Chapter Text
Emerging from the Animus program had always had a sensation similar to that of waking up from a long sleep, but now it felt as though he were a sabretooth tiger who had fallen into a tar pit and spent 8 agonising hours dragging himself back to the edge and back out of the greedy, clasping blackness. Even as he opened his eyes in the van and saw the blurred outlines of people, he could still see Constantinople on the edges of his vision like an afterimage, and feel the wheedling tug of the Animus trying to pull him back.
Or perhaps it wasn't the Animus. Perhaps it was just Desmond, the same old Desmond who had run away from his destiny all those years ago and now was trying to run away from the truth of Lucy, and the truth of what he had done and what he had to do.
As he clawed his way back into the present day, he could hear Shaun, Rebecca and his father saying things to him that he couldn't quite make out. And then, strangest of all, he heard himself say something to them, though he couldn't quite make the words.
Suddenly a wave of exhaustion came crashing over him and he realised that none of his time in the Animus had ever been spent sleeping, and as rested as his physical body might be his mind hadn't taken a break in weeks.
"I need to sleep," he said aloud, almost automatically.
"Are you joking?" Shaun demanded, and his usual tone of mild contempt was tinged with something deeper and uglier.
"Shaun!" Rebecca said warningly. "Let's go back to the safehouse in the town. Now we know where the temple is, there's no need to rush things."
"He's done nothing but lie there for weeks while we drag him around like a hatbox. Now he's just said he knows exactly what to do, and suddenly he feels like a little nap? For God's sake..."
The rant continued, but Desmond felt his father's hand on his shoulder and Shaun's voice became fuzzy, like a radio going out of tune, just as William's became louder and clearer. "It's alright, son," he said solemnly, and Desmond laid back down on the seat of the Animus and fell into a slumber so deep that when they got back to the New York safehouse he had to be half-carried inside to a bed.
In his free and hedonistic life as a bartender, Desmond had had quite a few one night stands. Sometimes in the morning the girl would still be there and sometimes she would be gone, and somehow he was always able to tell whether he was alone in the bed even before he had opened his eyes.
On this morning, Desmond woke up and knew straight away that he wasn't alone. He stayed very still, counting to ten in his head, and then got out of bed and put on some clothes he didn't recognise, that were laid out on the dresser.
This safehouse was nicer than the warehouse that Lucy had first brought him to, and was free of the decay that had affected the Monteriggioni villa. It had the air of an old family home, and his room had a modest en-suite bathroom. Desmond walked in, closed the door behind him, and brushed his teeth in order to delay the moment in which he'd have to confront his suspicions. There was a mirror above the sink, but he avoided looking in it until he had rinsed out his mouth completely. Finally he raised his head, stared straight into his own eyes, and thought as clearly as he could: Can you hear me?
Nothing happened. Well, at least his thoughts were his own.
This time he asked another question, out loud. "Is it you?"
Who else? replied Subject Sixteen.