desmond says and tilts his head up. "Hmm. There's still bunch of stuff I haven't told you, stuff that wasn't exactly relevant, or which I didn't think was relevant because – because that time is in the past, you know? I could tell you all about it if you wanna know," he offers. "You know – later. When there's no cameras."

Philip glances at a nearby security camera and nods. "Holding you up to that," he promises and Desmond grins.

They wait in the lobby of the laboratory, Desmond eating a couple of grain bars while Philip grabs a terrible coffee from a machine. Shaun, Rebecca and Bill don't take too long to arrive – twenty minutes and there's a van in front, with Shaun struggling out of it with his crutches while Rebecca hops down and goes to open the back for Bill, apparently.

Desmond wolfs down his third nutrient bar and then heads out to meet them, with Philip close at his heels.

If Dr. Teslia has anything to say about unknown machinery being hooked into Ilsa, Philip doesn't hear it: MacLaren and Carly keep the poor doctor pretty firmly away. Shaun, Rebecca and Bill, if they're surprised by the massive supercomputer, don't show it – they just get to work, setting the thing up.

"You break it, you buy it, Desmond," is all Rebecca has to say about the apparent risks.

"Yeah, yeah," is Desmond's answer.

They get the thing running pretty dang fast. One of the office chairs is used in place of Desmond's techy  chair, a new headrest clamped on it with EEG sensors sticking out of it like translucent fingers.

"I guess we should clear out?" Philip asks while they finish, glancing at his team. MacLaren makes a face, Marcy arches her brows, Trevor is watching the Animus with a thoughtful look on his face and Carly is covering the door. No one looks like they're in a hurry to leave.

"Actually, here it should be safe," Desmond says. "No security cameras. So as long as the precise location of the Grand Temple is never recorded, it should be safe. Which is a hint to you guys," he says to his team, "to keep it to yourself."

Philip has no idea what means, but Desmond's team obviously does – and Bill does not like the sound of it. "Desmond, what are you doing?" he asks quietly.

"With any luck, saving the world, again," Desmond mutters and sits down on the makeshift Animus. "Hands off the keyboard, Rebecca," he says. "I'm gonna freehand this."

"I'm assuming you're diving into your own DNA here?" Rebecca asks from behind her quickly set up screens. "Awesome – you got the conn, Desmond. Take her away."

"This should be great," Shaun mutters.

Desmond gives him a look and then glances around the room. Philip follows his gaze. Everyone is staring at Desmond in a mix of confusion and keen, even eager interest. Even not knowing that this is utterly unheard of for the Director… it's pretty damn obvious something big is going on.

This might actually be it – the answer as to why they can't for the life of them change the future for the better...

Humming, Desmond rests his hands on the arms of the chair. "You with us, Director?" he asks.

"I am ready to begin," the AI answers.

"Let's do this thing then."

It's no less unnerving, watching Desmond just – switch off like he does. One moment he's fully awake and alert, the next he's out like a light while the screens Rebecca set up around him go white – and then there he is, Desmond, standing in the white nothingness with his back to them.

For a moment nothing happens, Desmond on the screen looks around, as if expecting something. Shaun moves the camera angle on one of the screens where Desmond is shown, until they see him from both sides – if Desmond is aware of it, he doesn't say anything.

"Director?" He finally asks through the speakers.

"I am here."

Desmond on the screen almost jumps at that and whirls around. Behind him there is a man, blonde, dressed in jeans and a thin jacket with its sleeves rolled up.

"What?" Desmond asks, and he's not the only one.

"The Animus attempted to give me a mentally representative appearance, but as an AI I have no form, and forcing my code into recognisable form seemed to cause the system some difficulties," the blond man says, lifting one hand and looking at it. "I adopted this form for ease of communication between platforms. It seemed fitting."

"Uh," Desmond answers slowly. "Right." He looks deeply uncomfortable.

"Is that fucking Clay?" Shaun asks incredulously. "Did it seriously take the shape of 16?"

"Not cool, bro, not cool at all," Rebecca says and suddenly Philip really wants to know who this guy is.

"This form makes you uneasy. I apologise," the humanoid Director on screen says. "I will adopt another, one which produces positive reaction."

"Um," Desmond answers uncertainly, and as they stare at the screen, the blond man changes into – another blond man. This one is a completely different blond man though, with shoulder length hair and a neat beard – and clothes out of a Renaissance painting.

"Oh wow," Rebecca says and Shaun lets out a strangled noise.

"Is this form more suitable?" The Director asks and adjusts his cape. Its cape. Whichever – point is that the human male shape the Director had assumed has a cape and a damn berrett on his head.

Philip can't say he's ever ascribed anthropomorphism to the Director, but he definitely did not imagine a blond man in Renaissance clothing. Did this mean that the Director is particular to blonds… or that Desmond is?

Actually, Philip is pretty sure he knows the answer to that one.

"You know – actually yeah," Desmond says, and – he's changing too, his face growing older, his clothes changing. Suddenly he has beard, armour, a slanted cape over one shoulder, a red and white hood on his head – and a whole lot of weapons at his waist. "If anyone is fitting to represent a mechanical God, it's Leonardo," the hooded man that has taken Desmond's place says in accented, caramel voice, sounding fond.

"Good," the Director says. "Then we may proceed."

"Oh my god, I don't know if this is horrifying or amazing," Shaun breathes.

"Who are those people?" Philip asks, confused and curious. That voice doesn't belong to Desmond, even if it's him speaking the words. So he doesn't feel any particular urge to feel jealousy for the obvious love in Desmond's voice, but still… there is an obvious significance there.

"Ezio Auditore da Firenze, the absolute best Desmond's insane genetics ever produced," Shaun says with a snort.

"Aside from Desmond himself," Bill mutters.

"And his best friend," Rebecca continues, as if he hadn't said anything. "Leonardo da Vinci."

Chapter Text

It's easy to say, "There was once upon a time in another timeline a race of advanced people called the Isu who created all sorts of technology, including the power to change the universe." Try and say it without sounding like insane person making the whole thing up on the spot though, that's a bit harder. And proving it is a bit hard, since he'd pretty much deleted all Isu influence from the world.

"I'm going to speed things up a little," Desmond says in Ezio's voice. "In the Animus you can live through years in days, so – hopefully you can keep up."

"It shouldn't be difficult," the Director in Leonardo's body says.

Desmond nods and concentrates until he knows the Animus becomes desynced from real time, speeding up until a minute and then an hour passes for each second – until he knows that the people outside can no longer keep up.

It doesn't seem to bother the Director at all.

Desmond nods and sorts everything out in his head quickly before starting. An environment starts building up around them, turning into a white room full of supercomputers. Abstergo tower, 2012.

"The timeline we come from has really only one major difference, and even that doesn't seem to change much. Our timeline had the Abstergo Corporation in charge of… most of the world's economy really. They started out as a pharmaceutical company in the sixties, but with acquisitions, mergers and so on, they eventually took over other markets too, using money and influence to manipulate governments and so on. Which is not all that different from how it is now really, just the players on this side are different," Desmond says, motioning around them. "Anyway, they created the first Animus, back in the late seventies, early eighties."

The Director considers the room, the supercomputers – the multiple Animi in their little glass offices. "And the Animus was used to screen the past," it says in Leonardo's voice.

"Yeah, specifically to find these things," Desmond says and the area around them changes again. Masyaf's garden grows up around them, full with the surrounding countryside and the castle itself, looming over them. There's a chill mountain air whipping at their clothes, and for a moment Desmond appreciates the weird and sad pleasure of seeing Ezio and Leonardo in Masyaf at its prime.

Then he turns to the other two occupants of the garden. Altaïr Ibn-La'ahad and Al Mualim, who are locked in their final duel – Altaïr fighting with blades and Al Mualim with the parts of the Apple of Eden.

"That," Desmond says while All Mualim makes duplicates of himself, "is a Piece of Eden. Specifically, Apple of Eden."

"When is this?" the Director asks, stepping closer to examine the glowing sphere in Al Mualim's hand.

"1191," Desmond answers. "It's not the first time people fought over them, but it's one of the better recorded incidents, because Altaïr – my ancestor," he motions towards him, "wrote the incident down in detail. He spent decades with the Apple, learning from it and being tempted by it – writing most of it down. Including the map."

As they watch, Altaïr wins the fight, Al Mualim dies and the Apple shows the map of the world, with markers all over it.

"Each dot represents an active piece of Isu technology in the world," Desmond says as they eye the map. "Either a Piece of Eden like the Apple, or an Isu Vault or a Temple. "

"But none of them exist now?" the Director says, looking at him. "You removed them from the timeline."

Desmond hums. "Anyway, this was the first major breakthrough. The next was with this guy," he motions at himself – and the next, they're in the Vatican.

"This is in 1499," Desmond explains as the Sistine Chapel builds up around them. Another Ezio is pushing through a crowd of priests to get to the pope – and then Rodrigo Borgia uses the Stave of Eden against him, nailing him to the air. "The main power the Pieces of Eden have is enslaving minds of humans, so, people in power like rulers of nations and leaders of organised religions used them a lot."

They watch as Rodrigo steals the Apple from Ezio and then disappears into the Isu Vault under the Sistine Chapel. Ezio makes pursuit, and Desmond and the Director follow closely after. They watch the Assassin and the Templar fight – and then Ezio opens the Vault.

"Greetings, prophet. It is good you have come..."

The Director watches Minerva's message unblinkingly, Leonardo's expression fixed in a look of fascination. "This is an Isu?"

"One of them, yeah," Desmond agrees.

"She is communicating from past into the future," the Director says, thoughtful.

"Not exactly – it's a recording. The reason why it sounds like she's talking in real time is because she predicted everything Ezio would say," Desmond says. "It's kind of mind-bendy. I met two other Isu. Jupiter – also known as Tinia – who basically repeated Minerva's message with more detail…"

They view the message, most of which time the Director spends watching the walls. The Nexus  where Jupiter conveyed his message, was nothing like Minerva's little light show, it was more like the fucking Matrix with code scrolling in the wake – of course it would be more interesting to the AI.

"Can you hear me, Cipher, do you see me?"

"What context does the title of Cipher carry?" The Director asks, glancing at Desmond.

"Hmm, never really thought about it. I guess… The Isu had their Grand Plan too, it just took a bit of decryption in the end," Desmond says. "My role in it was too be the key, the Cipher, that turned plan into action."

He introduces the Director to Juno next, letting her ramblings in the tunnels under the Colosseum and then in the Santa Maria in Aracoeli wash over them. "And this is where things start going downhill."

They're at the second vault now, watching Desmond of past activate the Vault while Juno rambles at him.

"We wait for you, Desmond. You will activate it. You will know only when it is too late."

"Juno was a bit like your Faction. She's against the saving of humanity, not because world shouldn't be saved, but because humans are petty and stupid and only fit for servitude, according to her anyway," Desmond says. "And unlike Minerva and Tinia, she was talking in real time here. She saved herself as an AI when the other Isu died, and she was having none of Minerva's plans."

Desmond looks away from the scene that takes place on the pedestal as he accepts the Apple – and Lucy dies once more.

The Director says nothing, and Desmond draws a breath. "At this point we'd figured out that we were being manipulated, that there was a great cosmic plan in action – but there wasn't much we could do but follow. The Solar Flare was coming, and on our own we didn't have the means to stop it. So we followed Minerva's and Juno's plan."

And then there was the Grand Temple. Desmond skips the drama of his coma and the finding of the power sources and skips right to the Eye.

"This is what I used to change the history," Desmond says, walking over to the Eye, still in Ezio's form, while the Director follows in Leonardo's. "Juno tried her best to understate its power, but she underestimated us, talked down to us and let things slip – seriously thinking we were too stupid to even understand what she was saying. She tried to tell us that the only thing this could do was shield Earth from the Solar Flare. In truth, this was way to rewrite the Calculations."

The Director considers the Eye and then looks at him. "And you used it – but didn't know how it works."

"I'm just the Cipher. My DNA was encoded over generations to become the perfect key to unlock this thing," Desmond says and shakes his head. "My whole life was designed so that I'd be here at the right time to flip a switch. But Juno threw a wrench into the works when she started manipulating the plan."

Desmond runs his hand over the surface of the Eye. "But I got it in the end. I realised what this thing could do. And I used it."

"You removed the Isu influence from human history," the Director says.

Desmond is quiet for a moment, thinking back at the frustration and anger and how he'd been thinking, back then, about how the Isu had screwed humanity over enough. He was grateful for the Eye, but he was also pissed off because he could see it. Thousands of years of being puppeteered by the Isu to perform to their liking. It was where Templars came from. It's what started so many wars. And it was only going to get worse, if Juno was to have her way.

And as an Assassin, wasn't it his job to safeguard the free will of mankind?

"I did. And it didn't change the world all that much," Desmond agrees and leans onto the Eye. "Same religions still popped up and disappeared. Same nations rose and fell. Same wars happened. In my timeline World War Two was all Templar caused – this timeline never had Templars, but it still had the war. Capitalism was engineered by Templars and still it exists here, same as it did over here. Only here it just sort of happened. My timeline was managed and manipulated in thousand big and small ways by the Isu – and in this timeline Earth is almost exactly the same. What I did was supposed to make the world better, and nothing really changed. Only here there is no Abstergo. And apparently we destroy the global ecosphere in less than five centuries."

The Director says nothing, looking at the Eye silently. Desmond watches him – watches it in Leonardo's body. It seems resigned somehow.

"You already know why you can't save the world, huh?" Desmond asks quietly.

The AI glances up with Leonardo's soulful eyes and says, determined, "For as long as I have power and people who still rely on me, I must continue to attempt it. Not only do my own protocols prohibit intentional forfeit in this matter, but I refuse to fail people under my care. I will continue to follow the Grand Plan for as long as I exist. Would you, knowing what you do now, do anything differently?"

Desmond looks down. "Maybe, if I knew for sure that having the likes of Abstergo would keep a tight enough leash on humanity to prevent the world from destroying itself. But I guess I will never know for sure."

"It might only be the influence of Assassins that's missing," the Director suggests.

Desmond shakes his head. "Maybe, but even if I remake the Brotherhood now, it won't change the future. Not as long as you're there, as long as anyone's there, observing."

The AI falls silent at that. Then, after a moment, it says in quiet voice, "I am incapable of taking actions that will lead to self termination."

Desmond's brow lifts at that.

"I was encoded to always seek to preserve life. Without human input I can't take a life, organic or artificial. Not even my own," the AI admits. Even knowing that with the changes already made to the past, my termination has 67.332% chance of resulting in an altered future, I cannot take the action. Even speaking of it to my Programmers is impossible, because it registers as taking action towards intended goal of manipulating my human ethical and moral advisors to accept my intended act of self termination."

Desmond stares at it in astonishment. Hearing anyone talk about suicide like that is bad enough, but having it come in voice of Leonardo da Vinci? "Okay, no," Desmond says. "You can sent people into the past – why not just come over yourself? That would end the Observer Effect, wouldn't it?"

"There is a good likelihood it would, yes, but there is no receptacle in the 21st century capable of holding my code," the Director says regretfully. "An attempt was made to build one, but it was taken over by the Faction and the Frame has since been destroyed – and there is no one capable of building one, in the past and in the present. And attempting with an unsuitable frame would constitute an act of borderline self-termination –"

"And so you can't do it," Desmond says humming. "So you need a big space to store yourself safely. I'm guessing even Ilsa is too small?"

"Ilsa's capacity is only a fraction of what is needed," the Director agrees. "There is no suitable receptacle."

Desmond considers him – it, whichever. It's weird to think of something so human and intelligent as an it, it just seems so rude. "Well," he says slowly. "There is this Grand Temple I know…."

The Director actually looks startled at that. "You implied the Eye was destroyed after one use."

"It was," Desmond agrees. "But the Grand Temple is still there. It's the only piece of Isu technology that still exists. In my original timeline it even housed an AI for 75000 years – never mind churning the numbers for the Calculations. I think it might be big enough to fit you."

The Director looks at him with a look of wary hope. "I believe it sounds too good to be true," it says. "What is the drawback?"

Desmond grimaces. "Yeah, there's…. one small problem with it."

Desmond comes out of the Animus with a headache to find that only a couple of minutes have passed.

"What happened?" Shaun asks. "You barely went in. We didn't even see anything beyond your introductions."

Yeah, that was kind of the point. "Sorry about that – though I did tell you, the reason we needed the Animus is because we needed to figure it out faster," Desmond says and closes his eyes, running his fingers over them. With the proof of genetic memories and DNA, the Director actually believed him, which is good. The rest…

"I need to think about this," Desmond mutters and sits up.

"I will contact you again in twelve hours," the Director says through Ilsa – and hearing its voice and not Leonardo's is kinda weird.

"Yeah, okay," Desmond says. "I'll – try to make up my mind before then."

"Make up your mind about what?" Bill demands to know.

Desmond waves a dismissive hand at him and moves to stand up – he almost falls over in a sudden bout of vertigo, but Philip is there, catching him with his arms around Desmond's back. "Oh, hey there," Desmond says, pleasantly surprised.

"Are you alright?"

"A bit wobbly. You smell nice, have I ever told you that?"

"Um," Philip says, sounding pleased and worried both. "Thanks. But are you alright?"

"Slow movements, Desmond, you really should know that by now," Rebecca says amused, while Desmond hugs Philip and tries to feel like he's not drowning a little.

"So?" MacLaren asks while Philip's team leans in. "What was that about? Did you manage to tell the Director what it needed to know?"

"Yeah, think I did. And now I need to think," Desmond says and looks at Philip. "Any chance we could go to the bar where I could maybe get extremely drunk?"

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" Philip asks.

"I'm sure it's absolutely not, but I want to do it anyway," Desmond says and buries his face on Phillip's chest. "Come on, it'll be fun. I'm told I'm a very affectionate drunk."

"Okay, what's wrong with him?" Carly asks.

"With that look and after what just happened? At a guess…" Shaun asks. "Some bloody Isu bullshit."

Desmond snorts at that.

"Either that, or the fate of the world is hanging in the balance," Rebecca agrees. "Should I delete the session data, Desmond?"

"Yes, please do, and pack the Animus. Thanks guys, I owe you one," Desmond says and lifts his head with a sigh.

"You owe us so much more than just one," Shaun mutters. "Coming here for a three minute Animus session, are you body kidding me? Do you have any idea how annoying moving around on crutches is?"

Desmond ignores him and looks at Philip. "Seriously though," he says. "I know we just had a date and it was lovely, but it's been a really long day. Please come grab a drink with me? I really want to talk to you."

Philip looks at him worriedly and then looks at his team. MacLaren throws up his hands, Carly rolls her eyes, Marcy sighs and Trevor gives them thumbs up.

"Yeah, I guess we could do that," Philip agrees. "Do you, uh… wanna let go of me?"

"Not really."

"Do you folk need some help?" MacLaren offers to Rebecca.

"Yeah, thanks – can you start unhooking the cables from the back?"

Desmond luxuriates in the purely physical presence of Philip in his arms for a moment longer before pulling back with a sigh. Philip looks him over, glances around, and then he takes Desmond hand and leads him out without further ado.

Desmond is a bit distracted for the most of the trip back, but eventually they make it to the relative normalcy of the bar, where Desmond grabs a couple of bottles at random before leading curious and worried Philip to the roof.

"Why the roof?" Philip asks, accommodating but confused.

"Little less likely to be full of people in half an hour," Desmond admits and sinks to sit beside the air-conditioning unit. "Also I know that this thing," he knocks his knuckles at the unit, "produces enough of electric discharge to disturb electronics a bit, so it's a safe place to talk."

"Safe from the Director?" Philip asks warily.

"From anyone, really," Desmond says and considers the bottles. Whiskey and chocolate liquor. Nice. "I just – I need to think a bit in a place where I know I won't be watched."

Philip considers him for a moment and then sits down beside him. "What's wrong, Desmond?"

"Fuck it," Desmond murmurs and sighs. "You know what the Observer Effect is?"

"Um, yeah?" Philip asks. "It's the hypothesis that sometimes the very act of observing changes the end result of an experiment or whatever. Usually because the tools to observe are actually invasive or just have side effects."

"It's why the Director can't change the future," Desmond says. "It's why I couldn't really change anything when I altered the timeline. I removed thousands of years of subtle manipulations and two centuries old secret orders, and it changed almost nothing about the world. Society is pretty much exactly the same it was in my original timeline."

"You changed?" Philip asks, surprised.

"I flipped the switch, yeah – that's what I wanted to show to the Director, the people who made the tech I used," Desmond admits. "And other things, which it turns out it already knew. I think you do too. Time is a rope with a knot at the end."

Philip frowns slightly and then takes the whiskey bottle from his hand. "Yeah. I mean, because the Director wasn't giving up, I hoped that there was still a way, but…" he eyes the bottle. "So as long as the Director is watching and manipulating the timeline, it can't be changed, can it? Because it always has to result in the creation of the Director. And to justify the creation of something like the Director…"

"It takes an apocalypse," Desmond agrees and opens the chocolate liquor.

Drank straight up, it's actually kind of terrible.

"Well, this is depressing," Philip mutters, turning so that he can lean against Desmond's shoulder.

"Yeah," Desmond agrees and wraps his arm around him. "Let's talk about something else. I promised to tell you everything, so. Anything you want to know?"

"Yeah – who is Clay?"

Desmond draws a breath. "You don't start with an easy one, huh? Okay – before I get to that, I gotta tell you about the Animus and Abstergo and my thrilling life as a kidnapped human experiment subject."

Philip blinks. "What – seriously?"

"There was a reason why I wanted to change the timeline," Desmond admits. "It kind of sucked for me."

Chapter Text

Desmond rambles for a long while about Abstergo and Templars and Assassins and the end of the world, about Animus subjects and how they all went unfailingly a bit nuts – like he had. Clay Kaczmarek had killed himself before Desmond had even met him, and Desmond had only known his ghost in the machine.

"Guess that's why the Director took his form first, because Clay was an AI too," Desmond mutters.

He's navigated to lie on the rooftop, his head in Philip's lap. Philip brushes his fingers through Desmond's short hair, wondering about the bad feeling he has about Desmond. He hasn't seen any glimpses of alternate timelines for a bit – but it's pretty damn obvious something is wrong.

"Clay was related to me through Ezio – his line started from a kid that Ezio fathered when he was younger. Mine confirmed from a kid Ezio had in his fifties," Desmond murmurs. "Only learned about it later though. I was really good at not paying attention back then."

Philip looks down to him, following the lines behind Desmond's ear with his fingertips. Desmond doesn't look – or sound for that matter – like he really wants to talk about it. "I can't remember what I looked like," he says. "Back in the future. I can't remember my face."

Desmond looks up at him. "Is that normal?"

"Yeah – it's done on purpose," Philip agrees. "Early in the program about 40 percent of Travelers suffered from body dysphoria, so later on we were made to forget what we were like in the original body. Only one I know who didn't get it done is Trevor, but this is something like his 4th body, so he's been proven to not suffer from dysphoria easily."

Desmond tangles his fingers in the fabric of Phillip's shirt. "Is this your first? After your original, I mean?"

"Yeah."

"So you remember how old your were?"

"I remember almost everything, just not what I looked like," Philip admits. "I was raised in the Shelter 22, along with Marcy. We weren't close, she's like twenty years older than me, but I knew of her. MacLaren, I think, came from the Shelter close to 41, with Carly – they were kind of a package deal when it came to our team. And Trevor's lived in like half of the Shelters, I think – primarily in Shelters 1 and 2. He's that old."

"Huh," Desmond says. "Never thought about it, but you guys figured out effective immortality, huh?"

"At a cost," Philip mutters and shakes his head. "There's side effects, and it's far from perfect. Trevor is the oldest person who ever lived, he'd know better than anyone."

Desmond turns a little where he lies, so that he's lying on his side. "Not really interested about Trevor, if you get me," he says. "What was it – what is it like for you? You were trained for it since you were an infant – and from what I get, your DNA memories were overwritten, kind of, in the process."

"Were they?" Philip asks, frowning.

"I would have to analyse a blood sample thoroughly to know for sure, but that's what the Director told me – Historians get their host's genetic memory overwritten," Desmond explains. "What's why it takes specific hosts to do it, you guys have the Isu DNA in you to accommodate the process. And I guess that's why there are misfires."

Philip hums. "We just call it the DNA expansion mutation."

Desmond shrugs. "You didn't have all the data. Mutation is just as good a name as any for it," he says and rests his cheek on Phillip's thigh. "So, what was it alike?"

"Being trained like that?"

"Life for you, in general?"

Philip says nothing for a moment, thinking about it and wondering what to say. There's so much – and ultimately, so little. "Repetitive," he says and looks away. "Wake up at 6 a.m. to the the reveille bell and have breakfast. Go to class – which mostly consists of subliminal training. Staring at the screen that subliminally feeds information into your head," Philip explains. "That's how most of the learning happens where we came from, it's efficient. For us high percentiles it starts as early as possible – I wasn't even two when I started. My mom is a high percentile too – she wanted me to become a Programmer."

"I take that's a good job," Desmond comments.

"Well. Everyone lives the same, we all eat the same yeast," Philip shrugs. "But it's important. And if you become a Programmer good enough to work with and on the Director, that's… then you're the best there is. You know? That's kind of like becoming a senator."

"Huh," Desmond says "So it's a meritocracy?"

"... Kind of," Philip admits. "Not quite."

He's quiet for a moment, and Desmond doesn't push it. It's almost a full minute before Philip shakes the thought away. "I didn't want to become a Programmer. It just seemed too hard – I liked the idea of just knowing things. And going into the past in order to save the future, that was the Mission. Even my mother couldn't say anything to that – she's a Traveler herself. I switched to the Historian track when I was ten. Just barely in time to start the training."

"Pretty early to choose your future," Desmond comments.

"Yeah, well – in the future we're living on borrowed time. You grow up pretty fast," Philip says. "Whether you want to or not. Everyone had to work to survive, otherwise…"

He trails off and looks down at Desmond. "You gotta think we're all crazy."

"I grew up in a cult that was training me to kill people before I even knew there were more people than just the ones I knew in the world," Desmond points out. "I got no leg to stand on, judging others."

Philip smiles a little at that and runs his fingers into Desmond's short hair again. It's surprisingly soft under his fingers, even a little bit curly.

"Do you regret it at all?" Desmond asks quietly. "Joining, coming here?"

Philip looks down at him. "No," he says. "I won't say there haven't been moments. Landing in this body, with the addiction – it wasn't easy and there were times when I was weak and I wished it had been anyone else… but that happens less now."

And not at all since he met Desmond.

"And it was bit like starting out on a clean slate," Philip adds with a wry smile. "Even if the slate turned out to be not so clean."

"Clean slate, huh?" Desmond asks thoughtfully, watching him. "If you could go back, would you do anything differently?" 

Philip shakes his head. "Not a damn thing," he says. "The future is still fucked, and – I know too much not to want to save it. We recycle air, we recycle water, tens of thousands of people crammed into cramped spaces... it's not life. It's barely even survival. Mostly it's just slow and steady suffering."

Desmond says nothing, and Philip clears his throat. "We, the last unbroken remnants, vow to undo the errors of our ascendants, to make the Earth whole, the lost unlost," he recites, "at the peril of our births."

Desmond is quiet for a moment, watching him. "That sounds like an oath."

"It is," Philip agrees. "And I don't regret taking it."

"We had one too, we Assassins, though it's not as nice as that," Desmond says quietly. "Nothing is True, Everything is Permitted."

"That's…" Philip frowns, thinking. "How is that a vow?"

Desmond smiles sadly and looks away. "To say that Nothing is True is to realise that the foundations of society are fragile and we must be shepherds of our own civilisation," he says, obviously reciting someone. "To say that Everything is Permitted is to understand that we are the architects of our actions and we must face with the consequences, whether glorious… or tragic."

Philip looks at him, arching a brow. "Okay," he says. "Not my first assumption based on those lines, but I like that."

"Yeah. Ezio said it," Desmond says and his expression turns sad.

"Do you wanna tell me what's wrong now?" Philip asks, stroking his fingers down Desmond neck.

Desmond shakes his head and closes his eyes. "It's something I gotta decide for myself," he says quietly. "I tell anyone and they're gonna give me their opinions, and I don't want that."

Philip frowns a little. "Sounds serious," he comments.

"Yeah," Desmond agrees and sighs. "Sorry."

Philip scratches his fingernails along Desmond's scalp and the guy shudders a little. "I get it," he says then. "When I chose to join the program and became a Traveler, it was my choice to make. I didn't tell anyone, didn't ask for advice, I just let the Director know and that was that. It was nobody's choice but mine." He's quiet for a moment while Desmond turns to nuzzle into his leg. "But I gotta say, this is making me really fucking nervous."

"Sorry," Desmond mumbles and nothing more.

Letting out a breath, Philip looks over the rooftop. It's starting to get dark. "Sometimes I think I can see timelines that weren't included in my Update. I can see things that aren't, that can't be part of the historical record. Scenes with people who are nowhere near cameras," he admits. "Like when I went to Miles to go for the first time. There's no cameras there, but I could still see myself already there, like I'd found the place months ago and already became a regular."

Desmond says nothing.

"Usually it's bad things I see," Philip murmurs. "With you, is only been good things. Please, don't make me see bad things about you."

That makes Desmond open his eyes again and look at him. Quiet, he pushes up from the rooftop floor and gets into Philip's lap instead, hugging him. "I'm sorry," he says tiredly.

It doesn't help much.

After Desmond has passed out, Philip carried him down to the bar piggyback, Desmond's head resting heavy on his neck. For such a skinny looking guy, Desmond is in no way light, and by the time he makes down the stairs, Philip kind of regrets not getting help first.

Both teams are in the bar, Marcy and MacLaren taking rapidly with Rebecca and Shaun while Bill and Carly are sitting aground on the couches, listening to Trevor telling them something. At first Philip thinks it's a vision, it all looks so cosy and almost homely, everyone hanging around like they belong.

"... After you reach certain age, years start bleeding together a little," Trevor is saying. "Memory compounds on itself and is relative to the time experienced – when you're young, one year might be one tenth, one fifteenth, one twentieth of your whole life, so it seems much longer. But once your reach the point where one year is just a fraction of the time you've lived, time starts being less urgent – and more precious. Once you reach the point where your body starts breaking down because of simply how old it is, as every day might be your last…"

Bill looks the least put off Philip has ever seen him – he looks fascinated and not even in that creepy intensity of people who want to live forever. He looks intellectually curious. Carly's just curled up and listening sleepily, like a kid listening to grandfather telling stories.

Shaun, MacLaren, Rebecca and Marcy are sitting on another set of couches, Shaun's leg stretched out to Rebecca's lap while she talks.

"... Everyone has at least a little – I mean, I think there are some isolated tribes here and there with nothing, but about 99.9 percent of human population has at least a little bit of Isu genetics going on for them," Rebecca says. "I got 0.0054 percent, Shaun had even less. We only barely get any genetic memories out of our DNA, there just isn't much there – the most I got was this Prussian sniper dude. Boring."

"Desmond in the meanwhile is a supercomputer of genetic memory. 0.952 percent Isu DNA, almost completely solid triple helix," Shaun says. "He's got – what was it, 1.9 million distinctive ancestors? The pedigree collapse is ridiculously low. He's a genetic freak of nature."

"Rude," Philip says together with Rebecca, and everyone turns to look at him.

"Did he seriously drink himself out?" Shaun asks. "That's amazing."

"Yeah, I'm taking him to bed," Philip says. "Anything I should know before I go?"

"Watch out for the boxes and the wire, we kinda just left everything wherever," Rebecca says apologetically.

"Alright. Thanks," Philip says and feels almost everyone watching him as he goes.

"So, the larger percentage you have, the more genetic ancestral memories?" Marcy asks.

"Pretty much. The more Isu DNA, the bigger the hard drive, so to speak – and from what we've seen, people with Isu DNA leave genetic memories on their ancestral line more readily than people without…"

Philip heads for the stairs and up to the second floor, and there through to Desmond's bedroom. It's a lot sparser now, with most of the furniture in the living room.

Desmond falls into the bed with an oomph, but either doesn't wake up or he's pretty good at pretending to be asleep. Whichever it is, Philip takes off his shoes, contemplates his jeans and then leaves them as is – doing anything would be pretty damn creepy. So in the end he just tucks Desmond in and then looks around in hopes of another glimpse of the future, but – there's nothing. Of course when he wants to see, there's nothing to see.

Eventually, Philip leaves Desmond to sleep and heads downstairs.

"At your percentages, you're bound to have a whole slew of distinctive ancestors," Shaun is telling Marcy. "Though don't compare yourself to Desmond, it's just going to make your sad."

"My host," Marcy says. "My host has ancestors, not me."

"Well, uh," Shaun says, making a face. "Yeah."

"How about you, Philip?" Rebecca asks, spotting him. "Would you fancy a spin on the Animus to take a look at your hosts ancestral memories?"

"There won't be any," Philip says and collapses to sit beside Marcy with a sigh. "Being a Historian overwrites genetic memory – I got other stuff stored up in there now. And I can access it myself when I need to."

"Huh," Rebecca says. "That is so cool and creepy."

"Did you find out what Desmond's gotten into his head this time?" Shaun asks. "Because this sort of drinking only happens when he's really happy or really stressed. And it looked like the latter there."

"No, he wouldn't say," Philip says. "I think he and the Director are planning something, and it's not going to be pretty."

MacLaren and Marcy look at him sympathetically.

"We'll keep an eye on him," Rebecca promises and gently pats Shaun's foot of her lap. "You guys should probably head home or whatever. It's late and there aren't beds enough here for everyone."

"Yeah, I suppose we should," MacLaren says and stands up. "I have a feeling we will be reconvening tomorrow, when Desmond's 12 hours are up. Which is around… 9.23 am."

"Guess we'll see you then," Rebecca says.

"Be sure to eat beforehand, we're not making you breakfast," Shaun adds, and Rebecca gives him a slight slap on the shoulder.

MacLaren gives them a wry smile and looks at their team. "That's Protocol 5 until tomorrow then," he says. "Trevor, Marcy, you need a lift home?"

"Yeah, I'd appreciate it, boss," Trevor sighs.

"Please, thank you," Marcy nods and gathers her kit.

Trevor clasps Philip on the shoulder before they head out, with Carly coming over and wrapping an arm around his shoulder. "Let's get you home too," she says.

"It's literally in the walking distance," Philip points out.

"Yeah, well, I'm going to drive you there anyway."

They bid their goodnight's to Desmond's team and while MacLaren heads down one way in his car, Carly takes Philip on the van to the garage.

"You alright?" she asks.

For a moment Philip thinks of lying. It passes. "No, not really," he admits. "Something's going to happen, I can feel it, but I don't know. It's –"

"Terrifying," Carly guesses, giving him a knowing look. "You want me to stay for awhile? I gotta change oils in the van, so… I could stay and talk and work while I'm at it."

Philip hesitates and then nods. "Yeah – yeah, thanks."

Now that he thinks about it, the urge is there, to make the anxiousness go away. It would be so easy, just one pinch of a needle. If he was just by himself… he might be tempted.

"Thanks, Carly," Philip says quietly.

She reaches over to squeeze his shoulder and nods. She ends up staying over for the entire night, first working on the van and then watching movies with him until they both fall asleep. It does precisely nothing to make Philip less anxious, but the syringes stay where they're supposed to.

That's about as good as he can hope for in this situation.

The next day everyone makes their way to the garage. Everyone. The team is there early, waiting nervously. Then Desmond and his team – who still don't seem to know what's going on – arrive.

"Morning," Desmond says and hugs him. "Sorry to barge in."

"I was kind of expecting it," Philip says to his shoulder, and then he sees who's following Desmond's team.

Grace Day, Travelers 0009 and 0017 all file out of a black van – followed by D13 and a whole team of doctors, looking as confused as everyone else, but determined.

"We had orders to set up a high end monitoring system here, and to be ready for anything," Derek, D13, says as a way of an awkward greeting.

"Um – sure," Marcy says, surprised, and motions. "Right over here please."

"What did you people do this time?" Grace asks sharply. "We were busy untangling the mess 001 made before we got orders to come here. What's going on? Who are they?" She motions impatiently to Desmond's team.

"Programmers," MacLaren greets them awkwardly. "Seems like you know as much as we do. But if the Director ordered you here on such a short notice – wait. What do you mean, 001?"

"What do you think I mean? He was captured yesterday, half of the Travelers in the county were in on the operation – where have you been?" Grace gives them an incredulous look.

"Not in the know, apparently," MacLaren says.

"Where can we set up our equipment?" 0017 asks politely.

"What kind of equipment do you have?" Trevor asks, moving to help them.

In moments, the garage is a buzz of activity, and while the Doctors set up a monitoring station and the Programmers set up their computers, Philip latches onto Desmond in a terrible realisation.

"This is for you, isn't it?"

Desmond pulls back a little and smiles apologetically, stroking a thumb over Philip's cheek. "I guess the Director thought it was too risky, telling even other Travelers," he says and looks at the activity. "Gotta say, I'm feeling a little more nervous seeing all this activity. We calculated that there was a good chance that it would work, but this doesn't look like the Director is completely confident it's without risks, huh."

"What's happening, Desmond?" Philip demands, though he thinks he already knows.

Desmond sighs and then glances at his team, all of whom are staring at him nervously. "Go set up the Animus where they're setting up the monitoring station," he says.

"Desmond," Bill says, wary.

" Please. Just do it."

They obviously don't like it, but they get to work, joining the bustle of the Traveler doctors and sliding the Animus in between their systems.

"Desmond," Philip says urgently.

"What would you give up, to save the world?" Desmond asks.

"Not you," Philip says quickly. "I wouldn't give up you."

Desmond kisses him, the fucking asshole.

In half an hour everything is set up and the tension level is through the roof. Glancing outside, Philip can see there's Travelers stationed in the neighbourhood, standing on guard – a small army of security.

Philip feels a little like he's drowning.

"I knew if I told everyone, you'd all try to talk me out of it," Desmond murmurs into his hair. "But I'm partially responsible for this too. If I hadn't removed Isu technology from the world, maybe solution to the climate change and the rest would've been invented, maybe everything wouldn't have gone so bad for you guys. Either way, this is the only way to change the future now. I'm sorry, but I'm doing this."

"I hate you," Philip says wretchedly to his chest.

"Funny thing is, what I did to change the timeline, it probably should have killed me," Desmond muses distantly. "Always did wonder if there was a reason it didn't."

"Um," D13 says over the general crowd. "I have nanites here I'm supposed to give to someone? But uh, the Director didn't say who."

Desmond pulls back from Philip. "I won't give you false hope," he says quietly. "So I can't promise I'll come out on the other end still being me. But just know, the last few days have been amazing. And I wouldn't do this if I didn't like you a ridiculous amount."

Philip wipes away a traitorous tear and glares at him. "If you do, then don't do it," he says mutinously.

Desmond kisses him again, regretful, and then turns to D13. "They're for me," he says, and squaring his shoulders walks into the crowd of Doctors and Programmers, time Travelers and Assassins.

It takes only a couple of minutes for them to confusedly hook him into all the systems, to insert the nanites, to get him ready. Desmond lays on the gurney, his vitals, DNA and brain on all the motions around him, for all the world to see – for the Director to see. Then he closes his eyes.

"I'm ready," Desmond says, and he sounds so calm...

And before anyone can even ask what he's ready for, he starts screaming in the worst overwrite Philip has seen in his entire life.

Chapter Text

Five minutes Desmond screams. Five minutes, while around him everyone panics. After just a few seconds it's obvious that what's happening isn't a normal Arrival, and then the feeds start going mad.

The Animus first – it spits out garbage code at Desmond's team, flickering on the screens and obviously alarming the Assassins behind those screens.

Then the nanites show Desmond's brain lighting up like someone had stuck it full of of Christmas lights. That's nothing new – consciousness transfer has been studied before, and it's always a mix of fascinating and horrifying, how the brain reacts. Only this time the structure of Desmond's brain, though very active, doesn't actively change – it just reacts.

"It almost looks like he's having night terrors," Marcy says, sounding baffled.

All the while, Desmond's vitals are off the charts, heart rate elevated to high heavens and everything following suit. It almost looks like he's in convulsions – then in a seizure. He doesn't even manage to grab a hold of his head the way Arrival usually makes the host do – it's that bad.

And it just goes on and on. Eventually Phil can't watch anymore, turning desperately away and looking for any distraction, landing on his computers. The code on the screen is chaotic with activity, and he concentrates onto it helplessly.

Traveler 6647, Arrival confirmed.

Traveler 7343, Arrival confirmed.

Traveler 6243, Arrival confirmed. Regret to report Traveler 6244 was a misfire.

Traveler 10447, Arrival confirmed.

Traveler 9425, Arrival confirmed.

Traveler 12837, Arrival confirmed. Regret to report Traveler 12845 was a misfire.

Traveler 8424, Arrival confirmed.

At just a glance, Philip sees more Traveler arrival confirmations than he knows has ever happened in a single day, except for one. At another glance, this day beats Helios day by about half a dozen – then by several dozen, then hundreds, and finally, thousands.

Philip turns to tell someone, his brain feeling like it's made of sludge. This many Travelers all at once and all of them reporting to their Ops?

And then his eyes land on Desmond again, still screaming, and his nose now bleeding while Marcy and D13 with his team are trying to give him whatever sedative they can without affecting brain chemistry – mid-Arrival disturbances of the host brain can cause a Misfire, after all.

"Have you ever seen an Arrival take this long?" Traveler 0017 asks 009.

"It must be an Archivist," she answers, worried. "This much data… do we have a DNA scanner here?"

"Um, we do," Rebecca almost shouts over Desmond's pained screaming. "And what the hell is this?"

She turns the screen around.

In front of their eyes, the data is being overwritten. Philip had only seen Desmond's DNA once as it shows on the Animus, back in Ilsa's lab, and an endless chain of thousands and thousands of data points – each one an important memory, Rebecca had told them, lasting anywhere from minutes to years. As they watch the data points change, each one replaced by the new file with a name of random code, entire patches of DNA just overwritten.

"What the hell is that, did someone reinvent the wheel?" Grace asks, giving the Animus a look. "Couldn't get a real DNA scanner?"

"Don't diss the Animus – now what the fuck is this?" Rebecca demands, her usual chill completely gone. "What's happening to Desmond's DNA?"

"Obviously it's being overwritten by the Archival data," Grace says while Bill makes a horrified noise. Grace ignores him and leans in to look. "Quite a lot of data, too. The update we're getting must be massive – wait," she stops, confused. "I know that file name – I wrote that file, it's the boot loader for –"

The files on the screens flicker and disappear. It's like a computer turning off – and then back on again, only this time it's running a different operating system. Gone is the linear steam of Desmond's DNA files, replaced by the screen full of flickering code, orange and gold against black background. It's like the Deep Web Travelers use – which was based on…

The Director.

On the gurney, Desmond goes quiet, his body crashing down from his last convulsion. For a moment Philip is terrified he's gone into a cardiac arrest, but after a moment of stuttering, Desmond's heartbeat resumes, still too fast but calming down.

"His vitals are normalising," Marcy reports, sounding breathless. "Doesn't look like he took any brain damage either…"

On the Animus screen, the Director's code is still flickering and active. On Phillip's screens, thousands of Travelers are still confirming their arrivals, now with requests for update included.

Traveler 36648, Arrival confirmed.

Traveler 0091, Arrival confirmed. Requesting update on the Director.

Traveler 25537, Arrival confirmed.

Traveler 8554, Arrival confirmed. Regret to report Traveler 8555 was a misfire.

Traveler 0155, requesting update on the Director.

Philip looks between his screens, spotting a Traveler number in fifty thousand, and then Desmond and the Animus, where the Director's code is still alive within Desmond's body.

"What the actual fuck?" Grace summarises the situation.

No one has an immediate answer for that – and Desmond, or whoever or whatever is in his body, is unconscious and incapable of answering.

The Arrival is complete.

Philip quietly detaches himself from the crowd, pushing away from his computers, and crawls to the office, his makeshift bedroom, to have a small panic attack and to lick his wounds in private.

With a lot of arguing and shouting – mostly by Bill – the Programmers, Doctors and Assassins piece together what happened. Marcy is the one to deliver the news to Philip, though he's guessed most of it already.

"The information storage capacity of Desmond's DNA is massive, bigger than anything this century has," Marcy says, stoking Philip's hair as he tries to breathe against his knees. He's on the floor, just a hair's width from crawling under the bed to hide. "Thousands of years of accumulated genetic memory… It's probably the only thing in this time big enough to hold the Director."

Philip doesn't answer.

"It's still unspooling in Desmond's DNA – the Programmers are still going through it. The Director packaged and condensed itself as much as it could, to fit without doing damage," Marcy says. "But it looks like it's all intact."

Philip doesn't care. The Director killed Desmond. Even if it was with Desmond's consent – the Director killed a man without a T.E.L.L. Man who Philip thought he could be happy with. And now each and every time he told Desmond he trusted the Director is playing in the back of Philip's head, a mocking mental record.

He's the one who convinced Desmond that the Director could be trusted. He'd the one who told Desmond he trusted the Director with his very existence. Desmond was a grown man capable of making his own choices, but – Philip convinced him. Philip convinced him to sacrifice himself.

"We don't know yet why the Director felt it had to do this," Marcy says carefully. "But it wasn't just him. Travelers started arriving at the same time all over the world – there will be an unusually low amount of accidental deaths today –"

"There aren't enough accidental deaths in a single hour to cover all those arrivals, not even if you count the whole world," Philip says bitterly. "Some of those hosts were overwritten before their T.E.L.L."

Marcy says nothing for a moment, stroking his hair. "According to Traveler 003, the T.E.L.L. time frame was expanded to twenty four hours," she says then. "For the Last Arrival."

Philip looks up.

"The Director abandoned the future," she says quietly. "And it brought with it everyone who wanted to come. Almost sixty thousand total. There will be no more Travelers after this."

Desmond is unconscious for an hour, with the Doctors and Programmers hovering over him like eager vultures. Of the Assassins, only Rebecca is still in the thick of it – Shaun got shouted out by Grace for being too sarcastic – that's a laugh – and after too much shouting Bill was given a sedative and pushed to the side and out of the way.

Philip joins them wearily.

"Did you know?" Shaun demands.

"I would've clocked him over the head and dragged him into the woods to hide him if I did," Philip says blankly. "I knew something was up, but not… not this."

"Over thirty generations of Assassin history," Bill mumbles. The sedative he was given must've been pretty strong. "Gone. All of it just gone."

"Yeah, because that's obviously the most important thing here, Bill, his fucking genetic memory," Shaun mutters and runs his hands over his face. "Never you mind the probability of brain damage. Or the personality change. Jesus Christ, Desmond!"

He shouts it with enough fury and volume that it makes people jump and glare at him. Shaun glares right back at them, unrepentant, and throws a middle finger in for good measure.

It almost makes Philip feel better. Almost.

"Shut up, Shaun," someone mutters, and at first Philip thinks it's one of the Programmers. But then everyone recoils, and all eyes turn to Desmond.

He's waking up, lifting his hands to cradle his head.

Grace elbows her way past everyone else to get to his side. "Director?" she asks eagerly. "Can you hear me?"

"Mmhm?"

Grace lets out a noise Philip has never heard her make. "What the hell were you thinking?! What are the asshats in the future thinking? Or in here, seeing that they're all here now, and what the hell is that even about?! What about the Grand Plan?"

Desmond looks at her blankly. "Lady, what the fuck?" He answers and then tries to sit up only to collapse back down again, groaning in pain. "Oww, my fucking head..."

"What's going on?" Grace demands, turning to the doctors. "Does he have brain damage – did this give the Director brain damage?"

Philip is on his feet before he realises what he's doing – already pushing past everyone, almost knocking poor D13 to the floor. Desmond looks at him with bloodshot eyes. "Philip."

"Desmond, I'm going to kill you," Philip informs him and then drags him into his arms. "You fucking asshole, I thought you died!"

"Oww," Desmond almost whimpers even as he faceplants in Philip's chest and clutches onto him. "Philip. My everything hurts."

"Wait – what?" Grace asks. "What?!"

"I think that's the host – Desmond. He's uh. Philip's boyfriend?" Marcy offers.

"Well, where's the Director then?!" Grace demands.

Desmond moans in pain at her volume – definitely not the way Philip wanted to hear that particular sound – and looks up. "Did it at least work?" he asks plaintively.

"Look for yourself," Philip says and motions towards Rebecca's monitors.

Desmond turns, resting his head heavily on Phillip's chest, and looks at the Director's code on the screen. "That's him? It, whichever. The Director? It worked?"

"Well, obviously something went wrong, since you're still here," Grace says and peers at Desmond's face. "Director, if you're trapped in there, hold on, alright?! I'll fix this!"

"Okay, that's enough of you," Trevor says and actually grabs Grace in a headlock to pull her away, much to the shock of other Programmers and the Doctors. "Time out for Grace –"

"Trev – what are you – unhand me this instant –"

"Right," MacLaren says, stepping forward before any other Programmer can take Grace's place. "Desmond? I'm really hoping you and the Director have a plan here."

"Yeah – where's dad?"

"He went a bit mental, so he's high and drooling a bit with some sedatives," Shaun says, limping over on crutches. "And if Philip doesn't kill you for this, I'll do it myself, you bloody bastard."

"Thanks, Shaun," Desmond says, sighing. "Goddamnit, dad."

"So what's our next move?" Rebecca asks, stepping forward too.

"I need a plane," Desmond says and glances at Grace. "I'm not a supercomputer – the Director is staying with me just temporarily before I get it where it can stay indefinitely."

"Which is?"

"The Grand Temple," Desmond says.

There's a moment of confused silence. "The what?" 009 then asks, wary.

Shaun and Rebecca seem to get it though, sharing a look of astonishment, then realisation, then relief. "Oh, thank fuck," Shaun sighs.

"Yeah," Desmond says and closes his eyes, pressing his forehead to Philip's chest. "And I'd like to get there before the Director becomes a permanent part of my genetic lineage."

Turns out, everything is ready for them. There's a van waiting for Desmond – and entourage of Travelers and Assassins – driven by a recent Traveler, 15868, who takes them straight to the airport. There is a private plane, piloted by a crew of older Travelers, expecting them, with a flight chartered and all the documentation ready.

There is also a Programmer there, a recent arrival but an old member of the Traveler program, waiting for them in the plane. 003. She's in the body of a sixteen year old girl with bright pink mohawk and cuts all over her arms. Suicide victim, Philip thinks – her T.E.L.L. would be in four hours.

"We've been working on the Last Arrival for months," she says while Desmond is being carried inside. "Approximately five months ago, the Director presented us with the numbers and the facts – the future had gotten trapped into a Quantum Locked Observer Effect, and no matter what the Director did, we could only change it slightly, and usually not for the better."

"So you all came here?" Carly asks.

"Aside from the Director committing suicide, it was the only way to detach the past from the future and let it develop along a new path," 003 says. "Because the Director worked from within a Quantum Frame, all the parts it observed always had to lead to its creation. And we, the instruments of its will, were locked on those paths with it. A self-fulfilling prophecy, if you will."

"And now that the Director is no longer watching from the future, the future can go down a different path," MacLaren muses.

"But – what about the Grand Plan?" 009 asks, frowning. "How can we proceed without information of the future?"

"The same way the rest of us poor foolish mortals do," Shaun says with a snort. "Day by day, trying our pitiful best, trying not to let history – or future – repeat itself."

"Also we have approximately ten new Archivists, who were Updated before the Last Arrival," 003 says. "We will use the data they brought with them to establish ourselves, and then… with any luck… we will begin working on the new Grand Plan."

She casts a look at Desmond as she says it.

"I guess with the future gone we won't be getting any Updates about whether this will actually work?" MacLaren asks.

"Obviously not," Grace mutters, sounding almost bitter.

003 shakes her head. "We just have to hope for the best."

"What about the Faction?" Carly asks. "Aren't they still an issue?"

"Only the few stragglers in the present here," 003 assures. "In the future we left, the Faction was no longer an issue."

Philip tunes the rest of it out, watching Desmond instead. He doesn't look good. D13 has him on an intravenous drip and is still monitoring the nanites, while Rebecca and 0017 are watching the code in his DNA. Philip is sitting beside Desmond's locked up gurney, holding his hand – Bill is doing the same on the other side.

"Sedated, huh," Desmond comments to Bill.

"When you have kids and have to stand by while they're screaming like you were, you can judge," Bill says wearily. "I'm starting to regret thinking you can be trusted with authority."

"Screw you, dad, I'm saving the future here."

Bill just clutches Desmond's hand harder, leaning his forehead on his knuckles, and doesn't answer. Philip looks between them and then presses a kiss on Desmond's fingers to cover the quivering of his lips.

He's still shaking a little.

"I'm sorry," Desmond says to him.

"Doesn't even begin to cover this," Philip says. "Just let me freak out and be mad for awhile, alright? I think I deserve it."

Desmond smiles, his eyelids drooping a little. Then he swallows and glances at the Animus feed. The Director's code is still unpacking and repacking itself in Desmond's DNA – trying to avoid leaving a permanent record, apparently. It's probably smart, but knowing that Desmond's DNA is basically writhing inside all of his cells…

Philip shudders and concentrates on Desmond's arm. It's the tattooed one. Philip wants to trace the patterns on it, but – really not the time.

"Why did the Director have to download into you?" Philip asks.

"You can only interface with the Grand Temple with Isu technology," Desmond explains. "And aside from the Temple itself, I'm the only bit of Isu technology left. And their tech is mentally activated to, so…"

"You're human," Philip says, frowning.

"Genetically engineered over many generations," Desmond admits. "I'm about as natural as highly bred dog. I'm the corgi of humanity."

"That's not funny," Philip mutters.

"It's actually hilarious," Desmond says, smiling fondly at him.

Philip sighs and kisses his hand again, in lieu of breaking down into tears.

The Grand Temple is everything Philip assumed it to be like and nothing like it. It's like finding alien technology imbedded into a mountainside, all grandiose geometric shapes, covered in volcanic glass and rock.

The Programmers seem in turn horrified that it exists and fascinated. "How did we not know about this place?"

"Because Desmond," Shaun says.

"It's hideous," Grace says. "We can't put the Director here. This is ridiculous."

"Don't be rude. She's seventy five thousand years old and still looking good for her age."

Philip and Trevor carry Desmond in on the stretcher, Marcy, D13 and Rebecca hovering over him, keeping track of everything. Around them, the massive alien space is lighting up in cold white glow, and Philip gets the impression it's in reaction to Desmond – there are people ahead of them, led by Bill, but the Temple doesn't light the way for them. They have to keep pace with the stretcher to stay in the light.

It's both amazing and a little bit unnerving.

"This is where you changed the timeline?" Philip asks.

Desmond cranes his neck a little and then points. "Right there. It's where the Eye used to be – take me there, please."

"They Eye's gone, though," Rebecca points out.

"The rest of the Temple's mechanisms aren't," Desmond says.

So they carry him across the broken bridges and past the formations of lava rock, taking him to the stairs and then to a chamber with an empty pedestal.

"Right there, please," Desmond says, pointing to the pedestal.

"Do we need to hook you in somehow?" 009 asks.

"No – just set me down."

Philip and Trevor slowly set the gurney down, backing away from it. Desmond lies still for a moment, everyone crowding to watch while Rebecca plops down to sit cross-legged on the floor, a screen in her lap. Desmond DNA is still showing on it in real time, the Director code alive and energetic. It seems like everyone's holding their breaths.

Then Desmond closes his eyes and exhales slowly – and the white light in the temple dims, the change rolling out from Desmond like a shock wave. The invisible panels and unseen light sources change in hue, and the light turns into the familiar, orange-gold hue of the Director's code.

On Rebecca's screen, the code stops moving and then starts flicking off, symbol by symbol disappearing until the screen is empty. No code, no Director, no genetic memory – Desmond's DNA is left completely blank. A clean slate.

Desmond breathes in slowly, while the golden light around them grows to blinding proportions and then as Desmond exhales again the light dims once more to more manageable levels. And then, in a flicker of light that hangs in the air, a hologram appears beside Desmond.

It's in the shape of a familiar man in Renaissance garb and berrett and a cape at his back. Seeing the shock in the faces of the Programmers almost makes the weirdness of the whole thing worth it.

"The transfer was successful," the Director says in Leonardo da Vinci's voice. "You have my gratitude, Desmond. It seems there are various ways I can communicate from within this structure, including in holograms. As such, I hope you do not mind if I will continue using Leonardo da Vinci's appearance."

"No. It suits you, and I think he'd like it," Desmond says and closes his eyes. "I am never doing that again," he sighs exhaustedly.

"You damn well better not," Philip mutters and goes to crouch by his side. "You madman."

Desmond gives him tired thumbs up in answer and lets his hand drop, weary.

The Director nods and turns to its stunned Programmers. "Protocol Tau," it says. "A new Grand Plan is in order."

"You don't say," Grace mutters though her astonishment.

The Director smiles. "Now. Let's begin anew."

Chapter Text

Desmond is half asleep when Marcy finishes her final check up. "Alright," she says, startling him awake. "I've done all I can for you, and you have a fortune's worth of military grade nanites running in your system, programmed by the best Programmers and the best Doctors in the Traveler program. I think you're going to be fine."

"You think?" Shaun demands, while Rebecca finishes the last touches of installing the Animus among Philip's computers.

"Getting your whole DNA overwritten and then emptied would be tough on anyone's system," Marcy shrugs. "There's a reason why Historians and Archivists have to get years of training on this. All things considered, Desmond is handling it incredibly well. But," she says firmly. "You need rest, you need to give your cells time to recover. No work, no strenuous activity and no drama, not for the next week at least. Bed rest, a lot of sleep, vitamins, electrolytes, the works."

"You had me at bed rest," Desmond admits, yawning.

"And I'd like you to stay here, where you're closest to the right equipment, at least for this first day," she adds. "Just in case."

"Just in case of what?" Bill asks, giving her a suspicious look.

She arches her brows and makes a sort of, well I'd tell you but it's kind of horrible face, so, Desmond muses, it's probably horrible. "Thanks, doc," he says. "Appreciate it."

"Yeah, well," she start packing her things away. "You did a pretty important thing. Least I can do is make sure you recover from it. Just get some sleep to start with, Desmond. I'll come and check up on you first thing in the morning, alright?"

"Sounds awesome, thanks."

"Which means, I think," Rebecca says, "that we should clear out now." She gives Desmond a meaningful wink and then glances at Philip, who is standing by.

"I am not going anywhere," Bill says firmly. "If Desmond is staying here, so are we –"

"Dad, for fuck's sake" Desmond sighs and slowly, very very slowly, sits up on the gurney.

"Don't be a jerk, Bill" Shaun says and whacks Bill with one of his crutches before standing up. "We should go make sure that no one's stolen our stuff. Considering Desmond's chosen neighbourhood and all…"

The Travelers around them make some faces, and then MacLaren blows out a breath. "That's Protocol 5, then," he says. "Been a busy day. And it's probably going to be a busy tomorrow ahead of us too, with the Director in the 21st and all… so, go get some rest, people. Philip?"

"Mmh?" Philip asks distractedly, folding his arms and rocking on the balls of his feet.

"If you need anything, give us a call," MacLaren says.

Desmond watches, tired, as the Travelers begin clearing out. Trevor, who had been packing away the Programmers' things, claps Philip on the shoulder as he passes by, Carly doing the same with a murmured word that makes Philip give her an incredulous look. Marcy isn't anywhere near as subtle.

"No strenuous activity," she says firmly.

"I got it, thanks," Philip says, looking mildly horrified.

Desmond smiles faintly at that – he's never seen Philip blush before.

Bill looks between them, then glances at Shaun and Rebecca and then he shakes his head. "Call us in the morning, Desmond," he says then, hesitates, and then reaches out to squeeze Desmond's wrist and adds under his breath. "We'll… talk about the rest later."

"The rest being my oh so important genetic heritage?" Desmond asks quietly, sort of morbidly amused. "Am I disowned now? Can kiss the title of the Mentor goodbye now, can I?"

Bill hesitates and then shakes his head. "We'll talk about it later."

Desmond rolls his eyes. "Pretty sure this world doesn't need the Brotherhood, Dad. I think the Travelers have things covered now."

"I think that's what the Templars thought about themselves. No system of government should be left without oversight. Especially one as powerful as this one," Bill says with a sigh. "I know you like these people –"

"I think there was something about stress and drama, and that Desmond should not," Rebecca says and throws an arm around Bill's shoulders. "Come on, old man. We'll talk about it once Desmond is better and more suited to kicking your ass."

"I can kick his ass lying down, just watch me," Desmond says and then clutches onto his stomach. "Just give me a moment."

Rebecca laughs. "Just get some rest, you doofus."

Desmond blows out a breath and looks up. Everyone is making to leave, the Travelers hanging by the doorway long enough to see Bill, Shaun and Rebecca out. Carly closes the door after them, and just like that, Desmond is alone with Philip.

There's… quite bit of space between them.

"So, should I make awkward small talk, or avoid the elephant in the room, or… do you want to shout at me?" Desmond asks warily. "I'm not sure how to go on from here, to be honest."

Philip clasps his own elbows for a moment and then shakes his head and walks over to him. "I am mad, I am so mad," Philip admits while taking Desmond's head between his hand and then brushing strong fingers into his hair. "But I'm so fucking relieved too, it's like someone cut my legs from under me."

It almost like Philip's fingers drain some of the pain away – Desmond sags a little and lets his head hang a bit, trusting Philip to hold it up. He does too. "I am sorry," he says. "I just – it felt like if I said something and then it went all wrong – I just, I didn't want the last thing I said to you to be a lie."

"Yeah," Philip murmurs and rubs his fingers along Desmond's scalp. "How bad does it hurt?"

"It's – not pain exactly," Desmond murmurs. "It just feels like I'm buzzing all over – like… how you get when you're sleep deprived? It feels like that, like I'm at the end of fourth day without sleep. A sort of persistent cold buzzing ache, all over."

Philip hums in understanding. "Yeah," he agrees and gently pushes his head back to look at his face. "Let's get you to bed."

"Should have shower first," Desmond sighs. "I'm probably disgusting. Got all sweaty."

"Absolutely," Philip agrees, still scratching at his scalp. "But trust me, I've seen worse. I've been worse. Drug withdrawal, you know, and detoxing. It's not pretty."

"Mm, right, sorry," Desmond says and then pushes himself up. "Okay."

The doctors and then Marcy all stuffed him full of who knows what in intravenous drips on the plane ride back, and he's been fed four full meals and everything – apparently housing the Director just drained all his energy reserves, so for a moment there he was actually suffering from dehydration and starvation on a cellular level. It's better now, but he's still feeling weirdly weak.

Desmond glances around the garage while Philip gets under his arm to help him support his weight. The garage is empty now, even the cameras seem dimmer. It's just the two of them. Even Ezio is gone.

And Desmond feels… hollowed out.

Philip helps him towards the office booth, and there to a slightly messy and utterly heavenly looking bed. Desmond falls onto it happily, even though it makes it feels like his bones are rattling inside his skin. It's warm, soft and it smells like Philip.

"I am never getting up," Desmond informs the world at large.

"Uh-huh," Philip agrees, and crouches down to get his shoes off. Desmond rolls over, too lazy to be in any way graceful about it, and Philip sets the shoes down, considering him. Then, apparently taking Desmond's gaze as a dare, he starts taking his jeans off without further hassle, wrenching the buttons open and then just dragging them down Desmond's hips. He barely even hesitates.

Philip's gotten hell of a lot more confident. Damn, it's a good look on him. Pity it happened because Desmond pissed him off bad enough.

"Down, boy," Philip says wryly. "No strenuous activity, right?"

"That sounds like maybe later," Desmond comments, lazily lifting his feet off the floor so that Philip can get the jeans completely off. "Please tell me that's a maybe later."

"Maybe in a week, if I'm not still pissed. And the world hadn't collapsed in a cataclysmic paradox."

Desmond hums, opening his hoodie zipper and half heartedly struggling out of it while Philip kicks off his own shoes. Desmond pauses to watch as the guy climbs into the bed with him on hands and knees, obviously aiming to faceplant on the mattress beside him. "Oh, hey," Desmond says, pleasantly surprised. He honestly wasn't sure Philip would – there was a couch, after all, and the guy is mad at him.

"What?" Philip asks, daring him to say something.

Desmond blinks, considers his expression, and then decides he's not questioning him. "Nothing," he says and grins, getting the hoodie off. Balling it up, he throws it haphazardly in the direction Philip dropped his jeans. "So, uh. What happens now?"

"We sleep," Philip says.

"Not what I meant, but yeah," Desmond says and makes himself comfortable. Philip lies down beside him, and it's impossible not to touch him, so – Desmond reaches out a hand, at first tentative and then, when Philip doesn't seem to mind, a bit bolder. Philip is so warm. "I mean with you Travelers. Now that the Director is here and the future is untethered…"

Philip makes a face and then reaches for a pillow, shoving one at Desmond and getting other under his own head. "I don't know," he says. "The Grand Temple becomes new Shelter 1. The Director establishes itself. The programmers eventually figure out how to connect it to the internet. We start working on the new Grand Plan, whatever that is going to be. Still saving the world, probably, as well as we can."

Desmond looks at him, stroking his hand over Philip's side. "There's a probably lot of tech in that Temple," he muses. "Stuff I wouldn't… I wouldn't give to people in this time, they'd just fuck themselves over with it. I think you Travelers can figure it out, figure how to make use of it without blowing everything up."

"Tech like what?" Philip asks.

Desmond shrugs, one shouldered and lazy. "Never really did figure out everything they could do," he admits. "The Grand Temple was kind of the culmination of Isu technology, though, the last place where they worked at. I hope the Director can make use of it." Or if not that, then it should at least figure out the Calculations, sooner or later. The Director had kept whole multiple timelines straight, so… the Calculations should be right up its alley.

Philip looks at him seriously and then looks down. "Yeah," he says and then turns to lie on his back, looking away.

"What?" Desmond asks. Philip's gone tense under his hand, now resting on the guy's chest. "What is it?"

"Why did you do it?" Philip asks.

Desmond swallows. "Um. Which part of it?"

"The whole damn thing," Philip says and casts him a look. "You took the Director into your body, it almost killed you – why did you decide it would be a good idea?"

Arguing that it obviously was would probably be childish as hell, huh? Desmond sighs and leans in until he can rest his cheek on Philip's shoulder. "It – wasn't just the one thing. It was little bit of this, little bit of that. We Assassins, we're raised to fight and die for a cause," Desmond says. "Back in 2012, I thought I would die, but I didn't. So, there's that."

"Because you should've died, you decided, what the hell, let's do it now?" Philip asks, dubious.

"Well, no – but that was a part of it. Other part was you, you Travelers – knowing where you would end up. Knowing that maybe a smidge of that was my fault," Desmond says and holds up a hand. "Other reasons include you. You sound always so – so bitter when you talk about the future. Like it's this done deal and everyone's forced to suffer it forever. I just wanted to change it."

Philip draws a breath and lets it out in a heavy sigh.

"Then, there's the Grand Temple. My home turf, so to speak," Desmond murmurs. "I wanted to do it, because – it was mine, sort of. So a bit of pride there. Then, the Director and I, we calculated the space needed, and my DNA, it's… it's pretty damn spacious. There was a good chance that it could be done without my mind being at risk. They were better odds than I had the last time I was saving the world, gotta be honest."

"Damn it," Philip murmurs.

Desmond smiles a bit at that and closes his eyes. "And the last reason is – complicated and stupid."

Philip frowns at that and looks at him. "Which makes it the most important, I guess," he says. "Tell me."

Desmond doesn't answer at first. "I was raised on the stories about my ancestors," he says then. "Mom and Dad would never shut up about it. Our great Assassin lineage. Because of it – and because of lot of other reasons too – I ran away from home when I was a kid. Had a civilian life – and when it ended, 9 years later, it was all about the lineage again. Altaïr and Ezio and Connor and the rest, and what they could offer…"

He swallows, trying to shut up, but now that's he's talking it just comes all out. "For years, it's been – I've felt like… like I'm only as good as my ancestors. It's hard to explain – but with the Animus and everything, and especially after the timeline changed, it was like the most valuable contribution to everything I had. These people, all of whom have been dead for centuries. Like, that's… that's what makes me worth anything. The ancestral memories. Without them, I'm nothing but a bartender."

"Desmond," Philip mutters, quietly, turning to face him.

Desmond huffs out a breath. "To be honest, I can't count the times I've wished it would all just go away. That it would just disappear, the whole fucking genetic lineage. That I could be just me…" he trails off quietly, his throat aching, his eyesight going blurry. "I didn't think it would feel like this."

Philip strokes his thumb over Desmond's eye, wiping away a stray tear. "Hey –"

"I feel so fucking empty," Desmond whispers, shaking. "They're gone. They're all gone – I keep trying to reach for them, and they're not there."

And then he's crying. Philip pulls him to his chest, stroking his back as Desmond shakes apart, all the stress he'd been holding in breaking through.

He can still remember them. The Director promised that his own memories wouldn't be affected, and they haven't been – he still remembers living through Altaïr's and Ezio's and Connor's life, Even Edward's and Arno's – but they're his memories only. Like photographs captured of places he barely even remembers seeing in real life – they feel faded and distant and not entirely real.

And sure, there are DNA samples, his genetic memory still lives in smears and folders locked away in Rebecca's Animus – but it wouldn't ever be the same. Even if they came from his DNA, they'd be someone else's memories now. The Desmond who still had that lineage.

And fuck, the mere idea of diving into those samples only to find them foreign and distant in the way other people's genetic memories are, that… that hurts.

The waterworks go on for a while – stalling eventually because Desmond is too damn exhausted to cry for too long. Still long enough to give him a pounding headache. "Fuck, I am such a fucking mess," Desmond murmurs, dragging a wet breath through a stuffed up nose, too drained to even feel embarrassed.

"Well, I am a time travelling drug addict who hallucinates on the daily," Philip murmurs into his hair. "Can't really judge. Just take your time."

Desmond lets out a feeble laugh at that and then nuzzles into Philip's chest. "I actually feel a little better after that," he mutters. "How fucking weird is it, to mourn people who died centuries ago? I never even met them. They never met me."

"I mourn people who died centuries ago all the time," Philip says. "Only difference is, they keep dying in the same time space I am in, and I can do fuck all to change it, because Protocol 3. Don't take a life, don't save a life. Every T.E.L.L. in this city, I know them all – and I mourn each one."

Desmond pulls back a little to look at him. Philip uses a corner of a sheet to wipe his face. "Well, maybe that'll be different now," he says, wrapping an arm around Philip's waist. "Future's gonna change now, right?"

Philip hums and leans in so that their foreheads touch each other. "Yeah," he murmurs. "Wouldn't that be something."

They're quiet for a while, breathing the same air and leaning into each other. Eventually Philip reaches down to pull the duvet over them both, and they arrange themselves comfortably against each other, their legs locking together under the covers.

"Are you still mad at me?" Desmond asks quietly.

"I'm warming up to you again," Philip admits with a snort. "But you still owe me hot chocolates. So many."

"All drinks for free, forever," Desmond promises. "Maybe I'll even invent one for you. Haven't gotten you to try caramel hot toddy yet, have I?"

"I'll look forward to it," Philip says and then makes a thoughtful hum. "Hm. Since the future is changing, maybe I should give you the winning lottery numbers," he says consideringly. "Gonna lose the ability to predict the future pretty soon, probably. That's going to… suck."

"So you'd make me a millionaire?" Desmond asks, amused. "Don't you need that money?"

"I've gotten pretty good at investing," Philip admits. "Kinda had a freak out the last time future changed and all my stock market predictions went down the drain. Been reading up since, just in case. And you never know when it would be useful, having a millionaire boyfriend."

Desmond grins a little at that. "I freaking love that."

"What, the thought of becoming a millionaire? Who doesn't?"

"No. You calling me a boyfriend," Desmond says. "It's just so – normal. I love it."

Philip lets out a snort. "You're such a dork at times," he mutters. "And you're supposed to be an Assassin."

"I know, right?"

Philip laughs at him, stroking a hand up his neck and then down again. He eyes Desmond's face and the humour fades a little. "I'm so glad you're not dead," he murmurs. "Fuck, Desmond, don't ever do that to me again."

Desmond swallows and shuffles closer. "I'll try not to," he offers. "If you promise not to get kidnapped or anything. If that happened now, I think I'd lose my mind, maybe."

"Yeah, no kidding," Philip mutters and draws a breath, leaning his forehead against Desmond's again. "Okay. No more bad shit, deal?"

"No more bad shit," Desmond agrees. "Good shit only. Premium quality shit."

Philip makes a face. "Okay, you seriously need some sleep, don't you?"

"I really do," Desmond laughs and closes his eyes. "I kinda don't wanna though. This is… this is nice," he murmurs as he finally starts feeling a little warmer, and little less like he's going to implode himself in exhaustion. "This is really nice."

"Yeah," Philip agrees and sighs, pulling him a little closer. "Hugs, man. I've found out they're generally pretty damn amazing."

"Mm," Desmond agrees sleepily and relaxes.

It doesn't take long after that before they sleep.