[ the fleeting moments in between sessions aren't enough to solidify Desmond's sense of self. if anything, these periods of time interspersed between running on rooftops in the 15th century twist and collide to form the beginnings of a dream: every time he finds his fingers flexing for Ezio, as Ezio, walking through his uncle's property, he remembers the streets fallen into a state of disrepair. recalls things that have yet to happen, and the worst part is, there's nothing memorable enough happening in the present to discredit the experience as a dream. when he speaks to the other assassins, it's only for a second. when he goes for a walk, or a run, or a series of jumps and complicated free falls, he's all alone. there's no one to tell him that yes Desmond, this is really happening. there's no one to slap him to wake him up, or prove there's nothing to wake up from.

so tonight? tonight, Desmond decides, will be different.

he's not masochistic enough to ask Shaun. and he knows Rebecca, sweet as she is, will want to stick around to work on the Animus. that's fine. he's pretty sure he wouldn't know the first thing about circuit boards or who even knows what. it's never really been Desmond's area of expertise. which leaves him with one option. not one he minds too much either.

groggily brushing off the blissful post-animus undertow threatening to sweep him under, he stumbles over to the blonde, placing the heel of his palm against her desk. leans forward, silent for a full minute while he gathers his wits about him, not wanting to slur his proposition, then offers her possibly the dorkiest smile that's ever graced the lands of Italy. maybe he'll score some points for being cute. or pathetic. either works. ]

So uh. Nice night, huh? [ what the fuck Desmond, you're like three floors underground with no windows. ] I was wondering, if you weren't too busy I mean, I was wondering if you wanted to go for a walk. With me. Outside. I mean, if you want.