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Three in the morning, again. Shaun’s getting a little sick of the nightmares, of the clockwork-like efficiency they destroy his night with. Desmond’s just down the hall from him and Lucy sleeps like the dead, so it’s up to Shaun to stop him from rampaging up and down the hallway, standing guard like some old, sick sentinel. Which is just how he finds him, hidden blade strapped firmly to his arm, standing guard at the end of the hallway.
“Don’t you think this is getting a little old?”
Demsond doesn’t answer him. He can admit to himself that he’s getting a little worried, the old claw of concern snagging his chest and tugging it sideways. He tilts his head, pulls down his glasses and peers at the man, sleep-deprived and wavering as he is.
Desmond’s eyes are completely blank.
Fuck.
He doesn’t move when Shaun waves a hand in front of his face, doesn’t move when Shaun takes his hand and it takes a large amount of pulling to get him to abandon his post. He slumps over immediately, forcing Shaun to grab him under the armpits and haul him down the hallway and it’s too fucking early in the morning for this, he has no patience for this bullshit and if Desmond thinks he’s going to get away with this again, he’s got another thought coming.
—-
It’s fucking clockwork. He wants to tear Demond’s back open through the scar on his lip (scientifically possible he swears) and check for cogs and wheels. He’s standing guard again, this time further down the hallway. Shaun only has to take three steps to get to him and this is getting ridiculous. He sags again when he’s pulled away, the blade held well clear, even in his sleep and the moment of courtesy is strangely endearing.
This has to stop.
—-
Shaun opens his eyes and stares.
“Oh, for the bloody-”
Desmond’s standing guard at his door. His eyes aren’t blank this time; he’s staring at him with what looks like a single-minded determination to burn his brain out of his skull with his mind and, frankly, Shaun’s had enough.
“If you would just-. What the hell is going on, Miles?” He twitches at the last name. Ah, some sort of recognition. “Miles. Back the fuck up.”
Desmond’s hand comes up faster than he’d have thought possible, and Shaun’s cringing back before he can stop himself. It’s been years behind the desk and his reflexes are rusty, but then Desmond’s up in his face, hand on his cheek and face pressed against his neck and it’s all Shaun can do to hold his arms wide, his glasses askew and his hair sticking up on one side, unsure of where to put his hands.
“Uh, you right there?”
Mumbling something against his neck, Desmond wraps his arms around his waist and holds on, the short scratch of his hair scraping against Shaun’s chin. Shoving at him doesn’t help so he resigns himself to his fate, patting the idiot on the back and standing there for a good ten minutes while he gathers himself back together.
Only.
Desmond doesn’t want to let go. They end up against the wall, Shaun yawning and propping himself up with his shoulder smooshed against the plaster, Desmond’s head tucked under his chin.
“This is getting ridiculous.”
It’s half an hour before Desmond falls asleep standing up and Shaun can get himself out of there, dragging him back to his own damn bed by the armpits and leaving him in a crumpled heap on top of his covers.
—-
“You really need to keep a handle on your night-time wanderings.” Talking to Desmond while he’s in the Animus is both cathartic and annoying. Cathartic because he can get what he wants to say out and Desmond doesn’t argue with him, and annoying because Desmond doesn’t argue with him. He’s looking thinner these days, more wan with each passing hour and the twinge, the claw of worry in his chest turns into a full-blown hand, ripping his lungs to the side and leaving a hole all the way to his spine.
“It’s not as if I don’t have better things to do than babysit your sorry arse.”
Desmond wrinkles his nose and Shaun’s hand is there, smoothing the crease lines into something resembling normalcy.
He looks down at his hand like it’s betrayed him and doesn’t say anything else.
—-
His mouth is hot, almost unbearably so. The tea slides down his throat the wrong way in his shock and he’s coughing, Desmond pulling back with an apology on his lips and Shaun grabs onto his shirt to keep him there, twists the fabric around his fingers and holds on. He stops coughing after a moment and Desmond looks like he wants to escape, brown eyes darting from side to side and jaw clenched, the rogue stubble he missed while shaving casting a dark shadow down his neck.
“Shit, sorry. You okay?”
“Do I bloody well look like I’m okay?” It’s not every day you’re snogged while trying to swallow a mouthful of tea, and Desmond’s lower lip is wet and his glasses are hurting his nose and there’s that want, curled around him and tugging, his arm going down and Desmond coming in and suddenly its teeth, tongue and lips. It hurts, it’s messy and Shaun groans, the sound wrenched straight from his stomach up through his mouth.
Desmond fits in his lap like he belongs there. Hands on his hips, Shaun hauls his hoodie up to get to skin, the chair they’re on creaking in warning before the back snaps and they go tumbling back. The wood digs into his back but he can’t find it in himself to care, Desmond’s hands hot and heavy, strangely smooth for someone who kills people for a living, even if that’s only in his mind and fuck, what’s he even doing how is this happening.
He wrenches away. The noise Desmond makes is criminal.
“Move.”
He shuts down. Shaun barely has a second to explain, his hand going up and holding onto the waistband of his pants and Desmond looks at him like he’s an alien, his hood twisted around his neck and fuck, he’s just so fucked up. What are they even doing.
“We need a bed for this, dolt. I’m not fucking you on this floor. It’s barely been swept.”
Well, that has his attention. He sees Desmond’s eyes widen in slow motion; his pupils blow and the want on his face goes straight through to his groin, giving him the energy to get up and away. He doesn’t remember how they get down to the bedroom; a haze of lips, tongues and teeth and one particularly violent slam into the door that has Desmond groaning so loud people in the Philippines will hear him.
A quick stream of Italian and Arabic smashed together slides out of his mouth and Shaun stops, checks him for coherency and Desmond just snarls and grabs him by the collar, hauling him in for a kiss. Oh. Right. Totally him then, if the hands on his hips and the tug towards the bed has anything to do with it, but it’s disconcerting hearing someone speak a language you only know certain words in. He’s not sure how Desmond gets his pants off so quickly but hot breath on his hip makes him gasp, his hands going to his hair, thumb brushing against the slow regrowth, the old scar at the base of his neck.
“Fuck, Desmond, what’re you-“
His mouth is almost unbearably hot. It’s been so long since he’s had anyone that he nearly comes right on the spot, his knees buckling. Desmond pulls his mouth away with an obscene pop and shoves him back towards the bed; landing with a heavy thud, Shaun’s legs get tangled in his pants but Desmond doesn’t seem to care, his mouth going right back to where it was before, sucking him in deep, slow and hot. He must have some sort of experience at this, or maybe Shaun’s just too far gone because it feels fucking amazing, his brain shorting out with every slow pass of his lips, every swirl of his tongue. He makes this noise, like he’s hungry and that goes straight to Shaun’s cock, making him jump in his mouth, his hips snapping upwards all by themselves.
Desmond pins his hips with his forearm to hold him down and Shaun has to concentrate, has to count backwards from five thousand and twenty nine because he didn’t even know he wanted this. Desmond’s stubble is scratching against his thigh, his hand pressing against the back of his knee. The sheets are bunched up under his back and he’s arched at this angle that seems sort of impossible, and when Desmond pulls back he can barely contain the whine.
Getting control back proves to be difficult. Desmond’s crawling up him like some sort of insane sex-panther and he hates his brain for proving him with that image because he can’t stop the snort of laughter and then Desmond’s laughing while they’re trying to get his hoodie off. They can’t seem to stop, laughing between kisses and hands everywhere and when Shaun rolls them over and straddles his waist, Desmond fairly howls with amusement.
“Stop laughing.” Biting at his neck seems to get his attention, their fit of the snickers tapering off into something close to a gasp. Shaun’s grinning against his skin and Desmond’s aching to be touched, fucking begging him but he doesn’t, he just slides his hands up his arms, pins them down and tangles his fingers in the strap holding the hidden blade to his skin, twisting it and leaving a red mark on his forearm.
He doesn’t have condoms, or lube. Which kind of sucks. Instead he rolls his hips, slick from Desmond’s mouth and his own pre-come. Desmond twists his arms, trying to get free and Shaun just leans on him a little more, rocks his hips forward and gasps.
Desmond starts speaking again, words slipping between them like water. Shaun should’ve figured he’d be noisy, but noisy in three languages is sort of a huge turn on, which prompts him to lean down, bite his neck again and hold on. He slips a hand between them, letting Desmond have one of his arms back; his hand slides straight up to his hair and the tug is painful, enough to make him pull his head back with a gasp. Desmond’s mouth covers his and fuck, he wants this so badly he can barely breathe, his fingers skittering over the heads of their cocks and there’s the telltale pull, straight from his back right around to his dick and he’s not going to last. There’s nothing left but the hot glide of them between his fingers, Desmond’s hand in his hair and he feels himself shudder, straight from his neck down to his legs and Desmond makes a noise like he’s been punched and fuck.
Coming down from that takes a while. He opens his eyes to an arm flung over his back (dark skin standing out against his) his legs twisted at a painful angle and his socks still on, one shoe abandoned underneath the bed. Desmond’s still panting, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps and Shaun rubs his thumb over the head of his cock again, making him twist his hips and try to pull away.
“Bastard.”
Breathless, Desmond scowls at him and Shaun finds himself laughing again.
“Fuck off.”
—-
Desmond doesn’t bother getting out of bed to stand guard.