Chapter Text
The Grand Temple erupted in golden light, blinding him. The hand fixed on the Eye was prickling with pins and needles, stabbing their way up his arm till the pain stole his breath. Desmond hadn't exactly expected to survive the encounter, which made opening his eyes a surprise, unless Death began in a dimly lit dirt alley and was ruled by a-. He stared down at the bedraggled kitten that had tripped out of the weeds, squeaking indignantly at him for his trespass.
“I’m sorry, little one,” he murmured, Italian lilting off his tongue as he knelt to offer it his knuckles, only to be taken aback by his own pitch-black fingers. He flipped over his hand to discover the same discolouration covering his palm; even his nails hadn’t been spared. He shoved at the cuff of his hoodie to see vaguely familiar gold shapes traced onto his skin in thin glimmering lines.
“What the actual fuck?”
Another squeak answered him. The kitten had tottered forward on unsteady feet. It looked very small and very young, barely weaned with grey and black stripes down its back and squinting yellow eyes.
“Yeah, hi,” he sighed, tickling the murky splotch across its chest. It squeaked for a 3rd time, sniffing at his blackened fingers and not finding them wanting, despite their colour. When Desmond scratched between its ears it bonked him with its head in a wordless demand for more.
A sudden clatter from behind had him crouching low, covering the kitten as he glanced over his shoulder, his hood falling over his eyes.
A man had just darted into the alley, slumped against the filthy wall and panting heavily, beret askew. A very familiar man, who had clearly been trying to hide from the approaching jingle of armour and heavy boot treads.
“Leonardo?” Desmond exclaimed, slowly rising out of his defensive crouch.
The man turned, openly startled. He could see the recognition bleed into those bright blue eyes as they caught on his hood and lingered on his mouth, and knew he’d draw the wrong conclusion.
“Ezio? But what are you- never mind, you have to get out of here-!”
Too late. The alley was blocked off by a group of men wearing a horrifyingly familiar emblem– led by an even more horrifyingly familiar visage, haughtily astride a horse.
“Come now, Maestro,” Cesare Borgia purred, “how long must we continue to play these games?”
Desmond pinched the kitten by its nape, ignoring the way it squalled. “Take care of this,” he told Leonardo brusquely, dropping it into the man’s hands.
“What?” Leonardo squawked. “Ez- no, you can’t-!” He practically swallowed his tongue when Desmond looked him full in the face.
“I am not Ezio, Maestro,” he said, “and I bloody well can.”
Monteriggioni, Desmond seethed, the pistole and Mario on the ground with this man standing over him. It didn’t matter that all he had were his hidden blades while the Borgia guards were in full plate armour, a confused sort of realisation settling over them as they noticed his approaching figure.
He stabbed the first through the throat before a cry could ring out and then grabbed the man’s dagger from his belt, hurling it with unerring aim.
Death to the enemy.
“-ere! Messere, are you injured?”
He tipped his head back against the rough brick wall and stared up at an unfamiliar night sky. The light pollution in New York had been too bad to see even a handful of stars, so this bright expanse reminded him of his childhood at the Farm, and thoughts of his childhood and injuries always made him think of-.
“Your father?”
Had he spoken aloud? He blinked wetness out of his eyes and tried to focus on the man who’d shoved his face- oh, and what a familiar face it was.
“Leonardo,” he murmured.
“You seem to have the advantage of me, Messere,” Leonardo said, a smile peeking through his concern.
“I never meant to make you worry,” he said thoughtlessly, and couldn’t tell if those words came from Desmond or Ezio.
“You made us both worry, Messere,” Leonardo said tartly, holding out the loudly mewling kitten, clearly as uncomfortable with the animal as it was with him. The overall image was so hilarious that Desmond burst out snickering.
“Have you never held a cat before in your life?” he asked, holding out his hands– only for the action to be stymied by how absolutely drenched in blood they were. “Uh, maybe you should hold onto it for bit longer.”
Leonardo was pouting. “It is not as if cats can help one paint or build,” he muttered.
“But they do keep away the pests that might keep you from painting or building,” Desmond pointed out.
Leonardo huffed. “Are you certain you are not injured, Messere?” he pressed.
“It’s more their blood than mine,” he reassured the other man. “But we should probably get out of here in case there are reinforcements. Someone probably heard us.” There had definitely been some screaming going on, near the end. “I’m afraid I’ll have to entrust the kitten to you for the time being.”
Leonardo winced. “Can we not leave it-.” His mouth snapped shut at the look Desmond sent him. He slid past Leonardo, peering out like the world’s most murderous road-crossing over.
“Come on, let’s get out of here,” he said, stepping uncaringly over the torn and bloodied Borgia flag.
“Where are we going?” Leonardo asked breathlessly as he scrambled to obey.
“If Cesare is after you,” Desmond muttered, darting through back alleys, “then we must be in Rome. I think I remember how to get to your villa-.”
“Wait,” Leonardo panted, snagging his sleeve, high enough to miss most of the blood. There probably wasn’t any saving this hoodie – or anything he was wearing, really, saturated as it was. “I am grateful for your well-timed rescue, Messere, but have mercy on an old man.” Leonardo’s chest was heaving as he bent over, nearly dropping the kitten.
“You’re not that old,” Desmond said blankly, but he obligingly paused, ears pricked in the uncomfortable stillness of the night. “Actually, hang out here for a minute, let me go up there and take a look at things.”
“Hang out- what?”
He ignored Leonardo’s breathless sputters and kicked his way up onto a neighbouring roof, grimacing at the blood trail he left behind. With luck, no one would notice this till morning where it could dry and be mistaken for mud.
It was stunningly quiet despite his massacre of the Borgia forces; it seemed like Cesare had told no one of his plans, and Desmond had been quick enough- or vicious enough- in his murder for the night guard to not have been called.
He dropped down, startling Leonardo. “Cristo, someone should bell you lot,” the man gasped, clutching at his chest with his free hand.
Desmond grinned. “You’ve only been trying that with Ezio for how many years, now? How’s that working for you so far?”
Leonardo scowled at him. “My gratitude only gets you so far,” he growled, “Assassin or no.”
Desmond smiled, miming zipping his lips shut as he continued down the street, at a far kinder pace this time. “My lips are sealed on the matter, Maestro. You’ll be glad to know that no one is chasing us, although I’m sure you’ll feel better once you’re behind your own walls once more.”
“Did Ezio know?” Leonardo asked. “Is that why he sent you?”
“He would have sent himself if he knew,” he replied. “And no one sent me, least of all myself. I’m afraid it was just a really handy coincidence that landed us in the same alley. Honestly, I’m still not entirely convinced this isn’t some fucked up Animus hallucination.”
“…what?”
Desmond glanced over his shoulder back at Leonardo. “If you could send for Ezio, that would be really helpful. I’m hoping that between the three of us, we’ll be able to come up with an answer or two.”
“…what?”
“Yeah, I thought I was dead,” he said with a shrug. “I’m not entirely sure what to do if I’m not.”
Leonardo caught his arm again and Desmond let him pull him around. “Who are you?” he demanded.
“My name is Desmond,” he said, mouth quirking at the wide-eyed look Leonardo sent him. “Desmond Miles. You may have heard of me.”
What. What even.
Leonardo was normally more eloquent that this, but he also thought he could be forgiven for this lapse. This had been a day he could not even have dreamt up in his wildest dreams.
He could heard Desmond– Ezio’s Desmond– washing, humming a little tune made nonsensical by the muffled door between them, his bloodied clothes burnt to ash in his hearth. Thankfully, Ezio had left some of his clothes here since nothing of Leonardo’s would fit him, and it wasn’t as if Desmond could walk around naked for the days it would take to get a doublet tailored for him.
Well. Leonardo coughed at the thought. Desmond could, but Leonardo might well lose his mind. He’d already nearly swallowed his tongue when the man began to casually strip off his bloody clothes, baring swathes of tanned, nearly unmarked skin. At least Salai was only scheduled to join him in Rome the following week, else the little devil would have never let him hear the end of it.
With a sigh he sunk onto his haunches, fingers digging into his temples. The way Ezio had spoken of Desmond had been as if he had been part-god himself, but the one who had killed on his behalf had seemed all too human. There had been talk of man having been created in god’s image but Leonardo couldn’t help but wonder if this was a case where the opposite was true, where the god in question had formed for himself a body in man’s image.
Certainly Desmond’s body was that of a man’s: he smiled like a man, laughed like a man, teased like a man. Leonardo had only caught a glimpse of the man’s pert rear before he forced himself to turn aside as Desmond strode, unashamed, into the bath.
Was it blasphemy if Leonardo also wondered if he fucked like a man, too?
“Leonardo?”
His head shot up, wincing when his neck gave a loud crack. Desmond offered him a slight smile, freshly scrubbed and cheeks pink from his bath, the faint scent of soap wafting from his skin. God, he hadn’t even done up his shirt properly, baring a hollow sternum and the edge of a scar.
“I’m sorry if I startled you,” Desmond began. “Thank you for the wash, I needed it more than I thought, but I tried to leave you as much bath water as I could. Is the cat with you?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The cat,” Desmond repeated patiently. “I figured I could take it off your hands now, I can’t imagine your workshop would be safe from an inquisitive cat.”
Leonardo shuddered at the very thought. “No, I left her- it is a her, I checked- in the pantry with a dish of milk.”
Desmond’s smile widened. His short hair curled when wet, the cropped ringlets dripping onto his half-buttoned shirt and turning the already-thin fabric practically translucent. Leonardo’s throat felt painfully, awkwardly dry.
“Thank you, Leonardo.” He knew he was staring, but-.
“Ezio was the one who saw you at the temple.”
The man nodded. “Yes, I’m afraid I’ve only ever seen you through his memories- through Ezio’s memories.”
Leonardo swallowed at that insinuation. “I’ve never seen you before in my life and yet I feel like I know your face.”
One side of Desmond’s mouth quirked up as he reached up to thumb his mouth.
“It is not just the scar,” Leonardo protested before he paused. “…did your father really give you that scar?” he asked, hushed.
Desmond’s thumb pressed an indent into his bottom lip. “It wasn’t a bad injury, not in the grand scheme of things,” he replied. “I did wonder, though, if he gave it to me on purpose - I think Ezio was the only person he’d ever respected, and he’d been dead 500 years by that point.”
Leonardo caught his breath. Desmond shrugged, either not noticing his reaction or not caring. “But I suppose you could argue that Altaïr received his scar, first.”
“Altaïr!” he breathed in realisation. He couldn’t believe it had taken him this long to realise it, given how many days he had spent in the Sanctuary under Monteriggioni. “You look just like him.” Of a sorts. That stone sculpture had been cool and forbidding, while Desmond brought his fine features to flesh.
“So I’ve been told,” Desmond murmured, glancing towards his pantry. “I really should go see to the cat, and you should wash and rest. We can talk more in the morning.”
“Then you will stay, Messere?” he pressed.
“I would like to speak with Ezio before deciding what to do next,” Desmond said, smiling distractedly as he set off for the pantry with a lazy wave.
Leonardo washed himself in a daze, his thoughts spiralling in circles. What did it mean that Desmond was here? How was he even here, in the first place? The Apples of Eden were capable of marvellous, miraculous things, but to travel through time seemed like the most impossible of magicks. Then again, Ezio had communicated with Desmond once before already…Leonardo groaned and dunked his throbbing head underwater.
A sharp rap on the door had him surfacing cautiously, but it was only Desmond.
“Leonardo?” the man called through the wood. “Are you alright? That groan wasn’t a happy sound.”
Those words promptly sent Leonardo’s thoughts spiralling towards situations that might lead to happy-sounding groans. He groaned again, letting his head thunk back against the rim of the tub.
“Leonardo?”
“I’m fine!” he called back belatedly. “I’m just- trying to sort matters out in my head.”
Desmond chuckled. “Oh, and what a head it is,” he murmured, as if Leonardo’s overworked libido could handle such a leading comment. He thunked his head against the rim of the tub one more time for good measure before rising to dry himself and dress. Touching himself with his unwitting muse just outside the door was a new low, even for him.
Besides, he had no doubt that Desmond could sate more desires than just carnal ones, and Leonardo sorely wanted to know more about the man and the times he came from.
The pantry was empty when he poked his head in, and he was a little shamefaced about the freshly washed dishes that had been set aside to dry. He would have gotten to them…eventually. There was a moment where he was afeared that Desmond had left, but a loud yowl from the garden, followed by a far softer chuckle, had him sagging against the doorway in relief.
“Desmond?”
The man was on his back on the bench in the middle of his garden, lit only by moonlight. The kitten was tottering about his chest on stubby, unsteady legs, squeaking loudly with every step. She had clearly had a wash of her own, revealing 3 white socks and a white chest. Desmond had one arm tucked under his head, giving him leverage to grin up at the kitten.
At the sound of his name, the man glanced his way, careful not to tip the kitten aside.
“I thought you had left,” Leonardo confessed.
Carefully cupping the kitten in one large hand, Desmond sat up. “I told you I’d stay,” he said, expression soft. “Honestly, it’s best if Ezio were here for this, too. I should at least apologise to him in person for taking his revenge against Cesare Borgia from him. So much of his life impacted mine, it wouldn’t be quite fair if I went haring off on my own.” Desmond glanced up, his smile going impish. “Besides, the company isn’t half-bad.”
Leonardo was nearing his 5th decade while Desmond looked young enough to still be in his 2nd, even if the ease with which he moved spoke of years of experience. Leonardo wasn’t going to blush.
He wasn’t.
…even if it had been so very long since someone had teased him like this.
Perhaps Desmond sensed some of that, since his expression softened again. “I’m sorry, Leonardo, this must be a lot for you to get a handle on. Cesare’s advances, then a stranger dropping in on you and dragging you half across Rome-.”
“Your advances were certainly preferable to Cesare Borgia’s,” he dared to interrupt with a sniff. “Besides, you aren’t a complete stranger.”
Desmond’s eyes were glimmering with amusement. “Minerva mentioned my name to Ezio once, in between turning his world upside down with information he couldn't make sense of. I barely made sense of it, and I had the benefit of 500 years of scientific advancements.” Leonardo shivered when the man made such casual mention of his jaunt through time. Desmond sighed, glancing away.
“As much as I respected his accomplishments through life, I always thought the Isu asked too much of him,” he muttered. “The hand he was dealt never seemed fair, even if Ezio is the sort to waste away for lack of things to do.” Well, wasn’t that Ezio in a nutshell. “I’m still not sure that I’m even really here, let alone why or how, but I’ve already changed things.”
Leonardo’s eyes sharpened. “Cesare Borgia,” he thought aloud. “If you hadn’t been there, he would have caught me.”
Desmond’s eyes gleamed with approval before he glanced down at his lap, where the kitten had curled into a ball, protecting her tender belly. “And this piccolo signorina would have been left for dead. Although admittedly one of those events had slightly more far-reaching effects on the future.”
“The future you came from…”
“I don’t know if it’s completely gone,” Desmond said. “Perhaps the Borgia will find another engineering genius to bully into creating their war machines and Monteriggioni will still burn.” Those words stole his breath. Desmond seemed to know it, judging by the resignation in his gaze. “But in this one, your mind is whole and Cesare Borgia is dead. I don’t know about you, but I’m not gonna miss that arsehole.”
Leonardo smiled thinly. “No, I doubt Cesare Borgia will be well missed.” He paused. “Although I am uncertain if my mind is worth-.”
“It is,” Desmond cut in, his eyes boring into him. “Your mind is worth everything, Leonardo, your heart, your brilliance, your soul. Cesare would have crushed that - for what? Glorified fireworks?” he sneered.
Alright. Leonardo was definitely blushing, now. He awkwardly cleared his throat.
“The- the hour is late. Perhaps we should both get some rest?” he suggested. “I will send a pigeon to Monteriggioni in the morning.”
Desmond pushed upright with a groan, the now-sleeping kitten still held to his chest. “There is your renowned brilliance,” he said. “I can take Salaì’s-.” He caught sight of Leonardo’s face. “Or not.” His apprentice had an assigned room but no furniture, since he would complain about Leonardo’s taste and sell everything for coin to refurnish it his style, anyway. “The bench also works, and the weather should hold-.”
“I can’t let you sleep in the garden!” Leonardo exclaimed, horrified.
Desmond shrugged, unconcerned. “I’ve slept in a lot worse - I was even homeless for awhile, so kipping in a garden on a cool night, knowing I won’t get chased out? Doesn’t even scratch my top 10.”
Leonardo couldn’t make head or tail of his words, but he certainly wasn’t going to let his saviour sleep in the garden.
“You can take my bed,” he said firmly. “I am used to sleeping in my workshop.” Usually there was a pallet involved, too, but Desmond didn’t need to know that.
The young man cast him a long considering look, lips pursed.
“What is it?” he asked.
“You enjoy your creature comforts, don’t you?” Desmond asked.
“Yes,” he replied cautiously. He had never been shy about his lapses into hedonism and he wasn’t going to let a man nearly 30 years his junior make him feel apologetic about it.
“Is your bed big enough for the both of us?” Desmond asked instead.
Leonardo stared, completely thrown.
“I- I beg your pardon?” he stammered.
Desmond smiled, slow and a little wicked. “Is. Your bed. Big Enough. For the both of us?”
“I- Messere, you-.” He stopped when he noticed the wickedness had bled out of Desmond’s face, leaving only softness behind.
“If you’re uncomfortable sharing a bed with me, then I’ll drop it and stay out here in the garden. But if you think that I’ll be bothered because you’re attracted to men, don’t bother.”
Leonardo’s mouth fell open.
“Omosessualità is not…uncommon, in the future,” Desmond said, clearly struggling to explain himself. “Not to say it’s universally accepted, or anything, and I don’t think it’ll surprise you to learn that the church still disapproves, 500 years into the future,” he added with a roll of his eyes. Leonardo had to smile then.
“No,” he said softly, “I am not surprised at all. Omo…sessualità?”
Desmond’s eyes crinkled. The amusement made him look even more attractive. “Attracted to the same sex, I suppose you could call it. Besides,” he continued with a shrug, “I’m…biesessuale? I don’t know if that translates well.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” he had to admit.
Desmond shrugged again. “Attracted to both sexes,” he explained, as if he weren't casually turning Leonardo's world on its head. “I would have told you, regardless. It wouldn’t have been fair for me to know about you if you didn’t know about me.”
He knew he was staring, but he couldn't bring himself to stop. Even among the circles he frequented, where the majority shared his inclinations, it just wasn’t talked about. Then again, Desmond came from the future- 500 years on, he had said.
“Is it so very…” Leonardo didn’t quite know what he was trying to ask.
Desmond seemed to understand, offering him a fond smile. “It’s a long and bloody history and people are still dying for it,” he said. “There’ve been victories, though. We’re not being murdered outright, and in some places marriage is-.”
“Marriage?” he blurted out.
He would’ve thought he’d be more interested in the scientific and artistic developments, but that one word obliterated all other thought from his mind. A future, he marvelled, that permitted marriage between the same sex, where one man looked another in the eye and spoke his proclivities without shame.
His musing was broken by a stifled yawn and Leonardo abruptly remembered the late hour.
“My apologies, Messere, you must be exhausted.”
Desmond yawned again, not bothering to hide this one. “Yeah, I could use some rest- but you could too, Maestro.”
He took in the hooded amber eyes, the high, hollow cheekbones, and those beautiful full lips he’d thought were Ezio’s. He’d spent…decades wondering what it would be like to kiss them.
“To bed, then,” he said slowly. “To bed.”
Desmond settled the kitten- which he really should name sooner rather than later- into an empty wine crate, along with a clean-looking rag and a shallow dish of water. Good deed done for the day, he collapsed onto the side of the bed with a clear view to the door and the windows. Leonardo was more tentative about getting in on the other side, practically an ocean apart, but Desmond was too tired to care. He had his hidden blades on either wrist and a sharpened knife he’d filched from the kitchen under his pillow.
“Goodnight, Leonardo,” he murmured, the haze of sleep already settling over him.
He barely heard the man’s reply.
…he felt his wake-up call against his thigh in the morning, though.