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Desmond is, this time, very, very lucky that Shaun has not had time to actually make any of the tea they picked up. Due to the lack of caffeine, his reflexes are just a little too slow to catch up with his instincts, and thus the man manages not to get stabbed when he suddenly pulls Shaun back into an alley. Thanks to working in close proximity, Shaun is then able to identify (by the smell of his soap, the way the man moves, and the like) that Desmond is the culprit before instincts can kick in. “Des—”
The rest of the man’s name is muffled into the man’s hand. From Shaun’s other hand, he stills the bag, not letting it smack into the wall. It’s only then that he nods, brusque and abrupt, and hisses, “Iskut!” into Shaun’s ear.
Now, Shaun is an academic and therefore reasonably able to follow a train of logic. Sudden urgency, a command to be silent, coupled with an attempt to reduce noise, and Desmond drawing on Altaïr all add up to Templars, and Shaun’s heart pounds in his ears loudly enough it feels like everyone will surely hear that, alone. Though it is, in fact, rather reassuring that Desmond is actually aware of his own name this time, even if it is rather unlikely he knows every detail.
Shaun guides the hand over his mouth to the back of his trousers. He knows Desmond’s incredulous and angry about supposed detours while they’re being hunted, because it’s a struggle until he manages to close Desmond’s fingers around the handgun in its concealed holster, at which point all hesitation vanishes. Agonizingly slowly he draws it, simultaneously wanting to be ready and not make a sound. If they’re lucky, Desmond had spotted the Templars before they themselves had been spotted. In Shaun’s experience, they’re rarely lucky. Well, they had in fact managed to avoid the initial stages simply because the man with Eagle Vision had been along on the shopping trip this time, but that further just supports the notion that they had received their one lucky break and cannot, therefore, expect another.
Desmond might well be thinking the same, because he pushes Shaun away a little again, carefully, letting Shaun have use of his arm again as his eyes glitter watchfully, intent on making sure Shaun doesn’t make a mistake like a noise that could alert others to their position. Like that would happen. Shaun might not be a Field Assassin, but he is still a professional, thank you very much.
Desmond taps on his shoulder, pointing to a slightly ajar manhole, and Shaun lets out a long, silent breath. He’d rather not abandon their groceries, particularly since one of them is tea. Things might get a little tight with other supplies, too, and venturing out after this will be even riskier. Leaving it here might be taken as a sign of their presence. He is not, however, entirely confident as to the state of anything following a jaunt through the sewers, and they might need use of their hands, should they be discovered.
Eyes a touch more tawny follow his gaze, and Desmond visibly snarls, though, crucially, he doesn’t let a sound past those teeth. He practically wrenches the omnipresent bag off his back, muffling the sound of the zipper with his finger, and then starts stuffing in the grocery bag inside with little regard to the items’ preservation. Shaun can’t fault him; speed is clearly more valuable at the moment, because with it might come survival. He uses the same method to close the zipper nearly soundlessly and then gestures impatiently. Between them, they can hardly hope to move the manhole silently, but they can at least be quiet, with two.
Desmond decides, after brief, silent deliberation, that he should go first. He’s clearly worried about pursuers, but, well, it’s not as if Shaun bothered to memorize the paths of the sewers of Siena before their trip, and he certainly does not have Eagle Vision. He is fortunately in decent shape, relative to Desmond, one of them struggling with keeping fit while spending long hours in the Animus, the other with long hours at a computer researching and coordinating.
Any words are for later. This does ensure that both are left with their thoughts, however. Under any other circumstances, Shaun is now certain that Desmond would have made some sort of crude “is that a gun in your pants” joke, and is unaware of the British meaning of the word, which is probably one of very few mercies of the situation. Previously, Shaun had been rather appreciative of the slow speed with which the Italians modernized their sewer systems, attempting to preserve the historic elements. Jogging through, in some cases outright running, Shaun is forced to conclude otherwise, particularly as with the steep slopes of the streets, he was already feeling a little out of breath. Beautiful as the city is, it’s not particularly well-suited for a chase.
It is too bad that they are not visiting around the time of the Palio. Melting into the crowds, following the horse race, would be simplicity itself, even for Shaun, whose training was not as thorough as it was for Desmond, if perhaps a little more hands-on, in a manner of speaking. As it is, the late time of year thins the crowds, though a number of tourists still make the trip, sampling the local Tuscan cuisine, visiting the local Duomo with its striped theme and crypt below, milling around the Piazza, or entering one of the local museums—or perhaps even the library. Most don’t venture to lesser-known jewels, such as Montario’s Artisan Workshops or the Museo Archeologico di Siena. Shaun would be curious if Desmond would regard the workshops with Ezio’s nostalgia, and the winding tunnels of the Museo Archeologico are much more pleasant than the sewers they’re in now, not least because of the smell, no matter their equal preservation of history. The manhole cover was less elaborate than most in, say, Rome, but despite its prominence, like Florence, as a banking capitol, that is true of many of the manhole covers in the city. Shaun’s thoughts are getting a little disjointed, as is common when this much physical effort is involved.
“Desmond,” he whispers, and the man instantly turns, scowling. “We were not followed, as far as you know?” he continues.
Desmond glances around before shaking his head.“Laa.”
“We need to consider our escape further—for example, whether we need to or even can retrieve the car. I don’t fancy walking fifteen or so kilometers, but neither do I fancy getting caught.” It might be a little much asking the man currently suffering an alternate form of the Bleeding Effect to help him brainstorm, here, but this does seem to be at least vaguely controlled, like Desmond had simply slipped into the mind of the ancestor most capable of getting them out of this situation alive.
Desmond considers this, arms crossed, and then he hands the gun back to Shaun. “Intadhir huna. Ha ta’akkada.”
It’s as good a plan as any. As much as Shaun would like to serve as Desmond’s backup, one of them is better accustomed to moving around unseen. “Be careful.” In the past, Shaun realizes, shock muted by the exhaustion and fear, he would have used it as an admonishment. Now, it’s more of a plea.
Desmond nods abruptly and strides off, sure and unafraid.
Soon enough, he’s back, right around the time that it’s started to occur to Shaun that perhaps sending the man currently Bleeding off to find something not of Altaïr’s time may have been a mistake. “Yalla! ”
Well, it’s...an improvement. Driving away is probably on Shaun, though, because it’d be just their luck to get in an accident because Desmond has forgotten how to drive—
...Had the man ever known? He’d said he’d gotten caught trying to get a motorcycle licence. Even more imperative, then. Apparently his realization had slowed him down enough that Desmond wasn’t exactly happy, though, because he’s back to hissing impatient orders.
Desmond takes a moment to look the car over, thankfully still present enough to have remembered to check for bugs even if Shaun had not. It’s an open question whether he actually knows what they are, but they’d probably show to Eagle Vision, which is enough for Shaun at the moment. Shaun is at least practiced enough not to immediately peel off the second they get there, no matter how much he longs to bolt or how his hands shake. Once they’re far away enough, Shaun pulls over to check for himself, just to make sure they won’t give away the hideout, Desmond impatient and pacing, scanning the horizon constantly.
It’s only when they get back and Rebecca yells out, teasing about them having taken their time to make out, that Desmond relaxes, just a little. “You, uh. You okay?” It’s certainly Desmond’s choice of words, but just as the tone after he’d been Ezio had been a little sweet as well as seductive, this time it’s still harsh and clipped. He is not actually angry, Shaun reminds himself, catching his breath and allowing his heart rate to return to normal.
“I’m tired and smell from tromping through a sewer the whole afternoon, and for all I know our gathering days are entirely wasted. I can only hope the hunters were more fruitful. The only thing I can’t fault—” he begins, choking up mid-rant, continuing more softly. “The only thing I can’t fault is the company.”
Desmond’s eyes soften all at once, and he reaches out to Shaun’s cheek, half caress, half removing something unidentifiable. “Go take a shower, habibi. I’ll report to the rafiq and see if I can’t salvage anything.”
“Not without washing your hands first, you’re not,” Shaun insists, because really, that’s the least the man can do.
Well, it at least appears that Desmond hasn’t perfectly returned to the modern day, but that gesture is certainly modern enough. He does at least go over to the sink to soap up his arms down to the elbows. Seeing as no one starts shouting or comes to interrupt Shaun’s shower, he’ll guess they made it through relatively in one piece. All except Shaun’s clothes, which is a pity, but if he wanted to have a safe wardrobe, he really shouldn’t have been an Assassin, should he? (Desmond brings him spares, sneaks a glance, and gives a thumb’s up, which is the sort of thoughtful gesture only Desmond could ruin so effectively.)