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.