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Chapter Text

Desmond had gone so long without letting himself feel it, he didn't recognize it for what it was. Not at first. 

What he did notice were the heads that turned, the automatic way people he passed in the street turned up their noses, impolitely scenting the air but seemingly unable to help themselves. The looks were worse, confused and irritated and interested, all at once. It happened twice, once when he was shopping, and again late one night, when the guards he'd been tailing, as silent as a shadow, suddenly stopped and turned, eyes scanning the roads with intent even though there was literally no reason why they should have noticed him at all.

Desmond receded into the shadows, thinking, What the fuck?!

He spent an embarrassingly long amount of time pacing in his hideout, trying to puzzle it out. Walking around in pure black would be just as ostentatious as all white, but Desmond's simple cloak and tunic, in dark greys and sturdy, workman's leathers, should have made eyes pass over him. And typically, they did, but lately it seemed like people's eyes were being tugged towards him by an invisible force that screamed for attention—attention Desmond needed to actively deflect these days, as wary of Templars and guards as he was Assassins. One wrong move, and it would be all too easy to be cornered, especially in Rome, where the Assassin's presence had never been stronger.

It didn't click until he finally sat down, absently reaching into the collar of his shirt to rub at his overheated skin. He grimaced at the sensation of his clothes sticking to his chest from sweat but pulled a blanket close anyways. He needed it behind him because these last few days his spartan set up of a single down pillow and a thin sheet wasn't cutting it, and just when he was mentally adding more pillows to his shopping list, he froze, hands stilling on the large lump of sheets he'd created—perfect for holding.

Fuck me, Desmond thought fervently. He recognized this sign, at least. He only got...cuddly...when his Time came.

His goddamn heat was here. 

Scowling, Desmond ripped the sheet away, made himself unfurl it and lay it down flat like a normal person would, and tried to figure out what to do. Just by habit, his hand laid flat on his chest, over the concealed pocket inside his tunic—empty. It had been empty for days now, but had—until very recently—housed his scent blockers and suppressants. But after four months in sixteenth-century Rome, he'd finally exhausted his supply, and that was after cutting his usual dosage in half and supplementing what he could with the current medicine—namely slathering disgusting, acrid smelling poultices over his scent glands and wearing a scarf. The doctor he'd consulted, once he'd come to accept he would be stuck here for some time, had offered other remedies, not realizing exactly what ailed Desmond, but bloodletting or enemas wouldn't help him here.

The stress of facing a heat made Desmond swallow, nauseous. Stuck in Rome without a single modern convenience to stop this from happening. It was his worst nightmare come to life, and what made it particularly horrifying was how quickly it was coming, despite the fact that he'd only run out of suppressants three days ago.

Desmond had to face the facts; it was happening, and he was woefully unprepared.

He didn't sleep that night, too stressed and wracked with restless anxiety, focused on the moment he would succumb and be worse than useless—needy and helpless and willing to do whatever he was told.

That terrified him more than anything, but by the time morning came, Desmond had a plan. If he had to deal with this, he could still take steps to ensure he wasn't taken advantage of.

The last time Desmond had seen the doctor, dressed in his black habit, masked as always, it had been a relatively quick visit, inconsequential when compared to the sheer amount of patients he surely saw. But when Desmond approached his covered stall, he greeted Desmond like he'd made an appointment.

"Did the poultices provide any relief?" he asked straightaway, and his eyes, barely visible past his glass lenses, watched Desmond with critical scrutiny.

"Er—" Desmond paused for a moment, unsettled he'd been remembered. He forced himself to move past it; he didn't really have a choice. "For a time. But now I have a...different problem."

"What ails you, Il Fantasma?" 

Desmond barely stopped himself from reacting; the name at times felt like he was being punished for helping. So he sees a few guards abusing their power and takes them out occasionally? So he decides that he doesn't want to fuck up the timeline more than he already has and doesn't want to run into a certain ancestor? So maybe he enjoys his freedom and not being questioned and possibly tortured, and doesn't go out of his way to introduce himself to the Assassins of this era? So maybe he actively avoids them, ducks behind cover or uses a smoke bomb to escape any time the Assassins manage to get the drop on him. 

So maybe they were looking for him because their Mentor ordered his capture? And maybe it's only too obvious that Desmond's Assassin-trained and they've seen that and think he's a spy of some sort?

Was all of that really a reason to give him a name as sinister-sounding as The Ghost? Just because he didn't want to talk didn't mean he was a bad person, sheesh...

It was also mildly upsetting that this doctor had seemed to put the dots together after only meeting him once, but his interest in Desmond seemed to be purely professional, so perhaps he wasn't in danger of being sold out. He hoped so, at least. Doctors, of any time, seemed to serve no other agenda than their own.

"I..." Desmond struggled to phrase this in a way that wouldn't get him immediately committed. "I was hoping you'd have something that...hides a very strong scent. Or at least masks it."

"Is this a wound that has festered? A lesion of some sort?"

"No," Desmond shifted uncomfortably, aware of the early morning sun beating on his back, the streets as they began to fill. "It's..." Desmond sighed, realized he'd just have to come out with it. "Do you have something that stops a heat? Or conceals it from others?"

The doctor tilted his head and seemed to stare at Desmond in what he could only guess was blank confusion. "Scusi?  I'm afraid I don't understand," he answered eventually. "Stop a heat?"

"Yes," Desmond agreed, cheeks warm. Talking about this stuff, rare as the occasion was for him, always sucked. 

"That...that is not possible!" The doctor exclaimed, bewildered. "Why would someone do such a thing at all?"

Desmond grimaced; he'd expected the answer, but still...

"Maybe some people have better things to do," he muttered, petulant and disappointed.

The doctor shook his head, beak cutting through the air. "The heat is a natural process of the body and must be allowed to run its course. Only those very near death experience a lack of their cycle, if they are not past their prime." Another shake. "It would be best to inform whoever this Omega is that they have nothing to fear and it will be over before the week is done."

Desmond blinked. Already, the few people that populated the market this early had noticed him, scenting his pheromones, so why...?

The mask. Between it and the herbs no doubt crushed into the beak, it was no wonder the doctor didn't realize it was for him. Now if only the rest of Rome could catch on to this trend.

"I will," Desmond said with a sigh, swallowing his disappointment. He held out a bag of coins. "Can I get a few more jars of that same poultice?" May as well stock up for later. "Oh, and do you still have any more of the herbs you keep in your mask?"

After another twenty minutes, in which Desmond made his purchases and endured another lecture on treating the body well, he left the shop, clinging to the shadows and trying hard not to cringe from every pair of eyes that turned his way as he passed by.

God, this really fucking sucks.

He'd left this morning with his neck wrapped, but the glances were making his skin crawl. He ducked into the first empty, shadowed alley he could find and dipped his first two fingers in the pungent-smelling jar he'd just bought. Quickly and efficiently, he slathered the sides of his neck with it, shuddering at the icy-cold, thick and slimy feel of it, then painstakingly wrapped his neck with the linen bandages he'd bought. Once his neck was fully covered, he tugged his black scarf back on and raised it to cover his nose, just as before.

That'll have to do.

It was somewhat effective; people still scented the air, but their noses wrinkled and they instinctively looked away, almost always before they even clapped eyes on Desmond. That was perfectly fine; he had no issue walking around being stinky when compared to the alternative.

Well, he'd exhausted the possibility of somehow staving off his heat. Now he only had to—

"My friend!" A familiar voice called.

FUCK ME.

Desmond didn't betray any of his frustration, only came to a halt on the cobbled path and waited, hand tightening around his sack of medicine.

A moment later, a hand clapped on his back, big and warm and bringing with it the scent of a soothing Beta.

Leonardo's eyes twinkled with surprised delight. "It's been some time!" he exclaimed. A moment later, his nose wrinkled imperceptibly before smoothing once more; Leonardo was nothing if not polite. "How have you been, my friend? It is good to see you well!"

Despite himself, Desmond smiled, unseen beneath his scarf. Leonardo had a way about him, that was for sure.

"Hello, Leonardo."

"I do not believe I have ever seen you at the market," Leonardo mused. "I did not think ghosts needed such things."

That fucking name. Desmond shrugged, tried to inject some levity into his voice even as his eyes darted over Leonardo's shoulders, tracking everyone who paced by them. He needed to get indoors, now. "Ghosts haunt where they please, I guess."

Leonardo laughed. "Well said!"

Leonardo had become a friend quite against Desmond's will. He'd been content to haunt Rome as Il Fantasma, fighting from the shadows when it was necessary but mostly just...living again. But he'd been exploring in the night and his vision had flashed red the moment he'd leapt between two buildings. He'd only stopped long enough to notice the guards, dressed to betray their loyalty to the Borgia, and another person walking a short distance ahead, unaware of the men closing in.

It had been a simple thing to fall from the sky and perform a double execution. His attack had been quick, but even the most oblivious person notices the cut-off choke of someone being killed and bodies hitting the pavement. Desmond had looked up, ready to make a quick escape, when his eyes caught on Leonardo da Vinci's and had promptly frozen, half out of shock, half from the sudden and forceful wave of memories not his own that had swamped him.

That hesitation had cost Desmond his only chance to escape. Leonardo had thanked him effusively, refused to hear a word of protest, and dragged Desmond to his shop. Part of it had been because Leonardo had gotten him drunk, but Desmond had stayed that night mostly because he'd been...lonely. While he appreciated the opportunity to wake up each day and fill his lung with fresh air—something he thought he'd put behind him, permanently, back at the temple—he itched for someone to talk to, a single friend to call his own. His most lasting interactions were when he talked to shopkeepers or when he traded blows with Assassins or guards trying to kill or capture him. 

And Leonardo was very good at being a friend.

Leonardo opened his mouth, but Desmond took a step back and cut him off. "I can't talk," Desmond said, pitching his voice as apologetic as he could muster when he was this stressed out. "I need to get off the streets."

Leonardo's face darkened with worry. "What is it, my friend? Are you being followed? Are you in some sort of trouble?"

Desmond shook his head. "I can't speak of it. But it's nothing to worry about, Leonardo. I'll...see you later."

Leonardo scowled, hands on his hips. "Nothing to worry about, he tells me. Bah!" Leonardo waved his hand dismissively. "I will not hold you, but be careful! It would be a shame to lose such a fascinating friend."

Not for the first time, Desmond wondered what he said that night Leonardo managed to empty two bottles of wine into him. Leonardo never spoke of it, no matter how he pressed, and he couldn't bring himself to threaten the answer out of him.

"Stay safe, Leonardo," Desmond said, shaking his hand when it was offered. 

"You as well." Leonardo's smile widened. "After all, where would we be without Il Fantasma di Roma?"

Desmond just shook his head and walked away. He could worry about what Leonardo knew—and what he might tell his best friend—later. 

Right now, he had a heat to survive.

Chapter Text

Ezio spotted Leonardo just outside the market square. He had a familiar, thoughtful look on his face, one Ezio had witnessed many times when he handed him a codex page; his friend was ruminating on a puzzle, and any puzzle that compelled Leonardo was surely something of note.

Ezio called his name, hand raised in greeting, and Leonardo startled. His hands fell from where he'd been stroking his chin and he turned that reassuringly warm smile on Ezio.

"Ezio!" They hugged briefly and Leonardo laughed when they separated. "Your timing is impeccable! Or horrendous, depending on the observer."

"Oh?" Ezio raised a brow. "Why is that?"

Leonardo had an impish look about him, one that made Ezio narrow his eyes on reflex. "Oh, no reason in particular. Only, I was conversing with one of my more enigmatic comrades just moments before you arrived."

Ezio knew who he meant almost immediately and couldn't stop the scowl that took over his face.

"You know how I feel about you associating with that man."

Leonardo flapped a hand at him, gratingly unconcerned. "He means no harm, my friend, I assure you."

"You can not know that, not for sure."

Leonardo may delight in them, but with every year that passed, Ezio only grew to despise mysteries. And the mystery of Il Fantasma was proving to be among the most vexing.

The man was an enigma that set Ezio's teeth on edge. Strangers did not suddenly appear into a city he controlled with skills like that without him knowing about it. They did not fight like an Assassin, kill like an Assassin, help Assassins, and not be one. But here this man was, contradicting everything Ezio knew. Somehow an Assassin, but not, in his strange dark clothes, who masked his face and was never without his hood, so Ezio was no closer to learning who he was than the first moment he'd heard of him, months ago.

On the surface, he had done nothing to earn Ezio's ire, this much was true. He avoided the Assassins, but more than once Ezio had heard word of one of his brothers or sisters caught unawares by Borgia-loyalists or something of the like, only to be saved by a timely visit from Il Fantasma. He always made himself scarce the moment the final body dropped, and though his initiates were trained by the best, trained by Ezio himself, they could never catch him.

If his intentions really were so noble as to aid them in their fight, why run at all? Why not introduce himself, share what information he had, make firm allies of them? 

No, until Ezio had this man and questioned him, he could not believe him to be anything other than an enemy. An enemy with more information on them than he would like, if his contact with Leonardo meant anything. Of all the people in Roma, why befriend this specific artist? It could not be a coincidence. 

Ezio crossed his arms, good mood banished. "I suppose it would be foolish to expect you to tell me where your fantasma has gone?"

Leonardo gave him a look of stern disapproval. "You are wrong about him, Ezio," he stressed. "If he had sinister intentions, surely he would have made his move after all this time. From what I've seen..." Leonardo's brows furrowed in worry. "He seems...displaced. I've never seen him with a pack of his own, nor does he carry the scent of one." 

That was...indeed strange. To carry no scent but your own wasn't uncommon, but from what Leonardo was implying, Il Fantasma didn't even carry the lingering notes of another packmate. Ezio found the thought of that vaguely disturbing. That kind of separation—it didn't bear thinking of.  

Leonardo shrugged. "I am your friend, always, Ezio, but I can not in good conscience betray the trust of a man who has saved my life."

Ezio's grimaced. He didn't like it, but he respected it. "Very well. But be careful," Ezio warned, pointing. "If he so much as bumps into you," he vowed darkly, "His life is forfeit."

Leonardo smiled. "Thank you, Ezio," he said, well used to Ezio's particular form of affection when it came to protecting his friends.

They parted ways soon after that when Ezio made his excuses of having important errands to run, but the moment he turned the corner, he pulled up his hood and took to the roofs. Leonardo might be content to wait for Il Fantasma to betray him, but Ezio was not nearly so patient. It was true Il Fantasma could be anywhere by now, but Ezio was not alone. He signaled for his Assassins to spread throughout the district and pursued the direction Leonardo had been facing himself. One way or another, he would get answers.

After hours upon hours of fruitless searching, however, Ezio was forced to grit his teeth and accept the truth: once more, Il Fantasma had lived up to his namesake. He was nowhere to be found. 

With a careless gesture, he dismissed his fellow Assassins to either resume what work they had before he'd summoned them or to head back to Tiber. Ezio, seized by a restless frustration, decided to patrol, unwilling to inflict his mood on anyone until he'd allowed it to pass.

As he'd thought, it helped to explore the city he'd slowly but surely fallen in love with. It had taken years, but ridding the proud city of Roma from their Borgia oppressors had been gratifying beyond words. The people were free, laughter threaded through the streets once more, and his family—what little he still had left—was safe and secure in a city that would keep them protected. Pride was a dangerous thing, but Ezio was not shamed by the feeling as he perched high upon a tower and gazed over the city. He'd bled for Roma and felt blessed that he was able to see the fruits of his efforts where many other men had to be content passing the mantle of the fight to a new generation. 

It seemed fitting that, in this moment of peace and introspection, he should be visited by the sight of the one person he'd sought to turn his thoughts from.

A flash of gold on the edge of his vision snapped Ezio from his idle musings and he glared into the distance. His second sight triggered without his consent and he saw there, not far at all:

Il Fantasma. 

Merda! Ezio leapt from his perch and was quick to scale the rooftops of Roma, eyes unwavering on that searing, golden flash. 

This was something Ezio had not dared confide in another living soul, for fear he'd start a panic. He'd seen Il Fantasma only once before, and from a much greater distance. But both times, there had been this same flash of light in his awareness, illuminating his body like a beacon. It was why it chafed Ezio so badly that he hadn't caught the man yet because he knew it only took a glance to be able to zero in on him—but he'd proven to be a gifted evader. 

This light, however, already so separate from the vibrant crimsons and pulsing blues and muted grays he was accustomed, had only appeared before him just a few times before. And each time, it was the power of the ancient artifact, the self-same one he'd sealed away. The Apple.

That was the true reason why Ezio distrusted this Fantasma. Anyone connected with such power was an enemy, bar none. Power that absolute was an incredibly corruptive force, and this man shone like he was an artifact made flesh. Il Fantasma was more dangerous than anyone truly realized.

Ezio followed Il Fantasma to the Campagna District. His confusion and wariness only grew as he watched Il Fantasma avoid the soldier's barracks, and by effect any populated area. If not for Bartolomeo or his men, this district offered nothing more than farmland and abandoned encampments.

The mystery only deepened; Ezio scowled and followed.

Before long, Ezio managed to close the distance between them—but not so close as to betray his presence. The sun had long-since fell, but the moonlight threw into relief Il Fantasma's dark clothes and hood. He went straight to his destination, an abandoned guard tower, without so much as a look back, and that was more suspicious than anything else he had done. There was an air about him that spoke of intense focus as he reached the tower and began to scale it, but it could be a trick, Ezio knew. But it could also speak of distraction, and if so, Ezio was not above taking advantage. 

The tower stretched from a dilapidated fort and only reached a few stories above the ground. High enough to provide a decent view of the immediate surroundings, but no more. Clinging to the shadow of a similarly neglected stone building, Ezio glared at the structure and thought furiously.

Infiltrate what could very well be a trap, or wait and see if Il Fantasma revealed himself? There was also the option of alerting Bartolomeo to this threat that had made its home right beneath his nose, but Ezio didn't want to raise any alarms until he was sure if this man was a threat or not.

By placing himself so far from any people, Ezio was forced to concede that perhaps he'd finally found Il Fantasma's residence. At the very least, he certainly wasn't posing a threat this instant, housing himself miles away from the closest possible neighbor. In the end, Ezio decided against waiting in the night; there were smarter ways to handle this, and he had resources.

Ezio lingered one last moment, staring, before he bled into the shadows and was gone. Finally, his path was clear, and this nagging mystery would cease to plague him.

For two days, Ezio sent teams of two to watch that isolated tower in shifts so that there wasn't a single moment it wasn't being watched. For two days, the reports came back the same: no movement of any kind. It seemed impossible that Il Fantasma had somehow slipped past them; Ezio had studied the schematics of that building and knew there was no exit he could take that one of his brothers would not spot immediately. The thought that he hadn't left that building in two days was the obvious truth, but somehow just as troubling.

On the third day, Ezio relieved the team assigned surveillance and decided to confront Il Fantasma himself. Having the support of his fellow Assassins would have been nice, but if Il Fantasma truly had no ill intent, approaching him with reinforcements would send the wrong message. And if he had the power of a Piece of Eden, Ezio knew he, at least, was resistant. He was far past the age to indulge in unnecessary risks.

Ezio warily circled the building but could discern no traps of any kind. Still erring on the side of caution, he climbed the tower just as he'd watched Il Fantasma do a few nights prior.

When Ezio crested the tower at last and hauled himself through the window, he nearly fell right back down. 

The scent slammed into him, so sudden because outside, the wind had blown it away. But inside, it had settled, inescapable as it seeped into the very stone and declared resolutely and firmly:

An Omega was in heat. 

Ezio immediately switched to breathing through his mouth, alarmed by this turn of events. Of all the things...

What was worse, this was no place for an Omega to spend their heat. It was unsafe, for one thing, but it lacked the necessary supplies, nothing with which to build a nest, no scented oils to ease their pleasure. It was as inhospitable as a place could be, short of being a dungeon, but it wasn't far off.

That was more than apparent when Ezio landed on the dirty flagstones and clapped eyes on the figure huddled against the wall, behind the bars of a cell that took up half of the small, circular perimeter of the room. A fierce wave of protectiveness washed over him, made him want to pick up this abandoned Omega and take care of them, he needed to take care of them—but sense returned and with it, clarity.

For a moment, Ezio's second sight flashed, washed Il Fantasma in blazing gold. Ezio quickly blinked it away, still frozen in shock, and found Il Fantasma's true eye color, a rich, dark brown, no less burning without the glow of an ancient artifact.

He was still fully dressed, but his hood was down and his facial covering gone. He was pale, broad of shoulder, but thinner than Ezio would have expected, now that he was close enough to see his figure. His hair was a rich, deep brown, just long enough it began to curl around his ears, and it stuck to his face and neck where the skin was sweat-slicked. He was flushed and smelled divine.

Il Fantasma took one look at Ezio from where he sat on the filthy stone ground and swallowed.

"Fuck,"  he whispered.

Chapter Text

Of all the fucking Alphas. Desmond knew this was as dire as a situation could get, but he was almost relieved to see Ezio, here and now and in the flesh after all this time avoiding him; maybe he'd just kill Desmond, put him out of his fucking misery.

"What..." Ezio seemed to finally find his voice. The staring had been kind of funny, in a distant, horrifying way. Desmond already missed it. "What is this?"

Desmond's hand itched to pull up his scarf, but he knew there was no point; Ezio had already seen. When his heat had started, he'd unwound the bandages, scrubbed the dried, flaking medicine from his neck and scent glands. He regretted that now.

He cast his eyes away, down and to the side. He gripped his legs tighter where he had them pulled tight to his chest. A wave of heat washed over him, a scorching, full-body fever that made him wish he could rip off his oversensitive skin so he wouldn't go insane. An answering pulse between his legs made him close his eyes and he withheld a groan.

When it passed, he licked his lips. "What does it look like, genius?" He was past politeness, at this point. If Ezio had hoped he'd grovel and beg for his life when they met, he'd just have to be disappointed. There were no words for how little Desmond cared.

There was silence for a long moment, then the sound of footsteps against the flagstones; Desmond stiffened and opened his eyes.

Ezio had one hand curled around the bars. He'd taken a knee to better meet Desmond's eyes and there was a frown on his scarred lips. He swept his hood from his head so Desmond could appreciate the full force of his expression: confused and frustrated and maybe just a little worried.

"Why have you locked yourself away like this?" he asked, voice more somber than Desmond had been expecting. 

Desmond stared into those dark, concerned eyes for a beat, then looked away. He tucked his face into his legs as he let the next wave of agony pass through him.

"If you're not here to kill me, leave."

"...You are joking."

Desmond ground his face into his knees, already fed up. More than Ezio himself, having an Alpha here, smelling so good, when he was at his most vulnerable—it was making his skin crawl.

"Leave," he repeated, letting his anger shine through.

"I can not do that." 

Desmond's head snapped up and he glared at Ezio's with more unvarnished fury than he was probably expecting.

"Why the fuck not?" he asked hotly.

"This is no way to spend your Time," Ezio lectured, actually lectured him! "Where is your pack? Your mate?" When Desmond didn't answer, he pressed, "This place isn't safe. You should be somewhere—"

Desmond uncurled in an instant, daggers in both hands. In the scant light of the lantern he had shoved in the corner of his cell, they glinted with deadly promise.

"I'm not going anywhere. Try and Command me to leave, and I will kill you," Desmond promised, daring Ezio to call his bluff. Because it was a bluff; Desmond had very good, very obvious reasons to want Ezio alive. But Ezio didn't know that.

Frustrated incomprehension was clear on Ezio's face, but he inclined his head after a long, drawn-out stare-down. 

"...Very well."

Desmond's shoulders sagged and he resumed his position against the wall, knees hugged to his chest and arms wrapped around them as he tried to breathe through the pain. He'd barely done anything, but he was already drained. Three days into this fucking heat, and he felt as weak as a baby. 

Ezio was still watching him. And it was really putting him on edge. 

"You need someone to help you through this."

Desmond's lips thinned. He didn't acknowledge Ezio at all.

He could hear the faint shift of Ezio tightening his hold on the bar. "You could die like this."

Cold grey eyes. That over-powering helplessness, the certainty that he was utterly worthless. 

This is pathetic.

Get up, Desmond.

FIGHT.

Desmond tightened his grip around his legs, ignoring the disgusting sensation of more slick seeping into his clothes, the blistering heat that seemed trapped just beneath his skin.

"Then I'll die," he said quietly, voice devoid of emotion. He wouldn't go through that ever again. 

For a while, there was nothing but the sounds of Desmond's unsteady breaths, the scratch of his clothes against stone as he twitched with each wave of heat that hit him. Then he heard the scuff of boots, looked up in time to see Ezio moving to a seated position, legs crossed.

Desmond stared at him, uncomprehending.

"...What are you doing?"

"I can see you will not be swayed," Ezio replied. He finished getting settled, then pinned Desmond in place with a hard look. "But I won't stand idly by and allow someone to die when there is no need. I will stay with you until I know you will be taken care of."

"...You did not come here to watch over me," Desmond said, voice flat. "My being an Omega shouldn't change that."

"It changes everything," Ezio disagreed. "At the very least, it puts my business on hold until you are well enough to answer my questions."

Desmond scowled. "This is stupid. You should just leave me alone. If I die, it's one less problem, isn't it?"

Ezio frowned back. "No, it is not. I have questions, questions that will not be answered with you gone."

Goddamnit. Desmond wondered why he couldn't just die. He'd managed to fuck that up at the temple, and it looked like he'd fail again.

"Where are your supplies?" Ezio asked, breaking Desmond out of his thoughts. When Desmond just looked back at him blankly, he made an impatient gesture. "Food, blankets." His hand waved vaguely.

Desmond sighed, then nodded his head to a leather satchel abandoned a few feet away. "Food's in there."

"Have you eaten? Today?"

Desmond grimaced. Just the thought of eating made him feel sick, even as hunger stabbed at him. His earlier show of defiance had already pushed him to his limit. Every movement caused him swift, indescribable pain, not to mention bouts of nausea. Moving his body from his safe little hunch just hadn't seemed worth it.

His expression must have been answer enough, because Ezio tapped on the bars, urgent. "You must eat, Il Fantasma."

Ugh. It was somehow worse, hearing Ezio call him that. 

"I'm good."

"You must eat." 

He'd packed his bag with hard breads, dried, cured meats and berries, but he couldn't imagine anything less appetizing in that moment. "Can't you leave and just let me die?"

Ezio glared at him. "Pass me the bag."

"Why?"

"What does it matter? You clearly do not need it."

God, I don't remember Ezio being such a hardass.

Desmond rolled to his knees, moving only because he knew how stubborn Ezio could be and didn't feel like enduring the nagging. That, and if Ezio really was determined to stay, he'd need to eat. And, well, he was right, Desmond was just gonna waste it.

Actively wishing for death as he shakily reached out, Desmond seized the neck of the bag and tossed it to the front of the cell. Ezio wasted no time reaching through the bars and rummaging through its contents. Desmond, panting for breath, flushed and horny and exhausted by the constant pain, curled up against the wall again, regrettably closer to the bars but unwilling to crawl to his old spot.

He let his head fall back against the wall, just trying to catch his breath. If he closed his eyes and ignored Ezio, he could almost believe he was alone, could almost believe that he was through the worst part and that it would all be over soon.

"Fantasma." 

The way Ezio spoke—voice deep and low—it made Desmond look at him instantly, with a singular focus that he hadn't thought possible with the amount of pain he was in.

In the soft light, Ezio's eyes were serious but calm. He was holding a piece of bread through the bars.

"Come. Eat."

Desmond was leaning towards the bars before he'd finished speaking, but he caught himself in the next moment and pressed a hand to his forehead, swallowing the urge to be sick from the sudden movement.

"Fucking heat..." he murmured. Desmond knew what an Alpha Command sounded like, felt like, and Ezio hadn't even used it. He was just that far gone.

"Fantasma," Ezio repeated, a note of pleading urgency in his tone. His expression matched it when Desmond looked at him. "I can only help you if you allow me. Please." He held the bread up again. "You need to eat."

The dagger was instantly back in Desmond's palm and he pointed it unerringly between Ezio's eyes; it only swayed slightly.

"Touch me, and I'll cut your arm off." 

This deep into his heat, Desmond was only just barely holding on to his control. The urge to strip himself bare, to take himself in hand, had been overwhelming for the last twenty-four hours, but now that an Alpha was here? In touching distance? The heat had grown unbearable. His body wanted nothing more than to do whatever Ezio wanted, to throw open his cell and let Ezio do whatever he wanted to him.

But Desmond knew better, and nothing was worth the humiliation and sheer, agonizing pain of submitting. He'd meant it when he'd said he'd rather die.

"I will stay here," Ezio vowed, holding up his hand in a gesture for calm. "You are the one in control here. I simply wish to help." Something pained crept into Ezio's expression, in his dark eyes. "It brings me no pleasure to see another suffer."

The worst part was that Desmond knew he was telling a truth. Against his will, he could feel his resolve wavering in the face of Ezio's steadfast and heartfelt sincerity. 

Desmond sighed. "It would be easier if you just killed me," he couldn't help pointing out.

"Perhaps," Ezio agreed. He held the bread up again and waited.

...Fuck me.

Hating Ezio, himself, and the entire universe in general, Desmond uncurled and half-crawled, half dragged himself to the iron bars of his cell. He hesitated just outside of Ezio's reach. 

Ezio only watched him back steadily, patient and open. After a long moment of Desmond glaring at him in wary unease, he finally closed the remaining space between them and took the bread from Ezio's grasp with a trembling hand.

Ezio moved too fast for him to react. The moment Desmond took the food, Ezio's hand darted out to clamp, firm and warm, on the back of his neck.

Oh, fuuuuck—

Desmond's eyes nearly rolled into the back of his head and he almost crashed to the floor, his body went boneless so immediately. He had enough presence of mind to grasp the bars to steady himself, morsel of bread falling to the floor, and he pressed his forehead to a cool bar as intense pleasure wracked him.

"Oh my god," he whispered, shocked and mortified but mostly relieved and extremely turned on.

"Bene," Ezio murmured, voice sinfully deep and dark with satisfaction. If Desmond felt even one percent less amazing right now, he'd punch him in the face. He felt something smooth against his lips and his eyes fluttered open as Ezio continued with, "Eat."

God, he was stubborn. Desmond could have fought some more, but he gave in, exasperated and a bit embarrassed. If Ezio was gonna pull this sort of shit, he'd rather just get it over with.

Desmond ate. The grape burst in his mouth, coating his mouth in a light sweetness, and, best of all, didn't make him want to throw up immediately. Just when he was about to point out that he could feed himself and didn't need to eat out of Ezio's fucking hand, Ezio repeated, "Bene," and ran his thumb against the skin of Desmond's neck. 

Desmond shivered, body flushing warm from the praise, minor as it was. Any words in his throat dried up and disappeared, gone in the face of the sudden wave of pleasure that settled over him from Ezio's touch and words.

They spent an endless time like that, Desmond slumped against the bars, eating and shivering, as Ezio patiently fed him bits of food until he was satisfied Desmond wasn't going to starve on his watch. But even when Desmond was finished eating, Ezio didn't release his hold on him. He snuck his other hand through the bars and held Desmond in a comforting grip around his neck, thumbs lightly caressing just beneath his jaw and at his scent glands. Desmond hadn't opened his eyes in a while and the soothing praise Ezio kept murmuring to him was making him lose his grasp on reality.

During one of the brief moments he managed to surface from the haze of pleasure, coaxed out by a stab of pain, he blinked open his eyes. With his head tipped down, he quickly noticed the state of his breeches and grimaced.

"Sorry," Desmond muttered. From how close they were, Desmond was sure Ezio had an intimate view of his slick-soaked crotch and the erection tenting his pants, obvious and obscene. He was too exhausted to muster the energy to be embarrassed. That was a future problem. At Ezio's questioning hum, he raised a hand limply, waved it over his legs before he let it fall. "This."

Ezio made a low noise of amusement and shifted his grip, kept one large hand clamped on Desmond's neck while the other one trailed up into the hair at the nape of his neck to rub in wonderful, decadent caresses. Very, very distantly, Desmond was impressed Ezio managed to keep up the touching for this long. He must have been tired, and squeezing his arms through the bars had to be uncomfortable.

"I find no hardship in the sight," he said in a familiar tone. Desmond groaned.

"No flirting," he commanded, and Ezio did laugh then, a quiet chuckle that absolutely didn't make Desmond shiver again.

"Would you ask the sun not to rise nor the birds to sing?"

And despite himself, Desmond smiled.

Chapter Text

The force of want that seized Ezio as he held Il Fantasma in his grasp, pliant and trembling and obedient, gripped him with a strength that nearly made him break his oath to sit where he was and do no more than these chaste touches.

He was no stranger to an Omega's heat; more than once he'd been sought out, had promised his assistance to someone who trusted Ezio to ease them through their Time and guarantee a fair amount of pleasure besides. But there were never any commitments. A partner to help through those difficult days, nothing more. With his responsibilities, the thought of mating never even occurred to him anymore. He could never give a partner, a family, enough of himself to satisfy, and he didn't wish to divide himself thus, either. It invited disorder into the brotherhood and neglect to those he was supposed to protect; no, there was no choice. He was content with his pack.

When he'd been younger and in love, without any of the worries and duties he had now, there had been one Omega he'd been ready to claim as his own...but Christina had not wished for a mate that she would hardly see, that she would spend countless days waiting for. He'd never held it against her and still wished her well.

But Il Fantasma, he nearly made Ezio forget about all of those reservations. Never had he wished to mate someone as much as he did now. Saliva pooled in his mouth, his teeth ached in his jaw for want of warm flesh to sink into, and he couldn't keep his touch from Il Fantasma's scent glands, swollen and flushed beneath his devoted caresses. His scent permeated the tower in a way that raised every small hair on Ezio's body, and the urge to disrobe and present himself as a fit, worthy partner for mating was overwhelming.

Perhaps it was his appearance. With his face finally revealed, it was plain to see Il Fantasma was attractive. Smooth tan skin, flushed comely with his heat, and dark brown eyes that were no less vibrant for their color, probing and intense each time he looked up. One could not avoid the capture of a trained Assassin for so long without having the musculature to prove it, and even with Ezio only allowed to touch his neck, to brush the top of his shoulders, it was only too clear a mouthwatering physique hid beneath the dark layers of fabric. He was younger than Ezio had expected to be so skilled. 

Ezio prided himself on being someone who made any partner happy when he shared their bed, but he'd only managed to coax a single wan smile onto Il Fantasma's face. It transformed his drawn, serious demeanor in a way that was startling for its beauty. He had a kind face.

Several hours passed where Ezio held Il Fantasma and soothed him as best he could with encouraging words and gentle touches. He grew sore from sitting on the chilled flagstones, but there wasn't a force on the earth that could have persuaded him from his post. 

Then Il Fantasma grew worse.

His face, before smoothed of worry but for the occasional twinge of pain that seemed to pass over him from time to time—the heat, protesting being unsated, Ezio suspected—began to crease with distress. His eyes barely opened, but he glared at the ground without really seeing it, glassy as his focus turned inward.

"What is it? Where do you hurt?" 

But Il Fantasma did not answer and Ezio's instincts, this entire time wishing to break down these bars and take away the pain, seemed to scream at him, demanding he do something, anything. He made himself breathe slowly to calm the thunderous beat of his heart, urged faster by the fiery outrage and wrongness that suffused his veins to be so near an Omega in distress and be unable to provide any form of relief. 

Il Fantasma's clothes had already stuck to his skin from the heat, but now sweat began to bead visibly on his skin, pouring down his body as his panting grew more labored. By nightfall, the scarce light of his single lamp nonetheless betrayed Il Fantasma's state to be worsening—without any visible reason why. Even without a partner, Ezio had never seen anything like this; it surely had something to do with why Il Fantasma insisted on enduring his heat in solitary confinement, but Ezio didn't understand it. If he felt them so keenly, it only brought into question his choice to forgo a partner all the more.

Ezio watched Il Fantasma, worry mounting with every smothered groan, each involuntary twitch and shudder of the body in his grasp, and so focused was he on Il Fantasma's body, he was quite unprepared when his eyes snapped open and his arms abruptly shoved through the bars and into Ezio's chest—pushing him away with a force that caught him completely unawares.

Ezio grunted in surprise. It wasn't enough to topple him from his seat, but it did break his grip on Il Fantasma's neck, which appeared to be exactly what he wanted. The moment his palms were separated from the pulse of Il Fantasma's neck, Ezio's instincts screamed at him to resume his hold, to cradle this Omega back in his protective embrace. Ezio was reaching back before he'd fully realized it, but Il Fantasma proved too swift.

He practically leapt back, intent on creating space quickly, if not clumsily. It proved effective, because Ezio's hands closed on empty air, a breath away from that overheated skin.

Urgently, heart leaping in his chest from a sharp stab of panic/frustration, Ezio began, "Fantasma—"

His words fell on deaf ears. Il Fantasma had not stopped his frantic scrambling and the moment he neared the back of the cell, he twisted to all fours and heaved with a gag that made Ezio wince in sympathy, it was so raw and pained. The sound of vomit splattering on the stone echoed and the sour stench of sick tainted the feverish scent of heat.

Merda. He was worse than Ezio had thought—he'd thought he'd been stressing the worst possible scenario when he'd told Il Fantasma he could die if he endured a heat without aid; now he saw how true his words had been. Any pride that was soothed by realizing that Il Fantasma had fled him to be sick was drowned out by the disturbing sight of an Omega so ill in the first place.

And then Ezio's worry heightened into a fever pitch when Il Fantasma crumpled, just inches from his own sick, and was still. 

"Il Fantasma!" Ezio was on his feet in an instant, hands tight enough to bruise around the bars.

There was no response; Ezio cursed. 

He gave the bars an angry tug, but the iron held fast and true. No doubt, the key was somewhere on Il Fantasma's person. Betrayal of trust it may have been, Ezio regretted not taking the opportunity to search him when he'd had the chance. That would have been vastly preferable to being forced to watch Il Fantasma suffer, to barely make out the sickly pallor of his skin by the lamplight and the weak rise and fall of his chest as Ezio stood by and could do nothing. 

Il Fantasma did not even twitch when Ezio yelled his name and Ezio paced outside the cell, eyes fixed on him with desperate worry and savage anger smoldering in his chest. He rolled his shoulders every few moments as the agitation grew, fists clenching and releasing at his sides. Acrid distress and a muted sort of despair threaded through the air, an unfathomably merciless torture for any Alpha. Ezio had never left an Omega to languish in any pain, yet now all he could focus on was the stark fact that he was doing so now, that as an Alpha he was failing. 

It was intolerable. 

Ezio did not know how much time he lost to his pacing, to staring at Il Fantasma's limp form, praying he would last the night, clenching his fists around the thick iron bars only to find them as unmoveable as ever.

He only became aware of the passage of time when he heard the faintest sound: the scrape of boots against stone.

Immediately, Ezio recognized it to be someone scaling up the weathered tower and he faced the single window with a snarl twisting his lips and his hands formed into claws.

The sudden, vicious reaction also pulled him from the brink of lashing out and he forced his shoulders back from their defensive hunch, his hands to his sword rather than the Alpha-driven instinct to defend this territory with his bare hands.

He was the Mentor. He could not succumb to his baser nature.

He need not have worried; a moment later, a familiar hooded figure deftly pulled themselves through the window and bowed at the waist. 

"Mentor."

"Tessa." If her scent hadn't revealed her to him—a light, oddly woodsy smell for an Omega—the spear on her back would have, an uncommon weapon for either a citizen of Roma or an Assassin. Ezio released his grip on his sword. As she rose from her bow, the long, vibrant red sash at her waist brushed the dark fabric of her breeches before settling. She had an air of deference, but beneath her crip white hood, her dark eyes gleamed with curiosity.

"Has something happened?" He had to force himself to ask the question. All he truly wanted was to chase her away from here, away from this place she did not belong.

"No, Mentor," she said. "Only, it has been some time, and when you never arrived at Tiber..."

There was no chastisement in her tone, but Ezio still felt its bite. He'd been so swept up in his discovery at the tower, he'd altogether forgotten his own orders that an Apprentice be sent to this very location should he neglect to return by nightfall.

"...Of course," he glanced over his shoulder, to where Il Fantasma still lay on the ground, unmoving. Ezio's frown deepened into a glower of worry. "As you can see, I have been...preoccupied."

"Yes, Mentor." Tessa's eyes alighted on the fabled ghost with interest, though there was little to discern in the low light and his prone position. As a similar status, the scent didn't affect her as much, but Ezio still spotted the way her nose twitched, how she began to breathe through her mouth as she lingered amid the heat-scent that saturated the very air. "I hadn't realized..."

"Neither had I," Ezio agreed. "It would seem he took great pains to keep it secret."

"Clearly," Tessa said, tone dry. "To come all this way for his Time..."

It was something Ezio had ruminated on since he'd first arrived. To take such measures, it could mean nothing good. Il Fantasma seemed quite alone and didn't appear to have a single packmate he trusted enough to help him through his Time. It had been mildly concerning when Leonardo had hinted at it, but to see it evidenced thus? It became much more ominous. 

"I will be here for some time yet," Ezio said. "I will need supplies. Relieve the watch, but I do not wish anyone to disturb us."

Tessa crossed an arm across her chest and bowed once more. "Yes, Mentor."

She left as silently as she came. 

Alone, Ezio allowed himself a single private sigh before facing Il Fantasma once more. 

He had thought confronting the man would bring clarity. But Il Fantasma refused to be a puzzle so easily solved. He saved Ezio's brothers and sisters from guards and Templars alike, yet fled any Assassin that drew near. He came to Roma with no discernible goal, befriended Ezio's closest and oldest friend, but treated Ezio with open distrust. 

He'd hidden his true nature and locked himself away, isolated and in the most inhospitable place he could find, to suffer in silence.

Ezio knelt at the bars, eyes narrowed as he carefully tracked the too slight rise of Il Fantasma's chest.

"What secret makes you do this, I wonder?" Ezio murmured, unable to shake a deep disquiet. Then, the more pressing question, "Where is your pack?"

Il Fantasma trembled, he poured sweat and panted and tiny noises of pain escaped his lips, but he did not open his eyes, and he did not answer Ezio's questions. Ezio resumed his seat before the bars and prayed that Il Fantasma's stubbornness did not kill him this night.

The long hours stretched and Ezio only dozed, head bowed and arms crossed, as he maintained his vigil over a man who had, just hours ago, been his enemy. The irony was not lost on him, but the severity of the situation kept him from laughter. Even when Tessa returned, only long enough to bring Ezio food and water, extra linens against the chill of the stone, Il Fantasma did not move.

It was only when the sky had barely begun to lighten, no more than the faintest of early blue dawn, that Il Fantasma finally stirred.

It was barely noticeable, only the slightest hitching of breath, but it pulled Ezio from his doze as effectively as cannon fire. Il Fantasma's fingers twitched on the flagstones before slowly curling into a fist. In the silence, it was easy to hear how he worked to breathe through the pain that surely wracked him, although nothing could be done for the minute trembling of his body.

"Il Fantasma."

Ezio's voice made him twitch with a wince and with visible effort, he rolled his head enough so that their eyes met. To Ezio's surprise, he smiled, slight and amused.

"You're...still here?" Il Fantasma cleared his throat, winced again. The smile stayed on his lips. "Wow...must have...been boring..."

The nonchalance raked over Ezio's raw nerves. 

"This is madness. Give me the key," Ezio urged, gripping the godforsaken iron bars. "Please, let me help you."

Il Fantasma's answering laugh was a thread of sound. "Just because...I'm in heat...doesn't make me...any less your...enemy, Ezio."

It was true enough, but Ezio could no longer see Il Fantasma in terms of friend or foe, not when his distress and misery saturated the air despite his uncaring words. 

"Why are you so determined that we be opposed? Would you truly prefer it so?"

The smile faltered, then fell entirely. For the first time, uncertainty alighted on Il Fantasma's wan features.

"...No," he admitted quietly, and it looked like it pained him greatly to say so. Ezio did not understand this man. "But..." Il Fantasma closed his eyes, suddenly appearing more wearied than he had before, in a way Ezio hadn't thought possible. A sigh left him. "It's easier this way."

"How can that be? How can any of this," and Ezio gestured to the bars, to Il Fantasma just beyond them, prone and on death's door, "Be easier than making an ally of yourself?"

But Il Fantasma merely shook his head as his eyes closed, and as much as it grated, Ezio was begrudgingly impressed, too. Even this far into his heat, when the very sound of Ezio's voice should have compelled him to obey, he kept his silence.

For the next three days, Ezio stayed by Il Fantasma's side despite being told, frequently, that he wasn't needed or wanted. He laid out a length of linen fabric as best as he could on the floor through the bars and coaxed Il Fantasma to lay down on them when he wished to rest, using a mixture of soothing promises of relief and not-quite-threats to blow the bars apart with an explosive. It had almost been disappointing when Il Fantasma had finally caved in to his demands and Ezio didn't get to make good on his promise, but the relief of having Il Fantasma's skin back beneath his palms was a worthy compromise.

Even with Ezio feeding him, Il Fantasma ate too little. Ezio didn't like the course his Time was taking, nor the way he seemed to grow weaker with each day that passed. Never had he seen an Omega suffer a heat so punishingly brutal, and it unsettled him greatly. If only Il Fantasma could be convinced to see a doctor...

The heat finally broke on the morning of the fourth day, and Il Fantasma dropped into a dead faint the moment it was over, his over-taxed, exhausted body greedily seizing the chance for rest after days of constant turmoil.

Luckily, Ezio was there to catch his limp body, to carefully lower him to the hastily made bedroll so that his head was pillowed on the folded square of white fabric that waited for him—Ezio's cloak, shoved there for the chance to ease Il Fantasma's suffering, if only slightly.

Frowning heavily, and more than a little tired himself, Ezio stroked Il Fantasma's face through the bars with the back of his fingers, pushed some of the dark curls away from his forehead. He'd done his best to temper his baser instincts, but even now, Ezio loathed that he could do nothing more until Il Fantasma rose and unlocked the cell. 

Never again. It was a vow Ezio planned to honor. No matter their differences, the strange animosity Il Fantasma seemed to hold for him, Ezio would earn Il Fantasma's trust. 

Il Fantasma would never experience a heat like this again.

Chapter Text

Desmond woke up, heat blessedly broken, to a significant problem in the shape of an Alpha Master Assassin waiting just outside his cell. To kill him, interrogate him, or kidnap him, Desmond wasn't sure, but all were very strong possibilities, no matter what Ezio had said. Now that his heat had finally broken, who was to say that Ezio wouldn't come to his senses and remember that Desmond was indeed his enemy? And this weak, Ezio would be able to overpower him with laughable ease. Just the thought of being kidnapped again set his teeth on edge.

Desmond continued to feign sleep, mind racing, but his options were depressingly limited. He'd have to open the cell eventually, but the moment he did, Ezio would have him. He could hear Ezio even now, breaths quiet and steady. Probably asleep, but Desmond knew how light a sleeper he was. If he so much as twitched, Ezio would come awake in an instant.

Why is my life such a clusterfuck?

Barely awake for a minute and already, he had a massive headache. Was it too much to ask to just be left alone? Just for a little bit? Being popular was overrated.

Just when Desmond was considering a terrible plan to pilfer a smoke bomb from Ezio's robes through the bars and try his luck with a surprise attack, he heard the sound of someone pulling themselves through the window.

It took every bit of remaining strength Desmond had not to react. Fuck. His plan was shaky at best and did not account for Ezio having back-up.

He heard the quick movement of Ezio rising and facing the intruder, but there was no sound of a sword being drawn, which confirmed Desmond's belief that it was another Assassin, as well as the next words that were spoken.

"Mentor." 

"What is it?" There was the slightest edge to Ezio's voice, impatient and trying not to show it. 

Must be the Alpha hormones. The thought made Desmond feel slightly guilty, knowing it was his fault. But, to his credit, Ezio never once seemed to lose himself to his instincts.

"I know you didn't wish to be disturbed," the Assassin said. Desmond couldn't quite place her in the crowded hellscape of foreign memories that were crammed into his brain and had to resist the urge to peek. "But you have been summoned."

"By who?"

"A courier from Naples. He has a missive that he was strictly ordered to give to you directly. He waits at Tiber."

Ezio swore under his breath. "It must be about recruitment. Cazzo. And he will not wait?" He sighed, a short, frustrated noise. "Then I must go." 

There was the scuff of boots, and Desmond knew that Ezio was looking at him, Ezio and his mysterious fellow Assassin. Broken from the heat-driven pain and delirium, he was more self-conscious than ever of his discarded hood. He forced the panic from his chest and kept his breaths deep and even. 

"Will you watch over him?" Shit.

"Of course, Mentor." Double-shit.

"Bene. Should he wake, send word immediately. I will return as soon as I can."

The moment he heard the final flap of Ezio's robes, Desmond abandoned all pretense and sat up. He had to swallow against the lingering nausea that rose with him, body still verging on the edge of collapse after such an intense heat.

Across the room, the Assassin straightened with surprise, though her face was shadowed by her white hood and hid most of her expression. He saw how her hand twitched, made to reach for the spear slung across her back before she stilled the movement. It was an uncommon weapon for an Assassin, at least around these parts, but Desmond had no doubt that she was very skilled. He eyed it warily, not liking his odds against a weapon with that much reach when he was this vulnerable. 

"Il Fantasma," she greeted with quiet surprise.

She was an Omega. He could tell the moment he scented the air and even though Desmond knew that didn't mean anything, not really, he was slightly relieved nonetheless.

She crossed a hand across her chest and gave a shallow bow, lips curled in a small, amused smile. "I am Tessa Varzi. It is a pleasure to officially make your acquaintance. Although, you are not quite what I was expecting..."

"I'm sure I'm not," Desmond agreed dryly, glancing at the window.

Biting back even the slightest groan, Desmond pushed himself to his feet and wrapped a hand around a bar to steady himself. He swallowed against the bile that tried to rise in his throat, feeling completely disgusting. He wanted nothing more than to limp home, bathe, and pass out, but home might as well have been a world away at that moment. He had to deal with Tessa, preferably before she could send word or Ezio returned.

"I know you have your orders, but I have to leave. And I'd really rather not hurt you."

Tessa straightened. The smile was wiped from her face and she didn't speak for a long moment, simply watched Desmond with wary vigilance, as if he might burst through the bars at any moment and attack.

After a tense silence, she spoke.

"Why do you do it?" she finally asked. "Why endure such a painful heat when there are scores of willing Alphas across the city?"

Desmond grimaced at just the thought of subjecting himself to an Alpha. "I can't," he said quietly. His hand tightened around the iron bars, the cold metal reassuring against his palm. "I won't." 

Never again.

Tessa stared at him, then cast her gaze out of the window. Something softened in her posture as she leaned against the far wall. She crossed her legs at the ankle, the picture of nonchalance, as she spoke.

"I understand," she said—bafflingly. It wasn't what Desmond had expected her to say, at all. "The struggle for independence, as an Omega, is endless. To be my age, and still unmated?" Tessa shook her head. "It is unheard of. But I choose my path." She looked back at Desmond, something like approval in her tone. "As you have."

She kicked off the wall and strode to the window where she perched on the sill—seemingly with every intention of leaping out.

Holy shit. She's actually leaving.

Overcome with gratitude, Desmond quickly reached into his tunic and produced the key to his cell. The padlock that kept the door shut had set him back quite a few florins, but its unique make ensured that it couldn't be picked by conventional methods and had been well-worth his peace of mind. When it clattered to the ground and the door swung open, he stepped through, still bracing himself on the bars.

"I—thank you," he said, meaning it. Fellow Omega or not, she had no reason to do this for him.

Tessa glanced back over her shoulder at him. "I wish you luck, Il Fantasma," she said, and a smirk lifted her lips. "The Mentor has your scent, now." And then she was gone.

The truth of those words was only too apparent, but Desmond was so relieved to not have to fight that he didn't dwell; that was a problem for later. 

It was a long, arduous hike from Campagna to the Antico District, across farmland and hills and empty, grassy fields, but the areas were largely abandoned at the outskirts and Desmond didn't have to worry about passersby catching his scent. He had to rest several times against a crumbling wall or beneath the shade of a tree, but his fear of being spotted by a random patrol or a well-meaning citizen kept him from lingering. 

And that was before he even took into account that he'd made his home right under La Volpe's nose. If he'd had better options, he would have picked anywhere else, but beggars couldn't be choosers, and there were only so many abandoned palazzos with still-functioning baths formed around natural hot springs—namely, one: The Palazzo Laterano. 

By this point, Desmond knew Ezio had chased the last of the Followers of Romulus from Rome and that it was well and truly abandoned. Nothing but ruins surrounded the area and since La Volpe and his people had no doubt picked the place clean of any remaining spoils that might have been left behind, there was no reason for anyone to come back. For all that people took notice of it, the building might as well have been invisible.

Finally safe and alone, ensconced within crumbling, reassuringly familiar walls, he nearly passed out when he sank into the steaming pool that waited for him—but the possibility of drowning was well-worth it to wash his body of a week's worth of sweat, slick, and blood. He scrubbed himself thoroughly, but hesitated when he got to his neck. 

As silly as it sounded, he could still feel Ezio's touch there, could remember with perfect clarity the grounding, comforting weight of his hands, the kind, doting caresses against his bare skin and his scent glands. 

The thought made Desmond's face warm. He shook his head, made himself focus on the present and bathe instead of daydreaming like an idiot. That was never supposed to happen and he needed to stay vigilant if he didn't want it to happen again.

It was a shame about the tower, though. He'd scouted for a long time before he'd found somewhere secure enough to have his heat. He wasn't looking forward to another month of searching.

He'd dropped his travel bag just beside the stone tiles that lined the pool and he reached for it as he soaked in the water, arms braced on the edge to keep himself afloat. Wearily, arms shaking pathetically, he shoved stale bread and cured meat into his mouth, slowly inching closer to humanity with every bite and every second he steeped in the water. It was only when he risked falling asleep right where he was that Desmond finally forced himself to leave the bath.

He'd made his bedroom in a tucked-away room in the vast palazzo, almost entirely untouched by ruin; and even with its own brazier. With the possibility of starving to death finally gone, Desmond's hands only shook minutely as he struck the flint and lit it. The rich orange light illuminated the room enough to see and Desmond gratefully sank onto his thin bed, though several blankets cushioned it enough so that he hardly felt the hay beneath.

Spent and alone for the first time in days, Desmond's eyes slipped closed as the crackle of the brazier filled the air. 

Unbidden, a memory resurfaced: Tessa's surprising act of mercy, the words that left her smirking lips.

The Mentor has your scent now.

The thought made Desmond groan. He turned on his side and covered his head with an arm.

Later.

After his heat, things were... weird. 

For one, even though the time that he'd stopped concealing his scent had been short, he still found himself having to adjust, all over again, to the sickly sensation of slathering foul-smelling poultices on his neck, of pressing crushed, aromatic herbs beneath his bandages as he wound them tight against his skin. It always sent a cold shiver down his spine and he spent the first few days relearning how to be okay with smelling like a heady bouquet of cough syrup.

Then there were the Assassins. 

By habit, Desmond knew how to avoid them, knew which streets to duck into should he see a patrol, kept a mental map in his head of all the nearest boltholes should he be spotted and chased. And while the Assassin presence was still very prominent across Rome, Desmond was seeing less than usual. There used to be Assassins dotting the rooftops, threading through the crowds, running errands across the city, but the heavy congestion of them seemed to ease in the days that passed. It was strange, but Desmond supposed that Ezio was spreading his influence; that even checked out, given the time. After all, Ezio was credited with spreading the Assassins across most of Italy, if not the greater part of Europe. That work wasn't done overnight.

The thought did occur to him that, perhaps, in light of recent revelations, Ezio had recalled his orders that Il Fantasma be hunted down. There was no way to know for sure, but either way, Desmond was grateful for the reprieve. 

And he would have been content to dismiss it as simply that—but then things got even weirder.

Namely, he'd been walking the streets, crowded as they were, making his way through the Centro district. As much as he hated being among such a thick congestion of people, Ezio now knew to look for Desmond in more abandoned areas when his heat hit. Desmond had been trying to find a place discreet enough to weather his heat in the city center, an inn or a shelter, preferably with a door that locked. Sensibilities being what they were for this time—particularly, that a fertile heat was to be celebrated and revered—he hadn't been holding his breath.

He'd turned a corner, thinking to cut across a side-street, and had run into a full Assassin team. 

He'd known them just by Sight, more from the bright blue that bled across his vision than the signature white and red robes. Desmond had frozen, already planning his escape and who he'd have to subdue first, when the man leading the team raised a hand—not to point and decree his imminent capture, but in a tight, controlled movement, gestured to the roof, his focus never leaving Desmond.

Immediately, the other Assassins scaled the wall and were gone in an instant, leaving nothing more than kicked-up dust and the fading sound of boots against tile to mark them ever being there. Confused, Desmond had watched warily as the remaining Assassin just stood there, still staring.

He seemed younger, maybe around Desmond's age, and his robes marked him as high-ranking, a fact only highlighted by the dual blades attached to his bracers. He had a severe look about him, from what Desmond could see beneath the hood, and no doubt had many kills under his belt.

The pregnant pause grew to be nearly unbearable, enough so that Desmond considered attacking just to get it over with—but then the Assassin inclined his head in acknowledgment, turned, and scaled the wall just like his brothers and sisters before him. He was gone with hardly a whisper and Desmond had stood there, wary and disbelieving, for a long moment, thinking, What the fuck was that?

And it kept happening. If Desmond spotted an Assassin and they spotted him in turn, there was always an acknowledgment, and then they would just— leave him alone.

Which—okay, sure, was pretty much exactly what he'd wanted, but now it put him on edge because he didn't understand why. Were they under orders to ignore him? And if so, to what end? Surely one heat wasn't enough to change Ezio's mind so completely; Desmond hadn't answered any of his questions, after all, and for all Ezio knew, he was still very much a dangerous person.

After a week of this behavior, Desmond was resigned. He knew he'd only get answers once he confronted the source, and though he loathed to do it, he needed to know whether this was some elaborate ruse or not. He needed an explanation if he was ever going to sleep again.

Despite Ezio's many reassurances, Desmond wasn't willing to test the Assassin's hospitality by showing up at their headquarters, so he simply waited nearby. Ezio held incredible influence over Rome, a fact that made him a busy man, and it wasn't long before he left Tiber Island on some errand or other. Desmond tailed him for some time as Ezio spoke to a few recruits and dismissed them with subtle gestures once they'd received their orders. Desmond waited until he was alone, then made himself known by rising to stand on the roof he'd been crouched on. 

Ezio turned to him with almost preternatural swiftness and Desmond wondered what Ezio saw when he looked at Il Fantasma, what color he glowed in his vision. The tension that washed over Ezio the moment he'd revealed himself made him think it probably wasn't blue.

And who's fault is that?

Desmond turned and began running across the rooftops, certain that Ezio would give chase. He led the way to an abandoned guard tower, one Ezio had surely freed of Borgia's grasp just a short time ago. From there, the city seemed to stretch endlessly, and while the view was nice, it would also be a decent defensible position should Ezio decide to attack—plus, he'd see any reinforcements coming from miles away.

Desmond scaled the ladder and walked until he stood at the opposite side of the tower. There, he waited, arms crossed as he leaned against the parapet. Just a few moments later, Ezio joined him, landing on the roof with light feet. He stared at Desmond beneath his hood and when he took a step forward, Desmond automatically side-stepped in a mirror action. Ezio paused and didn't move again, just watched Desmond across the wary distance between them.

"It is good to see you well, Il Fantasma," Ezio greeted, tone cautious. "I have a feeling you allowed yourself to be seen. So what is it that you wish from me?"

Desmond crossed his arms, tense. "Your assassins," he started, getting straight to the point. "They're not trying to capture me anymore. They're—they don't try to chase me anymore when they see me. What are you planning?"

He hadn't meant to ask that so gracelessly, so bluntly, but— well! He was stressed.

Ezio seemed to consider the question. He propped a hand on his hip and gestured with the other as he spoke.

"My methods bore no fruit as things stood," Ezio said frankly. "I saw no point continuing to waste resources hunting you when it is clear that they are outmatched."

When Ezio left it at that, Desmond couldn't help but press, "That's it?"

Ezio simply spread his arms, palms out. 

It was a relief, at least, to hear it confirmed that Ezio had recalled his capture orders, but it still left him feeling simultaneously unnerved. Sure, it made his life easier, but it also felt— wrong, and it took Desmond a minute to put a name to the feeling.

Guilt. He felt guilty. As much as he valued his freedom, he couldn't help but empathize with Ezio, too. His entire life seemed compromised of frustrating secrets and endless, unsatisfying mysteries, and then Desmond shows up and only adds to the list, with the kind of skills that probably mark him as a spy in Ezio's eyes, a person that—unbeknownst to Ezio—holds all the answers he could ever want but won't reveal them. Ezio had even helped him through a heat, and Desmond repaid him by interrogating him.

God, I'm an asshole. 

Sighing, Desmond straightened. "I..." He made himself look up. "Thank you, Ezio." Ezio bowed his head slightly but Desmond continued, "Not just for that, but for...before. For helping me."

Ezio frowned. "I barely did anything," he argued. "You would not allow me to help you."

Desmond swallowed, his heartbeat picking up at the deep, dissatisfied rumble of Ezio's voice. "You did more than enough. Trust me."

More than Desmond had ever allowed another person to do in his entire life. And even though Desmond had been in Ezio's grasp, Ezio had taken care of him instead of selfishly demanding more than Desmond could give. That kindness had been more than Desmond could have asked for, especially given the circumstances.

Ezio stared at him, a familiar, unhappy frown on his face—the same one Desmond had seen countless times when he'd been in heat and refused to open the door to his cell.

"I still have questions," Ezio said and Desmond grimaced. 

But...he supposed he owed Ezio something. 

"Okay," Desmond agreed. "But I can't promise to answer them."

"Fair enough," Ezio said, though he sounded like he very much wanted to argue. 

Desmond braced himself, ready to argue when Ezio inevitably asked after his identity or where he came from and he'd have to tell Ezio he couldn't answer those questions.

"Your scent," Ezio said. "It is...strange. Why does it change?"

Desmond blinked, nonplussed. Of all the questions...

But it was one he could answer, so Desmond mentally shrugged and reached beneath his hood, tugged the collar of his shirt aside to better show the bandages wrapped around his neck. 

"I cover them," Desmond said, gesturing to his scent glands. "And I use medicine to make myself smell different." It felt weird to be so frank about it, but it wasn't like Ezio didn't already know he was an Omega.

"But—why?"

Desmond tugged his clothes back into place. There was really only one reason someone would do something like that, and Ezio had to know it.

"Isn't it obvious?"

"It is," Ezio said in grim agreement. "And that is what I don't understand." Ezio took a few steps closer, impassioned, and while Desmond eyed the distance between them cautiously, he didn't retreat. Not yet. "Why hide? What shame is there in being an Omega?"

The harsh sting of the belt across his skin, the taste of dirt in his mouth and the feel of raw, scraped skin of his palms as blind terror and deep misery overwhelmed him enough that tears blurred his vision.

Get up, Desmond. If you want it to stop, you will get ahold of yourself and FIGHT—

"Plenty," Desmond answered, voice clipped. What he wouldn't give to be anything other than a fucking Omega...

Ezio's dismay was plain to see, but Desmond didn't have another answer for him. Ezio stared at him, then asked, "And what of your pack? What kept you from going to them during your Time?" Alarm lent urgency to his tone. "Did something happen—"

"No, nothing like that," Desmond cut in immediately, before Ezio got too far ahead of himself. "I don't have one," he said simply.

Ezio stiffened like he'd been struck by lightning. "How—How is that possible?"

Desmond wasn't sure if Ezio was referring to the fact that Desmond was an Omega, or something else, but either way, the end result was the same. He shrugged.

"Haven't had one since I was kid, really," he said. From Ezio's continued air of horrified disbelief, this was apparently Very Bad, but Desmond honestly didn't mind; couldn't miss what you'd never had, right?

Ezio's silence persisted for a long while, long enough Desmond was thinking about ending their strange, impromptu meeting and calling it a day. Then Ezio approached and Desmond tensed, wary of anything Ezio might do.

Ezio stopped just outside of reaching distance and threw back his hood. Without it, his dark eyes pinned Desmond to the spot, fiery and determined.

"Join my pack. Come to Tiber." 

Desmond's breath caught; all he could think was: Trap. All he could focus on was being so thoroughly outnumbered, of walking into those familiar walls and never coming out again, kept prisoner until he answered every last question Ezio could imagine.

"I can see the thought upsets you," Ezio said soberly, pulling Desmond back from the brink of panic. He blinked rapidly, forced his hands to ease their vice clench around his upper arms. 

Ezio placed a hand over his own heart. "But you have my word, no harm would come to you within my pack."

Desmond bit back his automatic response of disbelief, although it must have been obvious on his face. And, logically, he knew Ezio was telling the truth, knew more than anyone that Ezio was a man of his word—

But the thought of having a pack, after everything he'd done to stay free —he couldn't imagine a worse thing happening to him. It wasn't his worst nightmare come to life, but it was close.

When the silence stretched and Desmond remained silent, Ezio nodded again and raised his hood once more. He strode to the edge of the tower and placed a hand on the edge of the parapet as he twisted to face Desmond one last time.

"Think about what I've said," Ezio urged quietly, firmly. "The invitation still stands, should you wish to accept."

Ezio jumped over the edge in a quiet flutter of robes, and then Desmond was alone atop the tower, Ezio's words ringing in his head. 

Of all the ways he'd expected this conversation to go, that hadn't been one of them. Alone and unseen, Desmond pulled back his hood and ran his hands through his hair with an explosive sigh. He paced the length of the tower, more confused than ever.

He spent a long time up there, re-examining Ezio's offer, searching for the cracks, the hints that he was being trapped or lied to, but there were none to be found. That stressed Desmond out more than anything else.

Finally, when his circling thoughts seemed determined to stay tangled, he gave up and headed back to his warm, safe palazzo, where everything was broken but at least made sense.

It wouldn't be right, Desmond rationalized as he readied himself for bed. He pulled his extra blankets out where he'd stowed them against the colder nights, laid them in a thick pile on his pitifully thin, lumpy mattress.

The offer had been sincere, he could see that, but it was also too good to be true, even if he wanted a pack. Say in this magical, fantasy world he actually said yes, how long could that last, really? Being an Assassin, joining the brotherhood—it was all about trust, and what reason would they have to trust Desmond? Being pack didn't mean he could risk the future by blabbing, and with his entire life and history—even his name —a secret, how could they be sure of him? Of his intentions?

It wouldn't work, Desmond assured himself, arranging his few pillows to better sandwich himself between them. I'm not pack material anyway.

So caught up in his mental argument, it wasn't until Desmond was reaching for Ezio's cloak—the one he'd loaned Desmond during his heat and was still figuring out how he could return it—that Desmond realized what he was doing.

Ice-cold terror seized his heart and abruptly Desmond became aware of the abnormal warmth of his skin, despite the cool night air threading itself through the palazzo, the fucking nest he was building, how the faint traces of Ezio's scent was the best thing he'd ever smelled in his life.

Oh my god. Even though only a week had passed, the evidence was irrefutable:

Desmond was starting his heat. Again. 

Fuck. FUCK!

Chapter Text

"I'm afraid this magic potion you think I possess does not exist, Il Fantasma." Sharp censure dripped from the doctor's tone and Desmond would be lying if he said he wasn't cowed by it, just a little. 

Desmond sagged, unsurprised, but still disappointed. He'd hoped by coming clean, by letting the doctor examine him, he'd be able to offer him something—but as usual, Desmond had the worst luck.

Without any solution to be found, Desmond wanted nothing more than to get dressed and be gone from here. His skin felt too warm and the smells from within the doctor's shop were an assault on his sensitive nose. The heady blend of aromatics and pungent vials of medicines weren't helping the creeping nausea or the faint dizziness already building within. 

"I know. I just—"

"And you say you experienced your Time already? Less than a fortnight ago?" Desmond nodded mutely, resigned, and the doctor affected a contemplative air, thumbing idly at his belt. "I've never heard of such a thing coming to pass...but if one were to guess, it could be that your cycle is attempting to reach a state of balance." He propped an elbow on the back of his hand, finger waving in the air as he spoke. "These irregular heats will most likely continue until your body has settled. I would strongly urge you to find an Alpha. It is the only thing that has a chance of easing what I imagine to be an incredibly painful cycle."

Desmond didn't know what was worse; the fact that he'd keep having these frequent heats, so close together he really would die, or the fact that his only hope was to submit to an Alpha. 

Dying doesn't sound too bad, Desmond mused with black humor. It was all he had at this point.

Not just that, a tempting, treasonous part of his mind whispered.

"Focus on me." Dark, steady eyes, a heavy, soothing touch on his neck that dulled the edges of the pain enough so he could breathe. "You are safe."

NO. Desmond forced his mind away from those thoughts, from even the possibility. He couldn't let himself get dependent—that thing with Ezio, it was a one-time deal. It had to be.

The doctor radiated disapproval as he watched Desmond re-dress and slather a new coating of poultice on his neck; the urge to apologize was incredible, but Desmond refused and scowled back instead. 

"Think about what I have said," the doctor persisted. "If you continue to treat your body this way," he shook his head, beak cutting through the air. "You are putting your life in grave danger."

"I will," Desmond lied. 

The doctor braced his hands on his hips with a weary sigh, as if his goggles let him see straight through Desmond. He turned away for just a moment and plucked a sachet from overhead on a shelf crammed with jars and other medicine. 

"Sprinkle this in your brazier; herbs to ease your rest," he explained. "This should help, at least a little."

"Thank you, dottore."

If he thought his options had been slim before, they were nothing compared to now. His cell in the tower was compromised, and even though it was too soon for him to go back, it had to be under watch now. It had taken him weeks to find a secure place to ride out his heat, to repair the cell enough to function and to commission that padlock. Now he was back to square one. He could go back home, but the thought of going through his heat in a place without enclosed walls, where just anyone could catch his scent on the breeze and stroll right in—it wasn't even an option.

Repressing a sigh, Desmond set off, uncaring if he was seen by any passing Assassins; this early into his heat, his scent was nearly undetectable and it didn't matter if they learned where he was going right now. He'd slip back into the shadows once he was done.

Even early in the morning, the Centro District was bustling, full of people running errands, going out for a stroll, shopping, running, working, laughing—Desmond took great care not to so much as brush against another person. His skin felt sensitive enough just wearing his well-worn clothes and the mere idea of someone touching him made him contemplate violence.

Exhaustion was already pulling at his muscles when he finally made it across the city to Leonardo's workshop. Sheer urgency made him bypass the polite knock and he slipped inside from a higher floor, relieved to be out of the sunlight and distanced from the idle curiosity of passerby.

He found Leonardo in the heart of his workshop. He was dressed down for comfort and his were feet bare, the voluminous sleeves of his shirt pushed up as he painted, standing before a large easel. Desmond didn't have much of an eye for art, but this canvas looked familiar to him.

"Is that Firenze?"

Leonardo spun around, a look of comical startlement on his face. He quickly set aside his paints on a nearby table and braced himself against it, where one large palm came up to cover his chest.

"Assassins," he said wearily, with feeling. Despite himself, Desmond smiled. He'd tried arguing the first time they'd met, but Leonardo had refused to be dissuaded.

"I know an Assassin when I see one!"

"Mi dispiace," Desmond apologized, holding up his hands.

Leonardo shook his head. He gathered himself with a huff and faced Desmond with a renewed smile. "Buongiorno, my friend! What brings you here? Usually, I have to coax you with a bit of wine to get you within my humble residence," he said, teasing.

The memory made Desmond blush and he was grateful for the hood. God, he'd never live that down.

"I came to give you this." Desmond produced the padlock from a pouch on his hip and held it out. "It worked perfectly, Leonardo, thank you."

Leonardo closed the distance between them and curled Desmond's fingers back around it, gave his hand a firm pat for measure.

"This was nothing, a few bits of metal, a simple locking mechanism—child's play. I can make many, many more. Keep it." He dropped his hands, waved one carelessly. "Consider it a gift between friends."

"I...yeah. Okay. Thanks." 

Leonardo nodded with satisfaction. "And to answer your question—yes, this is Firenze. I had thought to give it to Signora Maria once I was finished, to remind her of home, although I am still undecided. It may be a reminder she does not want..."

Leonardo frowned at the canvas and Desmond considered it. 

"You should give it to her." If Desmond's math was correct, by now Maria would have recovered, enough to speak again and to focus on preserving what was left of her family. She'd be ready to face the past and remember the good.

Leonardo glanced at Desmond quickly, eyes bright with curiosity. Something in Desmond's tone must have given him away.

"You know of her?"

Crap. "Er, yes."

"Then you must know her son, Ezio?"

"Uh," God, Desmond was such a terrible liar. This was why he usually stuck to lies of omission. "...Yeah?"

"That is a relief!" Leonardo said genially, clapping his hands together. "I was unsure how to break the news to you that he is my oldest friend!"

"I knew that when I met you," Desmond said. When Leonardo's eyes widened, Desmond realized his mistake. Hastily, he said, "I mean—"

The wave rolled over him with all the subtlety of a bulldozer. Desmond grunted and staggered to a knee as his stomach cramped with a deep, visceral stab. His skin flushed hotter and prickled all over, the discomforting scratch of his clothes now like sandpaper against his oversensitive skin.

No. Please, not now. 

He felt a touch on his shoulder and while the neutral scent of a Beta didn't make him feel ill, he still cringed away from the contact.

"Easy, my friend." Desmond breathed through his mouth, fingertips digging into the wall as he tried to pull himself together. When he managed to raise his head, Leonardo's eyes were clear with worry and bewilderment. "You...you are in heat!"

"Noticed that?" Desmond asked wryly, still panting. 

"I had no idea!"

"Yeah, that was—that was the point." 

With a smothered groan, Desmond straightened, though he still swayed pathetically, light-headed. He had less time than he thought. 

His decision to go must have been obvious, because Leonardo immediately protested, "You can not leave in this state!" 

"I don't have a choice."

"Is there anyone who I can send for? To walk you back?"

Desmond just shook his head. He wished Leonardo would stop talking. His head was starting to throb like an angry heartbeat.

"There's no one, okay?"

There was a pause, and then Leonardo's touch came back, firm and urging where before it had been tentative and unsure. 

Desmond tried to protest, confused, as he found himself guided to the back of Leonardo's shop and up a flight of stairs.

"Wait—"

"I can not allow you to leave without someone to watch over you, I simply can not do it," Leonardo said, and when Desmond glanced back, vision swimming, it was to see a rare stern-ness on Leonardo's usually kind features.

Yeesh. What did I do to earn that look?

"But—"

"If privacy is a concern, dismiss it immediately." 

They crested the stairs and Leonardo half pushed, half nudged Desmond to what looked like a roof entrance. He stepped from behind Desmond to unlock it with a key he pulled from his breeches, and while Desmond would have liked to have made his escape in that moment, another painful stab had him falling to a crouch where he stood, arms locked tight around his abdomen.

For fuck's sake! Why does it already hurt so bad?!

"Come, my friend." With a sure grip at his arms, Leonardo ushered Desmond through the opening. 

Desmond winced against the sharp cut of sunlight in his eyes. The day was well and truly underway and any other time, it would have been a welcome sight. Right now, it was only making his aching head throb harder.

A small structure was tucked away into the corner of the roof: a squat and square building of plain stone. There were a few small, thin windows, but it bore no other adornments.

It was there Leondardo led him, unlocking it with swift hands so he could swing the door wide and gesture within. 

"I mostly use this room for storage, but it should suit your needs well enough." 

Desmond squinted as his eyes adjusted to the scant light. He could see barrels stacked in one corner and a few pieces of broken, discarded furniture shoved out of the way. The room was small, barely enough to fit a few people, and Desmond quickly spotted the bed tucked against the opposite wall, the small table and the shallow basin perched, ready and waiting, beside it.

"I thought—you said you use this for storage?" Desmond huffed out, suspicious.

Leonardo waved a hand, striding towards the bed to turn down the covers. "Occasionally I find myself in the position of hosting those who need a safe spot of respite. This place is often overlooked."

Ezio. Desmond grimaced against the small jolt of hope that went through him at the thought the sheets might still carry a faint trace of an Alpha's scent.

"Leonardo—I can't stay here—"

"I will not hear it." Leonardo straightened, fists resting on his hips, and stared at Desmond sternly. "Where will you go, if not here? You have said yourself, there is no one to watch over you."

"I don't need anyone to watch over me," Desmond forced through gritted teeth. It chafed, fiercely, that he could barely keep his words steady.

Leonardo clicked his tongue. "This stubbornness is foolish, Il Fantasma, surely you realize this?"

Another wave of heat kept Desmond's reply locked behind his teeth. He shuddered, exhaled slowly through his mouth, and winced against the vicious cramps that pinched his gut again. 

Jesus. This much pain, this early? It made Desmond blanch. In the privacy of his own mind, he could admit it: he was terrified of what the rest of his heat would bring if this was just the start.

Cool hands slid over Desmond's cheeks and he flinched, stared with wide eyes into Leonardo's, now stripped of hard insistence to leave behind only plain, stark concern. His scent, pure and clean and gentle, soothed Desmond against his will, made him tilt his head a bit into the hold.

"There is no shame in this, my friend," Leonardo said quietly, a small, encouraging smile on his lips. His eyes searched Desmond's face, confused yet supportive. "I do not understand why you separate yourself this way, but there is strength to be found in friendship. Allow me to help you."

Desmond stared at Leonardo for a long moment, wavering and uncertain, but another painful clench and wave of heat made the decision for him. 

He sagged. "...Okay. Fine. I'll stay." It wasn't like he had anywhere else to go.

Leonardo beamed.

While Desmond was content to crash on the bed and just writhe for the next week, Leonardo had quite a different idea. He bullied Desmond out of his layers, although he conceded with a frustrated breath when Desmond would only shed his outer layers and left on his tunic and breeches. He coaxed Desmond to stretch across the modest cot and wiped his forehead, face, and neck of sweat with a cool, wet cloth, murmuring comforting encouragement as he did.

It was...nice—startlingly so. It was different from the all-encompassing force of protective, attentive care Ezio had showered on him, but the feeling of support was the same. 

The look on Leonardo's face the first time he'd hurriedly shoved an old wooden pail Desmond's way so he could throw up was also very familiar. The expression of horror and panic was enough to make Desmond crack a smile.

"I have never seen anything like this," Leonardo muttered, troubled. He carefully guided Desmond back into a lying position. "You must be very sick indeed."

Desmond weakly shook his head, eyes closed against even the faint light pouring through the windows. "This is normal." Desmond clenched his teeth against another punishingly fierce spasm, twitching in discomfort when he felt the first involuntary, wet trickle between his legs. "I think..."

"What do you mean?"

Exhausted, Desmond gave Leonardo an abridged version of his conversation with the doctor earlier that day. 

Leonardo looked absolutely aghast when Desmond glanced at him. 

"That—this is terrible!" Leonardo looked down at Desmond as if he were wasting away before his eyes. Which—well, wasn't inaccurate, he supposed. "I can help, Fantasma, but I am no Alpha. Surely there is someone—"

"No." Desmond wrapped trembling fingers around Leonardo's wrist, glared straight into his eyes. "I don't want an Alpha, Leonardo."

"This is your life," Leonardo pressed, an unhappy frown twisting his lips. "It need not be a mating, and to ignore the doctor's warning when you are clearly suffering—there is no sense in this!" Leonardo pried Desmond's hand away so that he could cradle it in both of his, blue eyes beseeching. "Allow me to reach out. I know your relationship is a point of contention, but my friend, Ezio, is a trustworthy man who commands many. Among them he could find you a partner through this—"

Desmond groaned, loud and pained but mostly just annoyed. He didn't want to have this argument a second time.

"Leonardo, please. He can't know I'm here, okay? If he finds out I'm going through my heat again—"

"Scusi?" Leonardo's eyes brightened with curiosity. "You two are acquainted?"

This conversation was exhausting him more than the heat. "...Yeah. He...he was there the last time I went through my heat," Desmond admitted reluctantly.

Leonardo looked ready to burst out of his own skin. "That is perfect! He would do so again, I am sure of it. I could send for him—"

"NO! Please, just—" Desmond swallowed, covered his face with a hand. "I can't rely on an Alpha. I won't. So just—don't." When Leonardo opened his mouth, about to protest, Desmond's face hardened. "If you send for him, I'll leave. I mean it."

Leonardo only lasted a few seconds into the glaring contest before he deflated. "Save me from the stubbornness of Assassins," he muttered. "Very well, Il Fantasma, though you are wrong in this. You gamble with something too precious to leave to chance."

Desmond knew Leonardo's intention was to make him feel bad, but the relief that washed over him made it easy to ignore. It allowed him to finally close his eyes, to turn his focus back on his body and surviving this goddamn heat.

"Thank you," he said on a sigh. Arousal kept his skin feeling overheated and flushed, but the sheer amount of pain drove away any urge to slake it—besides, he was barely hard. "I appreciate it, Leonardo, really."

"Yes, yes," Leonardo said tiredly. He resumed wiping down Desmond's face. "You can thank me once you have recovered."

Several times, Desmond urged Leonardo back to his work, to his paints and his art, but Leonardo refused to leave his side. The guilt finally made itself know, joined the pain to gnaw at his insides, hating that he had so effectively disrupted Leonardo's life. 

After a few hours, however, the heat wiped away the ability to feel anything other than a confusing mix of feverish, nauseous, and vaguely horny. He found himself grateful he'd thrown up so early into his heat, because he was pretty sure the strength it would take to heave again would make him pass out and he always woke up feeling worse after he fainted. But still, as the hours stretched and his blood felt like it was boiling, trapped under his skin, it was hard not to wish he'd taken Leonardo up on his offer.

It was the heat talking, of course, but it was a thought that plagued him nonetheless, a mental torture to complete the physical. 

Eventually, Leonardo's touch pulled away and he cracked open his eyes, a tiny noise of distress leaving him before he could catch it.

Leonardo's warm palm settled over his forehead in a fond caress. "I will be but a moment, Fantasma. I know you might not have the strength, but we must try to get some food into you." 

Desmond grimaced, but he knew Leonardo was right. Fingers trailed through his hair in a few passes of soothing understanding.

"Un momento," Leonardo murmured, and he left.

Desmond rolled over to face the wall. He curled into a ball and clutched himself as minute shivers wracked his body. He pressed his forehead to cool stone and prayed for the strength to make it through another week of this. Dying would suck, obviously, but he really didn't want to make Leonardo have to deal with it. It would be such a dick move, making Leonardo swear not to do the one thing that was guaranteed to save him and then die anyway.

He had no idea how long Leonardo was gone, and perhaps if he had, he would have suspected something sooner.

In the end, it was nothing as obvious as the opening of a door or footsteps that signaled to him he was no longer alone. Wracked with fever, his nose pulled him from the depths of pain-fueled delirium, enticed by something vaguely woodsy and strong, threaded with notes of spices and iron. Something...familiar.

Desmond's eyes fluttered and he weakly tipped his torso over to lie flat and looked straight into Ezio's eyes, kneeling at Desmond's bedside.

"Il Fantasma," he greeted, grim and calm.

Desmond froze, didn't breathe. 

...No. 

Ezio's face creased into a frown as Desmond's distress made itself plain in both his expression and scent. He reached out a hand. "Peace—"

It wasn't a conscious decision to move—only, one moment he was laying there, the next, he was as far away as he could be on the bed, crushing himself against the wall. It felt like his heart was bruising his chest from the force of its pounding.

"How—" But he knew; Desmond scowled, panicked and scared and hurt. "Leonardo. He called you here, didn't he?"

"He did," Ezio said.

Desmond scowled. "I should have known better." Leonardo had caved into Desmond's demands too easily; of course, he sent for Ezio.

Ezio didn't move from his position crouched by the bed, though he rested an elbow on his knee as he pointed.

"Leonardo only wants to see you safe from harm, even if it is a harm of your own making."

"He—" A white-hot lance of pain, another disgusting gush of slick; Desmond squeezed his eyes shut as he weathered it. "He's a traitor," he said darkly. 

"Enough. Leonardo has acted as a true friend in this; do not condemn him for doing what you are clearly too stubborn to do."

Desmond didn't say anything, still catching his breath, but he leveled Ezio with the best glare he could muster—a difficult feat between the fading sunlight and fever, but he managed.

Ezio wasn't cowed in the slightest. His hood was thrown back and the steely determination that set his jaw filled Desmond with foreboding. He'd never known Ezio to wear that face and not accomplish exactly what he meant to.

"Leonardo told me everything," Ezio started, voice pitched slightly softer. It cracked his stern visage, enough for concern to bleed onto his features. "You must let me help you."

Desmond shuddered, dropped his gaze to the thin sheet covering the cot. His sudden movement and the effort of keeping himself upright and vigilant was swiftly wearing down what reserve energy he had left. The very real possibility of passing out and the choice being taken right out of his hands frightened him.

Ezio sighed, a sharp, impatient inhale. The Alpha pheromones he was exuding, even just unconsciously, were intoxicating and Desmond found his eyes fluttering, had to fight the urge to sway into Ezio's grasp.

Ezio rose and the motion made Desmond tense even further, eyeing him with wary distrust. Ezio crossed his arms and he looked every inch the fearsome Mentor that was renowned in these times, cold and merciless with pitiless, dispassionate dark eyes, like someone who could kill you without question and would feel nothing.

"If you do not come with me willingly," he said, bringing every single one of Desmond's nightmares to life, "I will Command you."

Icy terror made every muscle in Desmond's body lock up. An Alpha Command. He'd been given a heaping helping of nightmare fuel since his time in and out of the animus, but the thought of being Commanded still beat out even the worst Bleeding Effect hallucination. Panic and horror clawed at his throat and he exhaled shakily, furious and terrified as he stared up at Ezio.

"You wouldn't."

"I would," Ezio confirmed grimly, face carved from stone. "In the service of preserving your life, yes. I would do this."

"You can't—"

"Then tell me where I may take you!" Ezio pressed, an edge of frustration making its way into his tone. He gestured with his arms splayed wide. "Tell me where to find your pack, or an Alpha that you trust to help you. I will deliver you into their arms myself."

But of course, Desmond had no answers for him and, after a tense silence, Ezio dropped his arms and nodded like he'd expected nothing less. 

"I find no satisfaction in gaining your compliance in this way. But there is no fighting your nature, nor what you must do to survive." Great. Another lecture. "Come with me to Tiber. There is no shortage of available Alphas who could ease your Time. I trust every single one of them with my life."

Just the thought of it made Desmond want to be sick. He shook his head, tried not to vomit when the motion proved too much.

"No," he breathed, trembling.

He locked his mouth shut, sure that if he opened it to tell Ezio to fuck off, the exact opposite would come out. This close, without bars to separate them, the temptation Ezio provided was near-overwhelming. His scent was one of instant comfort, brought Desmond right back to the cell and his gentle, steady touch, the relaxing and deep cadence of his voice.

Desmond gritted his teeth. He wouldn't be weak.

Ezio looked away for a brief moment, a deep frown on his lips. His gaze landed on one of the thin windows and as he stared out of it and his expression smoothed, serious and sober.

"I do not know what brought you to Roma," Ezio said slowly, "But dying like this does nothing to further your goals."

And that...wasn't what he'd expected. For the first time, Desmond faltered in his white-knuckled determination to deny everything Ezio said by default. 

Because...Ezio was right, right in a way he couldn't counter at all. It seemed that, at this rate, he really would die. And while he'd accepted the inevitability of that, it didn't sit as well with him when he still had the power to avoid it. 

He'd been given a second chance, more or less, no matter what Juno or Minerva or whoever truly intended by bringing him here. And maybe no one had done this to him, maybe he'd found himself flung into the past just by random chance, a glitch in the Apple or something, but it still kept him breathing past the point where he thought he'd ever need to do so again. 

He hated the idea of submitting to an Alpha more than words could ever truly express. But Desmond didn't want to die.

Heart racing in renewed fear, Desmond's eyes fell shut in a grimace, swamped with a defeat that settled over his skin like a damp, cold cloak. 

Voice a thread of sound, he finally uttered, "...Okay. I'll go."

Ezio's head snapped to him, shocked, but when Desmond didn't take it back, his shoulders fell. "Bene," he said, plainly relieved. "You will have privacy, a guard, whatever you wish, you have my word."

Desmond just nodded, exhausted, and tried to beat back the despair that threatened to swallow him and make him cry in front of Ezio Auditore of all people. 

"Is there..." Ezio's tone took a turn for the hesitant and Desmond glanced up at him. "Is there anyone within the Brotherhood you would prefer?"

Another weary shake of the head. "I don't know your people," he muttered. 

A pause, and then Ezio sank back to one knee. He didn't say anything at first and that brought Desmond's eyes back up.

Ezio placed a palm over his heart. His eyes bore into Desmond, dark and serious and steadfast. "Then consider me."

Immediately, Desmond tensed. He didn't even want to think about it, even though the possibility had been staring him in the face since he'd first realized he was going into heat again. But it was undeniable that if he ever did choose an Alpha to go through his heat with, Ezio was that Alpha.

Didn't mean Desmond had to admit it, though.

"Il Fantasma. You have nothing to fear from me," and Desmond almost argued that he wasn't scared of shit, but in heat, his scent made it only too plain; to argue would be even more embarrassing. "I would treat you well."

His sincerity was disarming and Desmond felt a stab of guilt, making Ezio defend his character like that.

"I know," Desmond said, swallowing. "I know that. But..." He winced against even the most fleeting of memories, refused to give them voice. "I...I've never done any of this before," he admitted hesitantly. "The last time I was with an Alpha...it didn't go so well."

A charged silence followed that confession and Desmond could practically feel the questions piling up in the space between them.

But, to his credit, Ezio didn't press him, even though this was twice now that he had Desmond at his most vulnerable and could have gotten any answers he wanted out of him.

"I could say all manner of things," Ezio said. "I can assure you of my character a thousand times over, but my actions will be the only thing that will prove myself to you."

Ezio rose and offered his hand to Desmond, face cleared of anything other than conviction and reassurance. 

"Let me help you, Il Fantasma."

Desmond's eyes darted between Ezio's face and his palm, a palm he'd, admittedly, never stopped thinking about since the moment it had left his skin for the final time. The heat surged through his blood, stabbed and tore at his organs, punished him for the cardinal sin of wanting independence and Ezio waited for Desmond's permission to deliver him from all of it.

He could have taken Desmond, he didn't even have to get Desmond's permission, but he had. He waited.

Desmond swallowed, heart thundering in his chest, and prayed he was making the right decision. 

Slowly, he raised his arm, hesitated just a few inches away, then finally slipped his hand into Ezio's.

"Okay."

Chapter Text

Even with experience of this sort under his belt, it still unsettled Ezio how strange Il Fantasma was for an Omega. He followed Ezio like a grim, near-silent shadow to Tiber, flinching from the curious gazes that were drawn up by his scent and when he stumbled, he scrambled up almost immediately, as if terrified Ezio might reach out to help him.

The distress that poured from Il Fantasma filled Ezio with a frustrated, restless energy. The urge to scoop Il Fantasma up, to offer doting touches and reassuring words, was nearly more than he could overcome, but he held himself back, waited and watched—close, but not too close—each time Il Fantasma righted himself and followed after him. 

He had gained Il Fantasma's permission, yes, but Ezio was under no illusions that he could not change his mind at any moment. Once they were safe in Ezio's quarters, he could act as he pleased, but not a moment before. Il Fantasma was like a nervous colt, ready to bolt at the first wrong move and if he ran, it was just as likely that he would disappear and die in some abandoned alley as it was that he'd injure himself, heat-addled as he was. 

When they arrived, it was with relief that Ezio greeted the sight of his island, that much closer to finally putting an end to this senseless cycle of suffering Il Fantasma seemed resolved to endure. Night had only just fallen and threw much of Tiber into shadow, but the spill of moonlight across the canals and stone beckoned as only home could.

Ezio twisted to tell Il Fantasma they had arrived, only to see him collapse with a pained sound he couldn't smother. He clutched his stomach with shaking arms and curled over himself far enough his head nearly touched the ground.

The tenuous control Ezio had over his Alpha instincts snapped like a thread and he was at Il Fantasma's side in an instant. It was a simple thing to pick Il Fantasma up and hold him close to his chest, and while his weight was not insignificant, Ezio was an Alpha through and through and beneath the sudden force of fierce protectiveness that swept over him, it was nothing. 

He had expected at least a token protest, but Il Fantasma was the picture of exhaustion. This close, Ezio could see beneath the hood of his cloak where those wary brown eyes were clenched shut as spasms shook him, as pained, low breaths left him in shuddering exhales. He pressed his head to Ezio's chest and scented him only lightly, but he did it all the same and it pleased Ezio the way the tense lines of his face eased.

"We are nearly there," Ezio soothed, voice a murmur. "You are doing well."

Il Fantasma was already flushed from the heat-fever, but Ezio's words made him sigh and he relaxed further in his arms. His eyes cracked open and he stared up at Ezio for a long moment, panting, expression unreadable.

Finally, he dropped his gaze. His arms tightened around his stomach.

"I hate this," he whispered, and bitterness dripped from his tone thick enough it was a wonder he did not choke on it.

Ezio squeezed him briefly, the closest to an embrace he could perform in this position. 

"Yes. I know," he acknowledged quietly. 

Ezio knew, but he did not understand how someone with such a precious presentation could despise it so much. Even as a child, Ezio had always admired Omegas, had dreamt of the day he would find his perfect match and live the rest of his life in happily mated bliss. How could he not, when he bore witness to the unwavering, passionate precedent set by his own mother and father? Giovanni had adored Maria and every interaction, from the most fleeting of glances to impassioned gestures of devotion, was resplendent with the unvarnished and enduring love of their bond. 

Of course, Ezio had long-past outgrown foolish naïveté. He knew that it happened often in this world that things that should be held sacred were tarnished and destroyed by selfish men, by those whose gaze only saw power and opportunity. And it was more than clear that Il Fantasma had been one such casualty. 

No longer, Ezio vowed as he cradled Il Fantasma close. Regardless of whatever abuse Il Fantasma had known, it was a part of his past, not his future. Ezio would show him that.

Il Fantasma was in no state to continue climbing, so Ezio bypassed his usual route of scaling the side of his headquarters to enter by way of the tunnels. He dropped into the closest entrance and jogged, lent urgency by the acrid scent of misery that shrouded Il Fantasma, the way his trembling never ceased and how he bit his lip against any cry of pain that might leave his lips.

Once Ezio crested the old, worn stone steps and finally entered the hideout, his own nerves were soothed by the familiar scent of his home and the pack within. Il Fantasma, however, had the exact opposite reaction. The moment their heads hit the landing, he stiffened. His lips pressed into a thin line and the sharp note of fear that spiked his scent spoke his unease plainly.

Ezio murmured soothing words to calm him, to assure him this was not his prison, that he was among allies.

"Mentor," or, "Peace favor you," were among the greetings he received often on his trek as each recruit paused to bow and cross their arms across their chests. They knew better than to accost their Mentor with questions, much less when he carried a very obviously distressed Omega in his arms, but their curiosity was plain. In an hour, the entire island would know about his guest.  

Il Fantasma did not speak a word the entire time Ezio walked them through the hideout, only buried his face in Ezio's chest and clutched at his robes with one trembling hand. Even though his gaze was pointedly turned away, each time Ezio passed another brother or sister, Il Fantasma's hand would tighten, just for an instant. 

Ezio's quarters were located at the uppermost tower, partly for the tactical position and his fondness for heights of any kind, but mostly for the view of Roma that greeted him each morning. It was here that his scent was most concentrated and its effect was immediate when he stepped inside his chambers. The tight clamp of Il Fantasma's hand eased and he sagged in Ezio's hold, wearied but relieved. 

To his satisfaction, someone had already been to his quarters and the fireplace was lit, as well as the sconces tucked into each corner of the room. A rich red and gold carpet protected against the chill of the stone and matching fabrics draped several walls in fine tapestries. His quarters were his refuge and reflected his life: a large oak desk was tucked into the far corner of the spacious room, overflowing with correspondences and reports from across Roma, not to mention no little amount of broken equipment he had yet to bring to Leonardo. His wardrobe, a weapons rack, a few bookshelves—modest furnishings, but they suited him and his position. 

His bed—overlarge and his most obvious indulgence—was where he set Il Fantasma down at last. It was beyond him to relinquish his hold, however, so Ezio sat with Il Fantasma astride his lap. 

"There," he said. He gently pushed back Il Fantasma's hood so he could easier see his face and stroked the back of his fingers across a flushed, hot cheek. "Better, no?"

Il Fantasma exhaled, the sound shaky and raw with nervousness. He pressed his hand to his forehead with a grimace, but nodded. 

"Yeah. Just—too many people," he muttered. And though he had agreed with Ezio, his entire body screamed of unease, seconds away from flight.

Ezio ran a large palm up and down Il Fantasma's back in a soothing caress. He was reluctant to go much further if Il Fantasma was awaiting an attack at any given moment. There would be no point.

"This need not be so different from our last time together," Ezio tried to assure him, voice pitched low. "You still have the power here."

Il Fantasma snorted, bitter and disbelieving, but didn't say anything else. 

Ezio considered him, the unhappy twist of his lips and the confusing, powerfully strong notes of arousal; the fear in his scent, the faint tremble of his body, the angry flush of his skin.

Ezio cupped his cheek, angled Il Fantasma's face up slightly, enough so that their eyes met. 

"What would you wish of me? We can start there."

Il Fantasma stared at him, stricken. Ezio could not deny it was pleasing to be the one doing the confounding for once.

Il Fantasma swallowed and dropped his eyes. 

"The..." His voice was a whisper of sound, conflicted and hesitant. "Can you...touch my neck again? Like last time?"

Ezio was only too happy to do so and covered the back of Il Fantasma's neck with a firm, unyielding grip.

Instantly, Il Fantasma fell against him with a ragged sigh, as if the force of his relief was painful. 

"Yes," Ezio murmured, already growing addicted to the submission. 

He unclasped Il Fantasma's cloak, beneath which he only wore a loose shirt. He shifted his grip slightly, enough so that he could push his thumb beneath the edge of Il Fantasma's jaw, and bared his neck. Ezio's head dipped, enough so that his nose skimmed the delicate arch, and though Il Fantasma shivered, he allowed it without a word of protest.

Unable to resist, Ezio pressed a kiss, soft and light and achingly gentle upon Il Fantasma's neck.

Il Fantasma sucked in a gasp and shivered again, harder than before. His hand darted out to clasp the front of Ezio's robes, overwhelmed.

"It is all right." Ezio tugged Il Fantasma up, brushed aside the discarded cloak so he could guide Il Fantasma so that he straddled Ezio's lap. The moment he was positioned, Ezio placed both palms on his neck and pulled him down so that their foreheads were pressed together. Il Fantasma's hands came to Ezio's shoulders, clutching him tightly, and a small noise escaped him, pained and pleased in equal measure.

"Bene." Slowly, Il Fantasma relaxed into Ezio's hold. His weight settled and the warm press of his body pleased Ezio to no end. Il Fantasma shifted, tentatively slid his arms around Ezio's shoulders as his eyes slipped shut. "Bellisimo."

It took some time, but gradually, Il Fantasma sank into the embrace. The pungent smell of fear leaked from him and left behind only arousal and the addicting, gratifying notes of pleasure each time Ezio murmured some word of praise to help him reach that state of surrender even faster. 

When Il Fantasma was nothing more than a content, shivering puddle in Ezio's grasp, he could not help indulging his curiosity, just this once while he had the chance. It was unfair, he knew, asking when Il Fantasma was vulnerable, but he'd taught Ezio that there was nothing to be gained by way of a direct attack. 

"Have I at least earned the right to know your name?" It was tiring, calling him by the one given to him by rumors and hearsay when he had seen behind the curtain. The man in his lap was too solid to be a ghost.

But nothing could have prepared Ezio for when Il Fantasma opened his mouth, voice a slurred murmur, and said: "Desmond."

Every muscle in Ezio's body locked up. At almost the same moment, Il Fantasma froze too, every bit of peace he had gained destroyed in an instant. His eyes snapped open, wide with horror.

"Oh, god."

For a moment, Ezio was utterly speechless and shock kept him from reacting as he should, meant that he was too late to stop Il Fantasma when he lurched away. He fell to the floor, palms slapping against the ground to catch himself, and panic soured his scent, made Ezio want nothing more than to make it stop. 

Il Fantasma's eyes shot to the window. 

"NO!" Ezio was there in a heartbeat, crouched just before Il Fantasma with his palms raised. "Do not leave."

Even though Ezio had kept himself from reaching out, unwilling to spook him, Il Fantasma still scrambled back, eyes darting between Ezio and the window, chest heaving. He closed his eyes and shuddered.

"This was a mistake," he muttered. "I shouldn't have come here, I'm so stupid—"

"Fantas—" Ezio bit back the word, forced his voice level when he said, "...Desmond."

A part of Ezio still had not accepted it, but the guilty way Il Fantasma glanced up only cemented this inconceivable truth. 

Che cazzo! How can this be?! Ezio wondered, mind reeling. He could not grasp that the mysterious false Assassin that had been roaming Roma at his leisure, the hurt, dying Omega, and this 'anchor' the strange being in the vault had spoken of—to—were one and the same. It almost defied belief, yet...at the same time, it made a bizarre sort of sense. There was much about Il Fantasma that was so uncannily different in a way Ezio could never put to words, present in the strange way he spoke, his guarded behavior, so at odds with his status, the unsettling feeling he knew more than he let on—it was almost fitting, really, that this was who he revealed himself to truly be.

Never had Ezio burned with questions as he did now. But demanding answers would only chase Desmond away and, cornered and afraid, Ezio would have a fight on his hands he would much prefer to avoid when Il Fan—Desmond was so unstable. Even more so, a cornered Omega was never one to antagonize. He had heard stories of such incidents, of cocky Alphas who had met their ends from scared Omegas in the throes of their heat, throats ripped out and mangled bodies left where they had been dealt with just outside of their nest.

Ezio was no fool.

"I am not angry," Ezio tried to soothe, but Desmond only glared at him.

"You are," he stressed, accusing. His eyes kept flitting to the window, a sight that made Ezio's skin prickle with agitation. "You—you smell wrong."

Cazzo. Ezio took a deep, steadying breath beneath Desmond's wary gaze and exhaled quietly. 

"I am not angry," Ezio repeated, and this time he meant it. He had never been angry, precisely, but surprises of this kind—it was impossible to be calm.

But Desmond was sensitive to changes in his mood right now. Ezio pulled himself together so he exuded nothing more than shelter and peace and reassurance. 

"I only want the truth," Ezio said, meeting Desmond's anxious, distressed brown eyes. "You can tell me. I am a man of my word, and no harm will come to you, I swear it."

Desmond simply stared at him. His eyes roamed Ezio's face and though heat-shivers shook his body, he appeared distanced from it as he warred with himself. His desire to run was a physical weight in the room. 

Ezio did not move, though he dearly wished to. To grab Desmond, to hold him close and ensure he never slipped through his fingers again—but one did not cage a bird. He was willing to crouch there on the floor for an eternity if it proved his trustworthiness.

Ezio held Desmond's eyes. I am here. I am safe. 

"I..." Desmond's mouth shut, opened, and shut again. Indecision wracked him but Ezio said nothing, gave him the time he needed to make his words manifest. 

Reluctantly, looking as if he wanted to snatch each word as they left his lips, Desmond said, "I don't...I don't belong here."

It was clear Desmond was holding back much of his story even as he hesitantly began to speak, but that was a problem to handle another day because what little Desmond did tell him was—incredible, to say the least.

A man from the future, a man who had indeed received a bewildering message across centuries, now arrived in a point of history not his own. And even more astonishing, he was a very distant descendent, of Ezio's own blood. Ever since that first heat, Ezio had believed there was a connection between them—yet he had not suspected something so literal.

Desmond's words dried up and he watched Ezio warily as the silence settled over the both of them, loud in the wake of this unthinkable truth and fraught with tension. Ezio ignored it, eyes on the floor as he absorbed this amazing, impossible tale.

His most pressing questions were answered, yet there was so much he still did not know. He had decided already that Il Fantasma was not his enemy, but Desmond was someone entirely different in the end. He had to believe his life hadn't been guided to this point to aid an enemy, but he had no better a grasp on Desmond's alignment now than he did before this startling revelation. 

Yet, how could he believe him to be anything other than an ally? He had never harmed a member of the brotherhood and it was difficult to believe someone could disguise their character so thoroughly that Leonardo could not discern their true nature.

No. I may not like his secrets, but that should not make us adversaries.

Desmond shivered and caught a groan behind his teeth. The sound and scent of him pulled Ezio back to the present and he finally reached out.

Desmond flinched from the first touch, but when Ezio only placed a large palm on his neck to rub, slow and warm and soothing, he didn't move again. His eyes were uncertain, but he had not run. It was progress, and Ezio wanted him back the way he had been before, pliant and willing and comforted beneath Ezio's hands.

"I have you," Ezio murmured. "You will be fine." He applied the slightest, insistent pressure to the back of Desmond's neck and coaxed him closer.

Desmond shuddered, hesitated for only the scarcest instant before he obeyed and inched forward on his hands and knees so that Ezio could pet him as he liked, at his neck and trailing through the curling strands of his hair. 

They had lost so much time to this discovery and Ezio frowned, unseen with Desmond's eyes closed, at the angry flush of Desmond's skin, the way distress and lingering anxiety still spiked his scent.

"If what you say is true," Ezio started, pitching his voice low so that Desmond would not feel alarmed; Desmond's eyes fluttered open. "Why did these beings see fit to send you here after all of the trouble of making me their prophet?"

Desmond broke eye contact with a grimace. "Hell if I know," he muttered. "I already served my 'purpose', I didn't think anything else came after that."

The words sent a jolt of unease through Ezio. "What purpose?"

Desmond's lips pressed into a thin line; another secret.

"...Nothing. Forget I said anything."

"Hm." Would it always be a mystery with this one? Ezio suspected so. "Very well." He would have time for answers later.

When Ezio stroked Desmond's neck and scent glands again, shamelessly taking advantage of a known weak spot, Desmond shook, swallowed, and blinked his eyes back open with visible effort. His brown eyes were plain with confusion.

"What—what are you doing?"

Ezio tilted his head slightly. "My duty. I gave my word."

"Yeah, but—" Desmond licked his lips. "Shouldn't—Why aren't you—I should leave. I need to leave."

Ezio frowned, ran a thumb across Desmond's flushed cheek.

"That would not be wise. Especially this late at night."

"Ezio." Desmond curled his fingers around Ezio's wrist, stared at him with a hard, probing look. "You know who I am now. This changes everything."

A smile twitched on Ezio's lips, amused to find himself repeating their earlier conversation in the tower, but this time with their roles reversed.

Dutifully, he said his line: "This changes nothing." He leaned closer so that Desmond could see up close the plain honesty in his gaze. "I will not abandon you to this."

Desmond watched Ezio with an expression of incomprehension, brows furrowed and a frown tugging on his lips. He looked at Ezio like he had never seen his like before.

"But—"

Ezio's hand clamped down on the back of Desmond's neck with all the weight and immovability of a solid steel collar.

Desmond made a noise, a choked-back groan of surrender and want, and his arms gave out.

Ezio caught him before he could collapse and he tilted Desmond's head up, gratified by the new flush to Desmond's skin, the slight part to his lips as he sighed. He clutched Ezio's robes like they were the only thing keeping him afloat and thick arousal passed like a wave over them both.

"Enough," Ezio Commanded, voice low and firm. Desmond shivered harder than ever before and he keened, just slightly, as the order washed over him. He sank even further against Ezio.

Already, Desmond responded beautifully. It made Ezio's jaw ache with the urge to mark him. 

"No more speaking," Ezio rumbled. "You have been neglected long enough."

Chapter Text

The hurt Desmond had suffered in the past was clear in his every breath, in each guarded response and wary glance of his eyes, the flinch of his body before Ezio soothed him with a calm, deft hand. 

It infuriated Ezio to witness these learned habits of fear and defense, caused anger to simmer steadily just beneath the surface, but he tempered it with patience, with focus. Desmond needed a strong, capable Alpha, not one with a mind too clouded by distraction to care for him properly. 

Everything else could be dealt with later—or, perhaps not everything. It was an almost certainty that Desmond's abusers were far out of Ezio's reach, saved from his blade by the distance of centuries; another thought he had to force from his mind before Desmond caught the rage in his scent.

Even still, it was a wonder Desmond could discern anything from Ezio past the strange, sour notes of—something—that wafted from his own body.

The medicines he spoke of. It was gone from his neck, true, but it had been wiped hastily and Ezio could discern faint traces of it where it still lingered on his skin.  

"Come," Ezio said, prodding Desmond to stand. 

He guided Desmond to his washroom, where he poured a jug of water into a shallow bowl and rung out a soft cloth. He stepped close, kept Desmond steady with a hand cupping the base of his skull and he gently, patiently, wiped his neck of even the slightest trace of dried flakes of herbs and smears of poultice. Desmond clutched at Ezio's robes, face flushed, body trembling with restraint. It was a shame to see Desmond so tense after witnessing the beauty of his surrender, but Ezio was determined to guide him back to that state. 

"Molto bene," Ezio murmured. Desmond shivered, obligingly tilted his head further aside at Ezio's touch. He blew a soft, slow breath through barely parted lips and the effort he was making to allow himself this vulnerability was breath-taking for its beauty. "I am nearly done."

Once Desmond's neck was cleaned to his satisfaction, he wrapped an arm around Desmond's waist to press them flush against one another, tugged his head so that he could run his lips over the warm skin over his scent glands. 

"You did well," Ezio rumbled, and Desmond flushed anew, "My brave one, behaving so well for me." 

"F-fuck..."

Encouraged by Desmond's quiet moan and blown, lidded eyes, Ezio slowly pressed his lips to his neck, dotted soft kisses there that firmed into lingering ones, that became bites, then unhurried licks over where his true, alluring scent—comforting and warm, like freshly baked bread, yet as enticing and light as the sweetest wine—was making itself known as it spread through the room to mix with heady arousal. 

Ezio kept up this gentle attack until Desmond had to clutch him just to stay upright. He shook and gasped beneath Ezio's attention, and as his little sounds of pleasure grew louder, echoed longer as he grew intoxicated, Ezio was again swept with a force of desire that nearly took him aback, it had grown so swiftly. But he was not to lose himself this early, not when Desmond still needed him.

When the scent of slick began to thread itself through the thick arousal and pleasure, Ezio picked Desmond up bodily and answered Desmond's unspoken question with his own scent, unable to hold back the want that was making itself known within himself, the basest desire to claim fully, and Desmond shivered again as the redolence of strength and lust swelled and rolled over him.

Ezio took Desmond to bed, gratified by the sight of Desmond's flushed skin against the silks of his sheets. He shifted back so that he could disrobe himself, but caught the look of interest of Desmond's face, the hesitance that quickly chased it from his face.

Ezio paused. He slipped a hand beneath Desmond's head, searched his eyes for a moment because he knew better than to take anything for granted when it came to him. Desmond only watched him back, unsure but unafraid, and when his eyes dropped for the briefest instant, Ezio did as he had wished since the first moment he had clapped eyes on Desmond, and kissed him.

Passion had fanned the flames of desire long before this touch, but their first kiss was almost a dance, parting and coming together with light, searching touches, deepening as they grew accustomed to the feel of one another, and Desmond became used to the idea that Ezio would not harm or trespass in some way. 

Ezio ran his palm across Desmond's shoulder, trailed it down until he found a tight, clenched fist and coaxed it open. 

"It is all right," Ezio murmured lowly against his lips. "You may touch all you like."

Desmond bit his lip, tempting Ezio into another kiss, and then his touch came, whisper-soft, against the open neck of Ezio's robes. His brown eyes darted up at the first caress of his fingertips to Ezio's skin, but when Ezio only watched him back steadily, patient and calm, he flattened his palms. He explored what he could reach, the tops of Ezio's shoulders and the rise of his chest. When he swept over Ezio's neck, he jumped in mute surprise to feel the rumble of Ezio's growl directly beneath his fingers, nearly inaudible as it vibrated, trapped, beneath the skin.

As much as it pleased Ezio to feel Desmond's touch, willing and warm and soft, there was no denying the disquiet of his hesitance over something as harmless as this. But his time with Desmond was rapidly making him a proficient in pushing away that particular frustration, a skill he was unfortunately realizing would only be enhanced with time.

To distract himself, Ezio's hand came over the back of Desmond's. He tugged it close and placed a warm, lingering kiss on his palm.

"Perfetto," he praised, and he smiled against Desmond's hand when he shivered.

Ezio was only mortal, and the chance to exploit this obvious weak point was quite beyond him to resist. He maintained a steady stream of compliments and endearments as they disrobed, pressing his words into every inch of revealed skin he could, although he faltered more than once each time Desmond coaxed him into another kiss or caressed the broad expanse of his chest with curious, greedy strokes of his hands. 

The beat of his heart was as loud as thunder in his breast, to finally see Desmond naked before him, a breathtaking sight of lean muscles and beautiful, sun-kissed skin. Ezio had to take a moment to simply appreciate the work of art before him, eyes catching on the sheen of sweat over his skin, the angry flush of his hardness, curved towards his stomach in an obscene display over a thatch of tight curls, and his thighs, covered in slick, the scent so pungent and enticing Ezio's chest rumbled with covetous possession.

Desmond's eyes held a similar hunger as he appraised Ezio in turn, tracing over the corded strength of his arms and the scarred, battle-hardened, strong body that was now his to command, whether he realized it or not. Ezio liked the way Desmond watched him with anticipation in his gaze, liked even more the way his skin flushed darker when he dropped his eyes to Ezio's cock, no longer than his but thicker and already leaking with the anticipation of their union. He swallowed, but it was not fear Ezio saw in his gaze. If anything, the arousal of his scent only thickened in the air between them.

Ezio had thought them past Desmond's instinctual reluctance, but when he pressed close, he noticed immediately the minute tension of the body beneath his, the sudden look of alarm before Desmond quickly wiped it away, as if determined to bear any pain now that he had agreed to this.

Oh, no, Ezio thought, a flame of determination igniting in his chest, None of that, not now that we have come so far.

Ezio's palm ran up Desmond's spine from the top of his neck to the small of his back, where he pulled Desmond chest-to-chest and rolled so that Desmond was atop. Desmond caught himself against Ezio's chest, surprised, but quickly sank into the kiss Ezio urged him into with a hand at the back of his head.

Ezio pulled up his legs so that his feet laid flat on the bed and Desmond had no choice but to settle against him, legs spread astride him, and they both broke the kiss with low moans when the motion rocked them together where they were hot and aching.

"Si," Ezio coaxed, raising his head up slightly so he could re-capture those lips in savoring, greedy licks. 

Desmond sank against him, pressing Ezio into the sheets, and thus distracted, Ezio stroked down his back until he reached the swell of his flesh, where his slick leaked copiously. The first touch of his finger to Desmond's entrance had him gasping, and though Ezio was careful to be gentle, to massage his hole for some time before even sliding a finger inside, Desmond still reacted with loud, heated moans, over-sensitive and utterly defenseless.

Ezio could not contain the rush of satisfaction that such a reaction provoked from him; for all that Desmond seemed to have suffered, it would seem he was untouched, here. 

"Bene," Ezio grunted, reaching inside Desmond with rocking, probing strokes. 

Ezio took his time in this, fingering Desmond open as he licked into his mouth, swallowing every cry of pleasure and moan that fell from those soft, swollen lips. When Desmond felt more than ready, Ezio took him by the hips, positioned him so that the blunt head of Ezio's cock rested against his wet, fluttering entrance.

"It is yours," Ezio said against Desmond's lips, running his thumbs across the small hollows of his hips. Desmond shook in his hold and his desperate, fierce want nearly choked the very air from Ezio's lungs; but he would not take that first plunge. The choice had to be Desmond's. "Take it."

Desmond's fingers curled like claws into Ezio's shoulders, but the sharp sting of fingernails biting into his skin was no hardship, only served to help ground him when Desmond rolled his hips and slowly sheathed himself to the hilt on Ezio's length.

"Oh, fuck," Desmond groaned, throwing his head back, and Ezio studied his face with ravenous attention, shuddering, and relished the expression of pained relief on Desmond's face as he finally answered his body's needs and sated them, committed to memory the sight of his eyes fluttering closed so he could better focus his attention on the feeling of Ezio inside of him. Desmond blinked a moment later and panted, staring into Ezio's eyes, half-lidded and swamped in pleasure. "Sh-shit," he breathed.

Desmond hardly needed any encouragement to begin riding Ezio and he was a magnificent thing to behold as he leaned back to better reach the angle he wanted, face pressed into his own shoulder as the overwhelming pleasure wracked him anew. Ezio, driven by the unshakeable desire to see him undone, reached out to caress Desmond's chest, to tweak his nipples and run his fingers over a taut stomach and the sensitive, soft flesh of his inner thighs, spread wide to better accommodate Ezio between them.

Ezio's large hand curled around Desmond's bobbing, leaking cock and Desmond choked, head hanging between his shoulders as his pace stuttered.

"Bellisimo," Ezio praised, voice rough as he stroked him. The tight, slick suction was driving him towards his release with every merciless bob of those hips, but he wanted to see Desmond reach his end first. "Keep going," he said, and it was a near thing to keep it from being a Command, his instincts had grown so strong, "Take your pleasure from me, Desmond."

Desmond only managed a few more jerking bounces before the combined sensation of being fucked and stroked at the same time became too much and he locked up, seated deep, as he came in slick, hot pulses in Ezio's hand, shuddering violently, mouth dropped open in a loud, continuous moan of abandon.

Before he had even finished his release, Ezio rolled them back over and took him with a fierceness that made Desmond cry out again in renewed pleasure. The sight of Desmond's release had been more compelling than Ezio had counted on and the urge to take had grown too great to ignore.

Ezio had wished to draw their love-making out, to savor every single moment of their first coupling, but then Desmond, still panting and shivering, eyes blown and kiss-swollen lips parted to spill more moans, wrapped his arms around Ezio's shoulders and pulled him closer.

Desmond's sated, blissed brown eyes met his own and he sighed, "Ezio."

The sight was too much for him to bear; Ezio shook, shoulders rolling forward as he hunched over Desmond's body in an instinctual bid to keep him to himself, and then he was spilling inside, swelling fit to burst as his knot caught on the rim of Desmond's hole and plugged him so full not even a bead of release had a chance of escaping.

"A-ah!" 

Desmond's shocked, flushed face, the renewed tremble of his body, the way a second orgasm seemed to assault him without warning so that he suddenly spilled again between them—it only made it too clear that this was a first for him as well and Ezio simply had to kiss him again, regardless of the fact that Desmond was in no state to return it, had to lick a stripe up his neck where he restrained himself to light scrapes of his teeth instead of the vicious, permanent mark of claim he wanted, more than anything, to scar into Desmond's skin.

Desmond gave a whine of pained pleasure, clutching Ezio as if he might be lost if he did not. Ezio grasped his hips, grinding himself inside—a move that seemed to torture them both—and pressed his lips to the hollow of Desmond's throat.

"Desmond."

Several minutes passed in exhausted silence as they caught their breath and weathered the aftershocks of pleasure that seemed to pass through Desmond and straight into Ezio. Desmond's scent had never been so stable, sated and serene, though something light was making itself known—but it was not bad, so Ezio did not trouble himself over it.

Desmond's hands moved, smoothed over the muscles at Ezio's back in an almost absent, fond caress.

"Holy shit," he whispered.

Ezio, slowly recovering, chuckled and finally moved, carefully propping himself up by his forearms so that he could look Desmond in the eyes. 

"Indeed," Ezio murmured, and he kissed Desmond, slow and chaste but somehow more intimate than any they'd shared before. There was no hesitation when Desmond kissed him back, but the wondering look in his eyes had not abated when they pulled away.

"That was...wow." Desmond started to move, just slightly, but froze the instant he risked pulling on Ezio's knot and shivered. "I can't believe that didn't..." He trailed off with a slow exhale, then seemed to shake himself from whatever recollection that had made him speak. His brown eyes looked up at Ezio curiously. "How long are we gonna be like this?" He glanced to the window. "I don't want to make you watch me all night."

Ezio titled his head. 

"What a strange question," he said lowly. A smile slowly stretched his lips as his next words brought a return of the comely blush of Desmond's skin. "You act as if we are finished." Ezio pressed his lips to Desmond's again and murmured, voice dark with promise, "We are nowhere near done."

Desmond stared up at him, eyes wide, and they both smelled the arousal that spiked his scent at Ezio's words, transparent in his desire even as he reddened.

"...Oh," he whispered. "Oh, shit."

Chapter Text

No one was more surprised than Desmond over how...well his heat was going. More than once, he wanted to ask Ezio why it wasn't painful at all, but he held back for two reasons: 

One, because it felt like a real mood killer, and two, a small (and admittedly irrational) part of him was afraid that pointing out the lack of pain would somehow invite it.

It was just—It was supposed to hurt, right? He'd never gone this far with someone during his heat, sure, but past experience had only made him grateful for the fact. Ever since his very first, he'd always hated being in heat, the treatment he'd accept, how shameful it was, how shameful he was. 

But Ezio had never, not once, looked at him with derision or disgust. He didn't yell at Desmond to be better, to snap out of it and to stop embarrassing himself. He praised every pathetic sound Desmond made, seemed to marvel at the tiniest shift of Desmond's body, was ever-ravenous for the shudders and gasps that overtook him as he surrendered to his release over and over again.

And that was—different. A good different, but Desmond didn't know what the fuck he was supposed to do with himself. When he'd been so sure going through a heat with an Alpha would be a fate worse than death, he'd been ready to fight. And when he'd finally conceded that he'd need to endure one, he'd been committed to being knotted just the one time and then leaving the moment it was over.

But Ezio was...dedicated. And a very attentive lover. Every wave of Desmond's heat since the first had steadily weakened, but it had still been strong enough that Ezio had been able to coax him back into his arms with ease. The siren call of Ezio's masculine, Alpha scent was irresistible, even more so when Ezio treated his body with a reverence he didn't feel he deserved. Ezio seemed hyper-attuned to the slightest changes in his body and was touching Desmond almost before he was aware of the next wave of his heat himself, murmuring sweet, filthy things in his ears, stretching and filling Desmond's body like he planned to make his home there.

Alone, Desmond sat up and pressed a hand to his forehead, overwhelmed just by the memories of the last day and a half he'd spent in Ezio's company. 

This...wasn't supposed to happen.

It wasn't just the heat, it was everything surrounding it. Spending his heat with Ezio was one thing, but...actually enjoying it? It felt like the deepest of betrayals against himself after nearly a lifetime of vowing to never sink so low. Yet here he was, practically begging for Ezio's knot, and somehow it felt like he was cumming harder every time it happened. 

God. Desmond covered his face with both hands this time. This is SO fucked.

Desmond's heat had calmed down enough that Ezio could finally pry himself away—long enough to grab some food, if Desmond was remembering correctly. There'd been an unsettlingly long stretch of time—before he'd finally dropped into an exhausted sleep—that he'd only cared about Ezio's dick inside him, but he could faintly recall Ezio's big, broad hand over his stomach, the notes of worry and concern when it rumbled. Up until that moment, however, if Ezio made any move to create space between them, this awful, pathetic noise left Desmond, little more than a needy mewl that fell from his lips before he could stop it. The first time Ezio had leaned back and Desmond hadn't instantly despaired, he insisted on getting him something to eat. And Desmond, slowly remembering all of the embarrassing ways he'd succumbed to Ezio, had even asked for more, had merely nodded, face hot enough to boil an egg.

Desmond dropped his hands from his face, gasping, when his heat curled again, low and insistent, in the pit of his stomach with a gnawing bite of hunger—although it was leagues away from the pain he'd felt just hours ago. 

He was stable, but he could feel the urge to mate climbing beneath his skin at that very moment, merely gathering energy before it resurged and demanded to be sated again. Desmond was just grateful he was so slick, otherwise, he'd be so sore from all this goddamn knotting...

With each wave that beat over him, Desmond shivered, pulled Ezio's cloak tighter around his body, soothed and annoyed in equal measure by the scent of this strong, comforting Alpha. He kept stealing glances at the window and bit his lip in indecision.

It would be colossally stupid to leave in the middle of his heat. But it also felt like his only chance, if he was going to leave. 

He didn't want to leave, but he felt like he should. Already, he could only focus on the ramifications of this, of what Ezio might expect of him after they'd gone through something so intimate. Even worse, he was afraid of what the future would bring come his next heat. He absolutely could not become dependent, but at this rate, he wasn't sure how avoiding that fate was possible.

Desmond worried at his bottom lip, staring at the window. He pulled the cloak higher, buried his nose in it and breathed deep, felt his heart ease from its frantic pace.

It's not too late, he knew. Ezio had helped a lot, and he could probably weather the rest alone—and he firmly ignored the way ice-cold dread clenched his heart at the very thought. At least it wouldn't feel like he'd lose something to Ezio, something he was only growing more increasingly sure of the longer he stayed.

"You look as if you wish to fly away," Ezio's deep voice interrupted his musings and he jumped in the bed, head whipping to the side to face him.

God. The heat really had to be messing with him if he hadn't even noticed Ezio's return. Although, the moment he'd made himself known, suddenly his presence was all Desmond could think of. His warm spice and gunpowder scent, the effortless command and strength, it all created a heady bouquet that was tipping Desmond quickly into desperate, cloying need.

Desmond didn't respond, absurdly guilty for being caught in the act of contemplating running away, and then distracted by the plate of food Ezio held, laden with meat and bread and cheese. His poor, aching stomach clenched with a visceral need. He couldn't remember the last time he ate a real meal; he hadn't had much of an appetite in the days leading up to his heat.

Ezio had a slight frown on his lips, reminding Desmond that he wasn't nearly as subtle as he hoped. He set the plate aside on a small table beside the bed and planted a knee on the mattress. He reached out to where Desmond sat on the bed, wary and defensive, and tugged him closer with a firm grip at the side of his neck.

The kiss he met Desmond with was passionate and deep and Desmond was swept beneath its force almost instantly, by now more than familiar with the shape of Ezio's lips, the tantalizing scratch of his beard, the languid way he liked to dip his tongue inside Desmond's mouth to better taste him.

He'd never kissed a person so much in his life, yet Desmond was quickly growing addicted to Ezio's touch, to his lingering, decadent attentions and the way he pulled Desmond headlong into pleasure with a firm, guiding hand.

"My performance must be poor indeed," Ezio murmured against his lips. His hand came to Desmond's side where he lightly rubbed in slow, soothing strokes. "If you are looking for the exit the moment my back is turned."

And despite the joking levity in his tone, Desmond felt guilty all the same.

"No, that's not—I don't—" Desmond huffed, pulled back a scant inch so he could think straight. "It's not you," he assured. His eyes skittered to the side and he shrugged one shoulder in a jerking, self-conscious movement. "It feels weird, I guess. I've...never had a heat like this. I always thought when I went through it, it'd be alone..."

Ezio hummed, thumb lightly brushing across Desmond's cheek, as he considered Desmond's words. He'd only gotten dressed in the bare minimum required to keep himself decent while he went to the kitchens and the large collar of his shirt, hanging open in his bent-over position, was giving Desmond a tantalizing view of his large, muscled chest. It didn't matter that Desmond knew every inch of it by now, that he could recite every scar on Ezio's skin by heart; he wanted him again.

Ezio's head dipped and he did that thing that was definitely going to kill him, the one where he kissed down Desmond's neck and scraped his teeth against the thin, over-heated skin over his scent glands in a pantomime of a claiming bite. It was so fucking dangerous to play with fire like that but God, if it didn't make Desmond so fucking hard.

"But this is better, no?" Ezio asked, voice barely louder than a deep rumbling in his chest, and Desmond shivered, feeling his heat suddenly sweep over him with unbearable strength, demanding Ezio's attention as he colored the air with notes of his desire.

It was better. Even compared to how this heat had started, the pain had decreased dramatically, enough so that he only got faint pangs instead of the crippling cramps of before.

And yeah, Desmond knew it was just because he was literally on the brink of fucking dying, but Ezio touched him like he was precious. As if he found something worthwhile in Desmond's status as an Omega; no one had ever made him feel like that, especially when he was in heat.

"Y-yes," Desmond breathed, and he could feel Ezio smile against his neck.

"Bene," and then his arms went around Desmond, slid beneath his legs so he could drag him closer. He sat on the edge of the bed, tugged Desmond into his lap, and his lips brushed over Desmond's ear. 
 
"I bring you food," Ezio said, hand closing around Desmond's hard dick. "Yet you tempt me with this divine scent." He began to stroke Desmond, firm and slow, as if wanting to ensure Desmond felt every scar and callus on his palm. "Have you no regard for my instincts, Desmond? How can I care for you properly when you act this way?"

The implication that Desmond was—what? Acting like a spoiled brat? Altering his scent on purpose? Demanding sex? It made Desmond flush even hotter.

His hands came up, gripped the hard muscles of Ezio's biceps.

"I—" He cut himself off with a smothered moan when Ezio picked up his pace, swiped his thumb over the head of his prick. 

S-shit, he's good at this. WHY is he so good at this?!

"I'm not trying—I can't help my fucking scent—"

"And what a magnificent scent it is," Ezio interrupted smoothly. The rough drag of his palm was slowly giving way to the slick Desmond was leaking over his own shaft and the obscene sound of the slide was sending Desmond hurtling towards his release just as swiftly as the touch. 

Ezio's lips traced the shell of his ear, his tongue flicked over his ear lobe before he took it between his teeth and tugged on it lightly. 

"I could eat you whole," Ezio growled and Desmond was cumming just like that, flustered beyond belief that Ezio could just say these things while touching him intimately, possibly even mean it.

Ezio stroked him through the aftershocks, pressing light, affectionate kisses to Desmond's neck and his shoulder. His own scent poured satisfaction and pleasure, enough so it was as if he'd just orgasmed, but he was still very much hard where he was poking Desmond's thigh. 

But instead of pushing Desmond to lay flat and taking him, he only grabbed a corner of the bedsheets to wipe his hand and Desmond clean. After that, he reached for the abandoned plate of food and set it on the bed beside him. 

He pressed a warm piece of meat to Desmond's lips. 

"Eat," Ezio ordered, and it occurred to Desmond how Ezio didn't even have to Command him before he was all but scrambling to do what he said. Something about that deep voice, that accent...

This is so embarrassing. But Desmond knew better than to protest, to insist that he could feed himself. He didn't have a lot of experience, but he heard things, knew that his heat and the pleas inherent there were making Ezio's Alpha instincts answer in kind. Which, of course, included providing for his Omega. Not that Desmond was anyone's Omega, but Ezio couldn't help these urges and this one, at least, was harmless...

Desmond, too spent from his heat to argue, opened his mouth obligingly, hummed with appreciation when he tasted the salty, spicy chicken.

"It is good?" Ezio asked, already feeding him more.

Desmond nodded, flushed from the attention. He glanced up at Ezio.

"What about you?" He touched his fingers to Ezio's cheek, afraid that Ezio would be so focused on taking care of Desmond that he would neglect himself. "Shouldn't you eat, too?"

Ezio smiled, pressed a chaste kiss to his head that felt like a reward for good behavior; it would have been infuriating if it didn't make Desmond flush with pleasure.

"I am fine, Desmond," Ezio assured him, pressed a torn chunk of bread to Desmond's lips. "I ate before I returned."

For a few long, indulgent minutes, they didn't speak. Ezio fed him bits and pieces of the food, seemingly content to ignore his own arousal just to see Desmond eat. It was kind of weird, but not bad, so Desmond didn't say anything, just as content to fill his stomach without the fear of throwing it right back up.

"It must be difficult," Ezio ventured sometime later when the plate was nearly demolished. "Being so far from your pack, trapped in a time where they can not help you."

Desmond shrugged, eating the final bit of bread from Ezio's fingers and trying not to blush so obviously as he watched Desmond chew, as his fingers brushed across his lips in a faint caress before trailing to his throat, as if tracking the progress of his food to ensure it went where it was supposed to. It was oddly tender. Maybe even cute, in a weirdly doting way.

"I don't miss them," Desmond confessed frankly. Tired and sated, he rested his head on Ezio's chest and closed his eyes. He didn't feel like he was going to fall asleep, but just being able to relax against Ezio and breathe in his scent was soothing him into an almost boneless state. Why had he been thinking about leaving earlier?

"How can you not miss your pack?" Honest confusion dripped from Ezio's tone.

"I, uh..." It took Desmond a moment to recall what he'd been in the middle of saying, he was so relaxed. He couldn't remember feeling so safe and cared for in his life. "Oh, no, I haven't had a pack since I was a kid."

He could feel Ezio stiffen in shock and he raised a lethargic hand to his chest to give him a consoling pat. It really didn't bother Desmond, hadn't in a long time.

"It's okay, Ezio," Desmond comforted, voice quiet. Vaguely, he recalled having a similar conversation before; maybe Ezio had thought he lied? "It was my choice. I never thought it was worth the pain."

Ezio seemed to struggle with a reply for a moment before he sighed. His touch came back, stroking over Desmond's thigh, at his back, and he luxuriated in it. 

Man. I'm really that far gone, huh?

"I can not stress to you enough," Ezio began, voice low and firm, "that there is nothing about being part of a pack that should be painful."

Desmond frowned and cracked open an eye, tilted his head up enough so that he could look at Ezio and gauge the truth of his words. Ezio looked back down at him with nothing more than firm conviction.

...He means that. Weird.

"Okay, Ezio," he murmured, eager to dismiss the subject since they would never agree and the last thing he wanted to deal with right now was another argument.

Ezio sighed. His doubt must have been more obvious than he thought. 

"You will see," Ezio insisted, oddly fervent. He tightened his grip on Desmond, but instead of feeling caged, it just made him feel protected. Wanted. "I will show you."

Safe and warm and relaxed—all things he'd previously thought to be impossible to achieve if he went through a heat with an Alpha—it was still hard to believe Ezio was telling the truth. But, judging by how his heat was going, clearly Ezio had the capacity to surprise him.

And Desmond was slowly starting to think that, maybe, just maybe...he'd let him.

Chapter Text

Ezio woke to the prickling sensation of being watched. Alarm never had the chance to visit him, for the scent of arousal and slick saturated the air, heavy with urgency and need. The smell coaxed an answering arousal in his own scent, half-awake as he was, and he stirred, blinking. It was pitch-black, the candles gutted, and the deep stillness of night seemed to permeate the very stone. Only the faintest sliver of moonlight kept Ezio from believing he'd awoken in some sort of tomb.

He became aware of the emptiness in his arms, the lack of warmth of a body pressed close, and rolled over. 

It was hard to see Desmond in the scant light, but his vision adjusted, enough to make out the shape of his body, not far at all, as he shivered—trembling with need, not cold, Ezio could see. A faint sheen of sweat coated his body and he watched Ezio, silent but for the small gasps each shiver coaxed from him.

The sight made lust sweep over Ezio, both pleased to see proof of Desmond's desire for him, yet dissatisfied by the sight of him in need in the first place.

A low sound left Ezio, soft and admonishing, as he pulled Desmond nearer. For a moment, he simply pressed Desmond flush, skin to skin, and soothed him with a gentle caress that slid across his back. He bent his head, nuzzled against Desmond's soft hair, pressed slow kisses there. He basked in the embrace for a few long moments as Desmond's trembling eased, ever so slightly, and then snaked an arm between them so he could take Desmond in hand and stroke his hard, leaking cock with a firm grip.

Desmond shuddered, breath catching, and his hands clutched at Ezio tightly, as if searching for an anchor. 

"Why did you not wake me?" Ezio asked, voice still rough from sleep. 

"I—ah, fuck—" Desmond struggled to speak, trying—and failing—to smother sounds of pleasure as Ezio continued to stroke him in a leisurely, continuous pace. "I didn't—you need your sleep," he managed. With every upwards stroke of Ezio's hand, his fingers dug into Ezio's shoulders. The sharp twinge of pain sharpened Ezio's own arousal. "I didn't—didn't want to bother you."

The answer Desmond gave made Ezio frown. 

"What 'bothers' me is when you are in pain and do not allow me to help you."

Ezio slid his free hand to Desmond's neck, gripped it firmly so that Desmond would shake and gasp as he always did, so that he would give in to the pleasure and surrender to Ezio completely. It was a simple thing to guide Desmond's head up and at an angle, to indulge both of their instincts by laving at his scent gland before biting—just shy of an actual claim.

Desmond jolted as if struck by lightning and his moan echoed in the quiet like something obscene. It only urged Ezio to suck new bruises into his skin, enthralled as ever by Desmond's surrender, the way he seemed to fall apart as Ezio touched him and his walls crumbled anew. He responded so beautifully, even now that Ezio's touch had to feel as familiar as his own, and Ezio could not recall a sight more arresting than Desmond's willing submission.

It did not take long for Desmond to spill, waiting as he was on the edge for Ezio to wake, and the moment he did Ezio urged him to lie flat, wasted no time to slide between the welcoming space between Desmond's thighs and take him again while he was still coming down from his release.

Perhaps this would have been too much for a different Omega, but Desmond did not tell him to stop, did not push him away. He only reached for Ezio, trailing warm palms across the hard muscles of his chest and over his shoulders so he could clutch them closer, gasping and moaning with each thrust, and his hand settled like a brand over Ezio's cheek to guide him lower still so that their lips could meet. 

These tender touches, the way Desmond encouraged Ezio during moments of passion—they were like blades at times, sinking deep into his skin, carving out places in his body to make their home in, catching Ezio by surprise again and again. It was clear Desmond had no experience going through his Time with another, but the unguarded way he sought affection, how he recognized the need within Ezio and encouraged it—not for the first time, Ezio found himself gripped with thoughts of want and possession. He would never encounter another Omega like Desmond, he was sure of it.

His favorite thing, perhaps, was how Desmond would try to smother himself, how each snap of Ezio's hips forced a moan or cry of pleasure from the normally reticent seam of his lips. The sounds betrayed his satisfaction and desire and it made Ezio's Alpha preen, reassured his instincts that he was performing his job well by taking care of his Omega who laid happy beneath him, sated and fed and safe in his hold.

It was a dangerous line of thought, he knew, especially when there were no promises between them, but Ezio indulged all the same. There was no harm in the fantasy, after all, and unlike Desmond, he was not taught to hate who he was.

The swell of his knot began to grow, made his thrusts stutter as it tried to catch against the rim of Desmond's hole, and he ducked his head to press his forehead to Desmond's.

"I am...close," Ezio grunted. Pressed so close, he felt Desmond's answering nod. 

Desmond didn't speak a word, moans still slipping from his lips despite his token efforts to hold them back. He slid his arms from around Ezio, cupped his cheeks, and in the faint light, Ezio could just make out his eyes as he fluttered them open.

Desmond, whether he realized it or not, seemed to have found the surest way to chase Ezio swiftly to his release. There was something about his watching, about Desmond wanting to see him, that destroyed any form of self-control Ezio had.

Ezio shuddered and he thrust his knot to plug Desmond completely just as the first wave of release hit him, making them both groan as he grew larger and larger and his pleasure battered them both in waves. He felt more than saw Desmond's second release, triggered by his own, and the knowledge of that made him twitch one final time inside—an involuntary action that made them both gasp.

Merda. Ezio was beginning to question if either of them would survive this heat...

They laid there for a long time, panting in the dark as their skin cooled and their breaths began to steady. When Ezio tried to move, just enough so that he did not crush Desmond into the bed as they waited for his knot to ease, Desmond made a small sound of discontent and held him close.

Unseen in the dark, Ezio's brows rose, surprised but not displeased by this desire for nearness. The space of time just after knotting, Desmond was at his most unguarded and Ezio was learning to covet these moments.

Carefully, Ezio draped himself back across Desmond, though he slipped his arms beneath Desmond's back to better hold him and pulled his knees up so that Desmond was not so uncomfortably stretched. 

His actions were rewarded with a sigh of relief and the heady scent of happiness/content. Desmond's hand idly rested on Ezio's head and every few seconds his fingers would shift, ever so lightly caressing through Ezio's hair with almost careless gentleness. 

It would take a man stronger than Ezio to resist the urge to return the doting touches and he peppered kisses across Desmond's chest and neck. Desmond shivered beneath his ministrations and Ezio had to bank the urge to take him once more, knotted as they were. His sated pleasure made Ezio's Alpha puff up with a smug sort of pride.

To distract them both, Ezio asked, voice a low murmur, "How are you? Are you hungry?"

"No," Desmond answered on a sigh, shaking his head lethargically. He seemed nearly...blissful. Ezio didn't bother smothering the swell of pride that came over him this time. "I'm okay."

Ezio cupped Desmond's cheek, stroked his thumb across the soft skin there. "What are you thinking of, right now?"

"...This," Desmond said quietly, running his palm across Ezio's upper arm meaningfully. "I just...I'm still getting used to it, I guess. I never thought a heat could be like this..."

A bruised sort of ache settled in Ezio's chest, at odds with the fierce, protective anger that always came over him when Desmond hinted at such things, at the clear and unforgivable negligence that made him fear something as natural as his own nature. But he did not let himself dwell, unwilling to startle Desmond out of his soothed state. He had proven very sensitive to any changes in Ezio's scent and mood and was unwilling to lose the pliant, trusting looseness of the body beneath him.

Still, he could not help but stress, "This is how your Time is supposed to be, Desmond," and he barely caught himself from letting a term of endearment fall from his lips; it would only guarantee a negative, defensive reaction from Desmond. "Any Alpha that does not properly care for an Omega is not worth the dirt beneath your boot." 

"Hm," Desmond merely said, but his doubt was a physical thing, a heavy weight that he seemed to carry with him wherever he went.

"I speak only the truth. I have done what any Alpha would." Ezio shifted his grip so that his hands rested at Desmond's waist, just above his hips. In this moment of vulnerability, he could not keep himself from being possessive and allowed just this slightest amount. "Although, it is my hope that you will come to me next time. There is no place safer for you than the heart of an Assassin stronghold, and I would like to think I have proven myself."

Just as Ezio feared, Desmond grew tense beneath him. Every time he had made any sort of overture of help, Desmond responded with wary surprise and no little suspicion. It would seem this time would be no different. 

"You..." Desmond's voice was unsure. Surprised. "You want to do this again?"

"Of course," Ezio answered straight-away, baffled that this seemed to be the part of the offer that had drawn Desmond up short. It was only too obvious why. "Surely you can feel the connection between us?" Ezio stroked Desmond's cheek once more, wished the light was better so he could better see Desmond's brown eyes. "We are...very compatible."

"I..." Desmond struggled to find words for a moment. "I mean, yeah...But I just thought...you were really good at this..."

Ezio chuckled, happy and endeared by Desmond's honestly. He ducked his head for a brief moment so that they could kiss, and when he pulled away, he smiled.

"I must admit, though I always ensure sex is very pleasurable with any partner, it has never been quite this good," Ezio assured.

"Oh," Desmond said. He sounded stunned. Ezio understood.

He gave Desmond a few moments of quiet to process this revelation and slid his hands back beneath him. Carefully, he levered Desmond back up, wary of tugging on the connection between their bodies. Desmond quickly wrapped his arms around Ezio and quietly went along with whatever move Ezio attempted to make—that being, allowing Desmond to rest his back against the headboard. Once there, Ezio was just able to reach the pitcher of water that waited at their bedside, now tepid but better than nothing.

Ezio offered it to Desmond, held it steady, and carefully tipped it against Desmond's lips to control the flow of water as it met his lips. Desmond's hands stayed docile in his lap and the sight gratified Ezio, a seemingly small, yet nonetheless significant display of trust. 

Once Desmond seemed to have his fill, Ezio allowed himself to drink what remained. Though Ezio was more in control, it was still difficult to keep track of time. He thought perhaps two days, maybe three, had passed since he had come to Tiber. Desmond's heat must be near the end of its course.

Desmond rested his head against Ezio's chest. After knotting so many times, he knew well that such a joining did not end quickly.

"What are we supposed to do now? When this is over?" he asked on a sigh, tired. 

"Mm." Ezio set the pitcher aside, ran his palm up and down Desmond's side.

It was a good question, one he had only considered in the vaguest terms since he first brought Desmond to his home.

"Well, at the very least, you should not be so eager to make a stranger of yourself," Ezio mused. "With your skill—you are an Assassin, no?" 

The question was a token one; Ezio recognized those skills, more than anyone. And indeed, after a brief moment of hesitance, Desmond nodded. 

"I—I am," he said, and something anxious crept into his scent, made itself present in his body as he began to stiffen. Automatically, Ezio soothed him with a low noise, petting him and holding him that much closer; Desmond sighed, dropped his forehead to Ezio's shoulder. "But I'm not like you. I—I didn't grow up in a brotherhood like this, or—" He cut himself off, rubbed his forehead against Ezio in silent frustration. Ezio didn't speak, gave him time to master himself. "I had a job to do. I was—I was made for a purpose. And I served it. And now..." Desmond sagged. "Now I don't know what to do," he murmured, and the lost quality to his voice made Ezio's heart feel squeezed in his chest.

Desmond's words were beyond disquieting. The phrasing of them, how he spoke of himself, like a simple tool—it did not sit well with him. 

Ezio pressed his lips to Desmond's head. 

"What was this purpose, Desmond?"

But, unsurprisingly, Desmond merely shook his head and did not answer. Dissatisfied, but unwilling to press, Ezio decided to focus on questions he actually had a chance of receiving answers for.

"Had your secret not come out, would you have revealed yourself to me eventually?"

Desmond was quiet. "Probably...not," he said slowly, thoughtful and solemn. "It really felt like I was just—dumped here. I've been focused on taking it one day at a time until I understand why I was brought here." Desmond's voice grew quieter, tone taking on a disquiet that felt as if he were speaking to himself. "I don't understand what I'm doing here..."

Ezio frowned, unseen above Desmond's head. He did not understand, not fully, but there was no mistaking the lost quality in Desmond's voice, in his demeanor.

"You should consider staying here, with me."

Desmond laughed, light and somehow hollow. "And what? Join the brotherhood?" Desmond seemed to find the very idea laughable.

Ezio only tightened his hold. "I am completely serious, Desmond." When notes of distress threaded through the air, Ezio continued, "You need not go that far if you do not wish it—although it is clear you possess the skills to rank highly within the Brotherhood. But we can at least be allies."

Desmond didn't speak for a long moment. His touch returned, arms wrapping around Ezio in a light hold—seeking comfort. He'd begun to shiver again and the scent of lust permeated the air.

"...Yeah. Maybe," he finally answered. It was better than the automatic refusal Ezio had expected, and he was content to let the matter drop. It seemed the latest wave of Desmond's heat was here, and would demand nothing less than Ezio's full attention.

Ezio began to touch Desmond's bared skin in greedy strokes of his hands, lips twitching into a smile when he thumbed at a nipple and Desmond barely managed to catch a pleased sound behind his teeth.

"Greedy, Desmond," Ezio murmured, moving so that the words were pressed to Desmond's ear. He knew how much it affected Desmond when he did so and he was not above shamelessly exploiting such a weakness. "You are already so full, yet you want more? What an insatiable Omega I have on my hands."

Ezio's words made him gasp, embarrassed. "Nn, I, that's—that's not—"

"Oh? Am I wrong?" Ezio gripped Desmond's hips, forced him down on his knot in an insistent grinding motion so that Desmond could feel every inch of him, swollen and plugged-full as he was.

Desmond moaned and shook, jerked with electric pleasure and then sagged against Ezio when he didn't let up, helpless to control the transparently aroused turn of his scent.

Ezio bit at his earlobe, pressed his lips to the hollow just behind it. 

"Is this not what you want, Desmond?" he asked, voice low and dark with savage pleasure.

"Oh, fuck," Desmond moaned.

Possessive and only encouraged by the way Desmond clutched at him, the way his scent begged Ezio to take him once more, Ezio focused only on bringing Desmond more pleasure, of learning every inch of his body so that he could please him in a way no other ever could.

After all, it had not escaped Ezio that Desmond had not agreed to seek him out when his Time came again. Ezio was resolved that Desmond's heat would be so pleasurable, so overwhelmingly good, he would come back, knowing he could only experience such a heat at Ezio's hands. Ezio was determined to spoil him for any other Alpha's touch, forever. 

He would come back, because with each wave of heat that passed, Ezio was sure he'd never find another more suited to be his mate.

And Ezio did not share.

Chapter Text

The moment Desmond woke, he knew instantly that his heat was broken. Shocked, he blinked, shifted so that he was upright, and the blanket that had been covering him slid with a whisper of sound to pool around his waist. 

It was very early, so much so that only the faintest blue-tinged the sky, only a suggestion of the sun's rise. In that scant light, he felt...good. Clear-headed, for the first time in days, and the relentless, constant and cloying heat was completely lifted. His heat was over.

Holy shit. For a moment, Desmond could only stare blankly at his own palms, bewildered and thoroughly caught off-guard. Is this what a heat's supposed to be like? 

Just comparing the two, it was clear which experience was vastly preferable; his first had been nearly two weeks of unbridled agony. This one? In his state, it had been hard to judge time accurately, but he highly doubted even a week had passed since he'd entrusted himself to Ezio's care. It seemed at every turn, everything he'd known about heats was being proven wrong...

Ezio was sound asleep in bed beside him, barely a few inches away. At rest, his features were soft and handsome as ever. One of his hands were outstretched in the space between them, a hint that he'd held Desmond through the night, and the sight made a dull ache throb in Desmond's chest. 

Desmond could feel a flush suffuse his cheeks. Looking at him, it was impossible not to remember the things Ezio had said to him, the dirty things and the crazier, much more sincere ones. 

He'd been telling the truth when he'd confessed to Ezio that he'd spent his time in Rome just...here, unsure and adrift without a purpose or even, seemingly, a reason to exist. He'd idly nursed a vague idea of eventually paying a visit to the Vatican, of retrieving the Apple laid to rest there. Perhaps it would bring him back to his own time, he'd thought, but there were no guarantees with the Apple. The uncertainty of the plan had kept him from truly considering it, and even more so, he'd been wary of screwing up the timeline as it was or drawing attention to the vault—if, by some miracle, it opened for him in the first place. 

The only hope he'd had to cling to since accepting his new status as a refugee of time was that one day he might get a sign, from Minerva, or Juno, or someone—but that was it. 

And then Ezio had proposed his crazy, impossible idea. That Desmond simply stayed, became pack, and after experiencing a heat so...incredible, the idea sounded so good it made his skin crawl.

Desmond had never been pack, didn't even know how he would do it—and there wasn't a doubt in his mind he'd be shit at it, too. He wasn't eager to show off how wrong he was, at least not more than he'd already exposed.

But it was still undeniable how well his second heat had gone. Sex, in general, had never felt so mind-blowing and he couldn't help an idle curiosity, one that wondered what it would be like outside of a heat—

Desmond forced the thought away, pressing the tips of his fingers, hard, at the space between his eyes with a small shake of his head, impatient with himself and the post-heat haze that must be lingering in his system. 

This was just to help, Desmond told himself firmly. He couldn't get greedy. Offered or not, expecting that kind of thing from Ezio, it came close to running the risk of getting comfortable, of allowing himself to fall into the trap of thinking he belonged. It was almost worse, in a way, to know that he could lie back down, fall asleep, and know that when he awoke, Ezio wouldn't have a single complaint for him—might even ask him to stay.

The thought made a tight band of fear coil in his chest, chased him out of bed despite the tempting, lingering warmth of Ezio's body, just inches away. 

He shivered when his bare feet touched the cool stone, frowned as he carefully tip-toed around the room in search of his clothes, only to come up empty.

Crap. He vaguely remembered Ezio stripping him, but the floor was clear, meaning Ezio had probably sent both of their things for cleaning. Which was considerate, but also incredibly inconvenient. 

Desmond sighed, reluctantly and carefully opened Ezio's swollen wardrobe. Reassured himself that he was just borrowing, and would have the clothes returned before Ezio had time to miss them.

He tried to find the plainest clothes, but even the simpler garments were of fine, luxurious make, and Desmond had to bite his lip against the warm feeling that crept over him as he slipped a linen tunic over his head, borrowed plain black breeches and a simple pair of boots. Ezio's subtle, masculine scent swamped him, wrapped him up with a feeling of safety and security he was dismayed to find comforted him even outside of his heat. He cinched a leather belt around his waist as tight as he could and his fingers lingered over the supple, rich texture, over the fine stitching that lined his collar. 

Why does he have to smell so good? Desmond lamented, annoyed and embarrassed in equal measure.

Dressed, Desmond had no reason to linger, but he still found himself hesitating. After a brief moment warring with himself, his footsteps reluctantly yet unerringly led him back to the bed, where he stood over Ezio, wavering and torn, all but wringing his hands.

Every fiber of his being wanted nothing more than to slip right back beneath the sheets, to be wrapped up in Ezio's secure, doting embrace, but he'd already loitered here too long. In the wake of his broken heat, whole and healthy and feeling better than he'd had any right to expect after his last experience, he could admit that he was so, so grateful that Ezio had come and found him, even if he'd been less than gracious accepting him at first. His patience was more than Desmond could have asked for or deserved, and his addicting, attentive care—well, even with his mind his to command again, Ezio's words and touch haunted him, brought a longing over him Desmond had never experienced before.

Desmond allowed himself a single touch. He knew Ezio must have been exhausted, otherwise, he would have woken when Desmond left the bed and pawed through his clothes, so he didn't worry about waking him now as he ran the back of his fingers across Ezio's cheek, as he gently brushed the hair from his eyes to better reveal his peaceful features.

He was powerless to stop himself, unable to resist this one caress that was his choice entirely, and bent slightly, enough so that he could press a light kiss to Ezio's forehead.

Thank you. Sorry I was an asshole about it.

Suddenly overcome with the feeling that he'd overstayed his welcome, Desmond pulled back and didn't hesitate to pull himself out of the window without a look behind him. Memory pulled him up, gripping cool, pale stone as he climbed to the roof of the keep, and as the first rays of vibrant golden sunlight began to pierce the sky, Desmond dove from it.

It was intoxicating, those brief snatches of time when there was only his body in limitless freefall, the billowing gusts of wind as it rushed to meet him, as if trying to push him up and lengthen this fleeting time when his mind was clear and he had no worries but for the awareness that his period of freedom was soon to end—and then he landed in the hay, the sudden reintroduction of gravity as jarring as it was scratchy.

Desmond pulled himself from the hay pile with a grimace, brushing himself off. It was impractical, he knew, but he'd never stop wishing for a nice pile of leaves to land in, or feathers. Hay was so annoying...

His awareness prickled with the undeniable sensation of being watched, and Desmond's head snapped up, carefully surveying his surroundings with a critical eye.

It didn't take long to find the culprit. Just a few buildings away, Desmond picked out a figure dressed in white, crouched atop a roof, focus unerringly pointed Desmond's way. She was too far to scent, but Desmond recognized her all the same, given away by the long spear at her back, glinting wickedly in the dawning light.

Tessa saluted him, palm outstretched above her head, and after a long pause, he hesitantly returned it, trying to chase the feeling that she was smiling, unbearably knowing. 

She didn't move to meet or stop him, so after another hesitant moment, Desmond took it for a sign that his leaving was to be noticed, but not hindered. 

Eager to be back within familiar walls, Desmond turned and strode away. He wished he still had his cloak, wished he was wearing his own clothes. Ezio's scent was as comforting as a blanket around him and he was only too glad he'd left so early in the morning, where there'd hardly be a soul around to see him, to smell his true scent mingled with an Alpha's and make assumptions. 

You should consider staying here, with me.

It still sounded crazy, allowing himself to enjoy Rome, to actually want to stay and to build a life here...but not bad.

Ezio's kindness and patience, his gentleness and easy affection—it was more persuasive than he perhaps knew.

Desmond ran his palms across his upper arms, cheeks warming in exasperated embarrassment to find himself so pleased at the sensation of Ezio's clothes against his skin, as if, despite the distance, Ezio was claiming him even now.

No...definitely not bad.