sixthiterationlogs | [MINGLE] One-Man Show

Every mile would be worth the while!

Desmond wanted to reach out. He wanted to touch her. He wanted to brush her cheek and kiss her forehead and make it better somehow, and it was impossible. He stayed a few feet away from her, and it unfortunately reminded him too much of how close they'd been when he killed her. He'd looked at her face like this, but with absolute terror, and now all he felt was a deep set sadness. "I'm sorry," he said softly, swallowing hard. Past the pain that was clogging his throat. Witnessing it from the outside like that, knowing there was nothing that could have stopped it, it was a new form of helplessness.

"Lucy." His head dropped, his gaze fixed on the ground instead of at her, because really, this was hard to say even in a nice situation. "I love you." She knew that he had powerful feelings for her, stronger than her own, but he still hadn't said them, and he finally looked up at her. "I know you don't feel that way, so I'm not saying it so you'll say it, I'm saying it because I want you to know how much I ...." He looked away again. "I love you. And I'm not going to walk away unless you make me."

Three words, eight letters, they rang in her ears, sat heavy in the air between them. She couldn’t recall the last time anyone had ever spoken those words to her. She knew about his feelings for her, had suspected something from their first interaction here, and he’d expressed it through other forms of communication—touch, eye contact, all of which would linger meaningfully. But now, now Lucy stared at him, eerily silent and scarcely breathing. Why choose now of all times to say that? What game was he playing at? Now Lucy was the one with her suspicions, even while he was putting his all on the line.

It was as Desmond dropped the eye contact the second time that suddenly she was moving, swift and sure, springing forward as if she’d been waiting for the right moment to strike. They were only a few feet apart, the distance not too far. She reached to grab the front of his jacket, twisting in her grasp to yank him forward as her leg hooked to catch at his ankles with the intent of dropping him to his back in the snow, the intent of sweeping his legs out from under him.

How dare he say that to her—

Desmond didn't know how to play it cool when his emotions were involved. He was taught as a child to control them, and his father was always on him, to stamp them out, to learn how to be as cold as he was. And it simply never took. He felt too much, cared too much, and never learning how to be emotionally healthy certainly didn't help him react in rational ways. That was long before the brain damage. At this point, Lucy knew how he felt. He didn't mask it. There was no point. He loved her. He was half in love with her before she died, and losing her made it all the more obvious to him how deeply his feelings ran ... and how extra awful it was what happened.

His natural instincts shrieked at him that he was being attacked, and if he listened to those, he would have been quick to block her, quick to move out of the way. Instead Desmond simply waited and let it happen, let her grab him, let her sweep him to the ground, where he crashed rather impressively since he was a big guy. It hurt and knocked the wind out of him, so he just lay there, looking up at the darkening sky.

"So that's a yes for making camp here," he deadpanned. What else was he going to do?

His body hit the ground and it was just after he spoke up that she dropped down, a knee on either side of his ribcage, braced above his chest. “No,” she hissed back, immediately reaching for her boot, for the smooth handle of the kitchen knife. Why did he think this was okay? Why did he think it was okay to tell her that he loved her? They’d just watched him kill her. Possessed or not, guided to, it didn’t mstter. It was foolish to utter those words.

Lucy brought the blade to his throat, angled it directly under his jaw. Made sure the tip dug over his jugular. “Why? Why would you say that? How can you say that? You saw the same thing. You know what you did. I know you have nightmares still about it.” Her entire expression morphed then, agonized, crushed. “Just— How could you?”

It wasn’t right—nothing about this was right. None of it was okay. Everyone had told her: Get revenge. Why shouldn’t she?

The longer she stared down at him, his image was beginning to blur and she tried to choke down the sob, grit her teeth so hard her jaw ached.

“I was going to kill you. Juno was right, why wouldn’t anyone not believe her? I had every intention.” That was what Juno had wanted him to believe. Now she was starting to believe it herself. Everything about this was so fucked up.

Edited (I’m SO SORRY 🤦🏼‍♀️) 2019-02-08 13:56 (UTC)

Stop her! his instincts and his body screamed at him at once. His muscles tensed, ready to block her, especially when that knife came out, but Desmond simply lay there. His mind was coming up with ways to escape, how to survive, and the rest of him was calm. Resigned. He felt the blade on his throat and if he was going to die again, this wasn't his top choice, but it wasn't the worst either. She'd get her revenge and a kind of closure, at least.

"I already had feelings for you, before it happened, you know that." It was intentional, to get him to trust her, and possibly to want her. "I was in a coma because I couldn't handle what I did to you, Lucy. I didn't want to be awake, to be alive, after that. But I had to finish the mission. The mission you put me on." There were tears in his eyes too, partly from his own pain, partly from hers, from what their fucked up lives made them do. "I'm not going to say I didn't fucking hate you too, when she showed me it was a lie. That it didn't keep me up at night, knowing that everything I thought was special between us was a fiction." Desmond just looks at her helplessly. "But I could never hate you as much as I hate myself."

He stayed still and breathe evenly. "I didn't love you then, because I didn't know you. But here? Here we've been real with each other. There's less lies between us, not like there were." Desmond reaches out with his hands to gently touch her knees where they are straddling him, nothing more than warmth against her. "It wasn't all fake, and I know that now. I see you. You let me see you. I don't give a shit, what they did to us, who they made us be. I forgive you for everything you thought you had to do. It's over. We're just Desmond and Lucy here."

He looked her right in the eye this time. "I love you. And I know you're not going to hurt me. I just need you to believe I won't hurt you again either."

"You were in a coma because she put you there," she retorted. Her cheeks were wet, tears cold on her skin from the frigid air. In some sense that just came off to her that he was running from what he'd done to her, hadn't wanted to face it. Or Juno's possessive grip really had been too much for him. Lucy didn't know what to believe anymore. "You know I had to lead you on. I made you believe I was an Assassin the entire time but really, I was a Templar. I'm still a Templar. Juno was right in what she showed you. Everything about us then, it was a lie." That was what she herself wanted to believe. Knew it to be true.

His hands went to her knees and Lucy felt herself go stiff, her grip on the knife tightening. It dug hard into her palm but she was refusing to let go of it. Her weight pressed forward slightly, body leaning over him. Don't touch me, she wanted to say to him. Instead: "I let you see what you wanted to see. You don't know that everything up to this point wasn't a lie, you can't. We're nobody here, Desmond—we're dead."

God how she hated him even more, hearing him repeat those three words with such certainty, staring right at her as he said them. "Stop it!" the words came out strained, breaking. He had to stop believing in her; they were both so unhinged, her more so in this moment as she was the one holding a knife to his throat and feeling like everything was coming apart, unraveling too fast. "Stop it," her voice was softer, pleading. At that point she'd pressed hard enough to draw blood, the bead of red trailing to drip into the snow, a sharp contrast of red on pure white that immediately caught her attention and forced her to jerk back.

Maybe he was right—she wasn't going to hurt him. Because the second she saw the blood making its way to the snow, Lucy was scrambling to get off of him and to get away. From his touch, from being close, from everything about this.

There was still light outside. Which meant that as soon as Lucy was stumbling to her feet, she was on the move again.

God every single word out of her mouth hurt. She didn't have to actually stab him, she was emotionally stabbing him over and over until he was fairly certain he was bleeding on the inside from dozens of wounds. These were the things that Desmond said to himself before, when Lucy was dead and he was trying to stay sane, because thinking she was a bitch, a betrayer, a traitor, it was an attempt to feel better about what happened. Nothing made it better. Instead he killed her and she never cared for him, used him, he was nothing to her. Tears sprung to his eyes the more she went on.

No. He didn't believe her. Some of it was true but not all of it. She cared about him, she wanted him. Desmond experienced enough of that here he was holding onto it like a lifeline. She just saw him kill her, and she was losing it, and he had to be the strong one. He had to be the strong one. He was breathing raggedly because of holding back from speaking back, or from fighting her, which didn't help when the blade nicked him.

She jerked back and Desmond realized she was going to run again. She was going to get killed out here, and he couldn't let her. She wasn't able to be reasoned with, he saw that now. He forced himself to go cold. He was dangerous, more dangerous than she knew, because he contained much of it, outside of fighting for his life. But he killed more people after she died, he used what his ancestors taught him to be a machine.

He moved quicker than she might have expected, jumping to his feet and catching up to her in much less time. He never used his strength and skill against her before, but he did now, immediately ripping the knife from her hand so she couldn't try to stab at him. Desmond couldn't bring himself to actually hit her or knock her out, even if that would make this much easier, but he did simply whoosh her right off her feet like she weighed nothing. He slung her over his back, his arm firmly gripping her knees together so she couldn't kick him, his other arm moving to his back so if she tried to hit him he could block it.

Everything she’d said had been said out of hurt. They were both hurting but Lucy wanted him to hurt more, successful with the tears she’d noted in his eyes. She wanted to mask her own grief and agony, lashing out with everything and anything she could think of. She’d also done it to push him away, so that he wouldn’t love her. And right now at the same time, she was questioning herself; she was confused, who was she? What was she supposed to be? Seeing it only twice, watching him kill her, it filled her with so much doubt and made her think that she’d truly deserved it. The big question, for her, was now how many more times would it be thrown back in her face?

Hurrying through the ankle deep snow had slowed her escape. Once more she’d heard him coming in from behind, his steps heavier. The knife had been wrenched from her grasp before she could react. She found herself bent forward and draped over a broad shoulder, muscle and bone through his jacket hard under her stomach and her own layers. An arm clamped over the back of her legs. No!

“Put me down,” she began, hands pushing at his back as she was attempting to lean up, core muscles weaker than normal from her time resting since her arrival. Lucy tried to wiggle her hips, fingers fisting in the back of his jacket. “Desmond—put me down—”

Sure he could block any hits she gave to his back but could he block her from hitting him in the head? Lucy was trying to be slippery and squirm as much as she possibly could under his grip, twisting her body away from his head while pressing a hand against it, pushing. She wasn’t hitting, yet.

Desmond kept walking, grappling with her as best as he could, and his footsteps still steady and certain. He gritted his teeth any time she actually managed to get a hand on him. He knew the pathway back because of his own tracking skills. "Listen, Lucy, if you stay out here, you're going to fucking die, and I'm not going to be responsible for that again." He was pretty furious, to be honest, about this entire situation, and about what was happening between them. The fire was good, it fueled him.

"I'm taking you back even if it's kicking and screaming to the others, I think they stopped to camp out for the night, and then you can do whatever the fuck you want. If you want to act like a rational person I will put you down, otherwise, keep squirming all you want, I'm not going to stop."

You could bet she was calling him every name in the book by then, continuing to try and wiggle about in spite of the iron hold he never let up on. But eventually she was giving up, wearing herself out, the fight fizzling. Lucy was too tired, too many emotions strung about, keeping her tightly strung.

A hand pressed to his shoulder as her body leaned off the right a moment later. “Put me down,” she tried one more time, quieter. “Please. You’re hurting me.” It wasn’t a lie, though it was due to her struggling that the ache had begun to throb at her stomach from deep within. It would always be a reminder. “If you’re that worried that I’ll bolt, piggybacking is probably the better option.”

Desmond paused, frowning. He wanted to believe her. He really did. It's not like walking with her like this the entire way back was appealing to her. But if he put her down and she bolted, he'd just have to chase after her again. But ugh, he didn't want to hurt her, that's why he didn't knock her out. After some consideration, and remembering a head rush that long was going to be bad, he reluctantly put her back on her feet.

"Listen, if you want to run, just run in that direction, okay?" Desmond pointed back to where he knew they came from. "You go straight for a bit and then go left-straight and keep hooking around left. You'll make it." He was really tired and for real did not want to fight with her. He was keeping the knife though. There was still blood on his neck from her nick.

What a relief. The moment she felt solid ground beneath her feet she reached for his arm without a second thought to steady herself, her balance temporarily off center. Lucy wasn’t faking it, she was honest to god experiencing an uncomfortable pressure in her stomach, a spasm that had her pressing her free hand over the area. One of the reasons for why she still had difficulty sleeping on her right, always needing to be angled if on her back.

“I honestly don’t have a reason to go back.” To their group. “Right now I’d just prefer to be alone.” Lucy felt shame then, glancing at him and seeing the blood. “...I’m sorry.” She was hesitant to reach up, to brush her fingers beneath the small cut, looking sad.

Desmond warily let her lean on him, still honestly waiting for some kind of aggression. He was fine with it if it happened, he just wasn't so sure. "You can be alone and still nearby them. You can't be out here alone. It's dangerous. There's a whole lot of wild animals that don't come to the village but probably live out here." That shrine was also creepy as fuck and he wanted to get away from it.

He held still so she could touch if she wanted, keeping calm and passive to her whims as if she was a wild creature abut to bolt on him. "It's fine, Luce. I shouldn't have thrown that at you with everything going on." He wanted little more than to hold her, bury his face into his neck, find a way to feel better. "Please. For me, please, we have to go back. There's nothing out here for any of us."

“I don’t know why you did.” Her hand slipped away. “Of all times, Desmond... How was I supposed to respond? What were you hoping for?”

Lucy took a step back. She wanted the same thing, which was why she was putting that distance between them. Everything felt cold, inside and out. It must’ve been from earlier, the left over shock, the adrenaline, the fight.

Although she knew he was referring to the forest, she couldn’t help but mentally add that even in the village there was nothing for them.

Desmond frowned, and his eyes sharpened slightly, watchfully, at her since she was backing up. She might run and they'd have to start this again. "I told you why. I said it so you'd know that I'm not walking away or giving up on you. Explaining how much I care about you felt like, I don't know, proof that you could still count on me." That was love to him. "I am trying not to keep running away, but I guess you're taking it up as your thing now." Maybe now she could understand why it's his impulse whenever things go wrong. Running was safe.

"I won't say it again." It maybe stung just a little bit that she hated to hear it, but that was irrational on his part. He gestured in the direction of the path he pointed out before. "Look, I don't want to keep fighting, and I don't want to have to run you down again. I want to get back to the group and then back to the village and then hermit inside for like a month. But I won't do that without you."

“I ran because there was nothing else I could do. I wasn’t going to stand there and pretend things were okay after it was made public to others. I was okay telling a few people, but for them to see it with their own eyes? My death—you killing me—that should be meant for us, you and me. And I’m not... I’m not blaming you. I’m just... I don’t know what to do right now. What to think. How to feel.”

And because he clearly wanted to get out and back to the others, Lucy took another step back and began to turn, remembering the directions clearly despite the shit show they’d experienced.

“I don’t feel like I’m me right now,” she added, softer.

"I'm not happy anyone else knows too, Luce. Ashley was a friend, or ... friendly." She might have talked him into going after Lucy, but that didn't mean they were going to be on friendly terms again, now that she knew. Desmond was starting to get along with people in the village, building his friendships, but they might change their mind about that after they knew he killed his girlfriend ... lover... whatever label worked for them. He had all the guilt and misery over being responsible and now the fear he'd be a leper to the others.

"You have very right to feel however you want about this. I'm not going to hover over you. Once we're back with the others, you can take all the time you need to think things through, alright?" He was tired, very tired, and sad, but at least she seemed to be willing to listen to sense. He just felt defeated. They were starting to get their shit together, and then this. He really did think this was Minerva or Juno now. It was fucking personal.

"Aren't you more concerned about Ezio? He had to have seen the Apple, Desmond. He'll know something's off after today." She was way too concerned over the fact that Ezio had gotten a seat in the audience to their misery.

It was almost a relief to hear him say that, as if to reassure her that she would be left alone to deal with this on her own terms. Was it also a dangerous thing? Yes. Yes and no. Ezio would be at the house to keep an eye on her, he would know if something were off.

He almost snarked that she had a talent for getting his ancestors to take care of her regardless of being a Templar, but wisely managed not to say it. She kept choosing to live with Assassins while being a Templar. Ezio, well, he was not entirely certain about, but he wouldn't encourage her to go home if he thought it was a real threat. "Not necessarily. Only you and I know what was going on underneath. Visually, it looked like Juno forced me to do it, there is no reason seeing that to think it was more than her being a bitch." There was no mention of Templars or betrayal, and even with Ashley he was careful not to say much about Lucy's part of it.

"Ezio is more of a hard ass in later years, after his uncle died. He's still young enough he'll listen, if you tell him the truth. He wasn't like us. He came to the Assassins later in life." She knows that, but it does actually make a difference. When you were raised to be an Assassin from childhood, it was harder to see all sides of things. While Ezio hated the Templars for what happened to his family, he didn't have that particular brand of brainwashing. "If you don't feel safe, go stay with Ashley for a few days. Do whatever you feel is right."

He should've said it, she would’ve then thrown back in his face his insecurities. It wasn’t her fault that each of them had stayed with her, her house came with two rooms, and she could easily avoid them. It seemed only courteous to offer the spare room up as an option or they could’ve found their own house to claim. Though Lucy did have to wonder why Ezio hadn’t gone home with Desmond after being introduced to his descendant, it wasn’t as if Lucy couldn’t fend for herself now, healed enough, able to move around.

“Sure, Desmond.” And that was all she had left to say, about this entire ordeal, to him, about everything. She was tired, so very tired.

It was time to return to the group, as much as she hated that he was going to be there, and that she couldn’t keep going on her own through the night to get to the village. Lucy went off a head of him.

[MINGLE] One-Man Show

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