It would’ve been so easy, turning on his heel and walking straight out of this shithole before he’s spotted. He may have come this far—doesn’t owe it to Desmond to go the extra mile. He could just drive back home, switch off his phone, bury himself in his bed and let someone else save Desmond from himself for once—
Who, though?
“Lucky thing they let you in, looking like that,” he comments as he takes the empty seat next to Desmond. Smelling like that, too, he might add, now that he is close enough; not the sharp drowned in a bottle stench he had expected, but sweat and grime and something else that tickles his nose in all the worst ways.
Desmond’s shoulders tense up, for all he tries to hide it under turning in his stool. “Hello to you, too,” he grumbles, dropping his hand to send him a glare.
Read the rest in This Is Our Time, with proceeds going to Cure Alzheimer’s Fund!
> https://asscreedfans.itch.io/we-love-the-moderns
