Chapter Text
The morning starts well, for once. Desmond has gotten used to sleeping poorly—ever since he lost his arm, the pain of it wakes him up at least two or three times every night. It's a huge hassle, it takes forever to get back to sleep, and then his dad comes in at practically the crack of dawn anyway to wake him.
His father, for the record, says that 9:00 is not the crack of dawn, and that Desmond should try waking up at 4:30 like William does, if he ever wants to find out what 'the crack of dawn' actually means. Desmond, for his part, is absolutely positive that he will never take his father up on this offer.
This morning, Desmond wakes up with sunlight peeking in through the gaps in his window and the comfortable feeling that he isn't alone in his bed. He feels better rested than he has in months, and his head is too fuzzy from sleep to care who else is in bed with him. After all, he's always slept better when other people are around. This is nice.
But after a few minutes, he wakes enough to start wondering why exactly someone is in bed with him, and flips over so he's not spooning whoever it is. Only it's been a while since he shared a bed with anyone, and he's certainly not used to doing it with a stump--he immediately bangs his arm against something, sending a jolt of pain rocketing up toward his shoulder, and Desmond shouts out in pain.
The someone in bed with Desmond wakes at once at the sound, and the next thing Desmond knows there's a blade in his face and after that everything is just chaos. The tussle ends with pillow fluff flying everywhere and Desmond on his back, good arm pinned helplessly under him, stump doing him absolutely no good as he strains forward with fingers he doesn't have anymore, trying to block a blade that's about to cut him open. He hates this whole phantom limb thing, the claustrophobia of not being able to reach or grasp makes him panic, and-
"Hang on," a familiar voice says, just seconds before Desmond would have been filleted. "Desmond?"
He blinks, breathing deeply to try and calm down. Because this isn't possible, it's not, but… "Edward?"
It is Edward, and Desmond supposes he should have known that as soon as he woke up with someone else in bed with him. Edward has never had much patience for personal boundaries.
"Argh!" Edward rolls over and flops onto his back next to Desmond. "Scoot over, this bed is tiny."
Desmond obligingly inches across the bed so he's as close as he can get to the edge without falling off. He turns his head toward Edward, and comes face to face with Edward looking back at him. Their faces are barely six inches away, and Desmond wonders vaguely if they’re about to kiss again. But he isn’t bleeding anymore, he’d recovered from that three years ago on the day he almost died. He’s never kissed Edward when he’s fully himself, and he’s not sure he wants to. Which of course means absolutely nothing, because if Edward really wants to make out with him, he will.
"So," Edward says. "This is what it's like to be dead."
"Are you dead?" Desmond asks, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. Edward doesn't look any older than Desmond himself is, far too young to have fathered Haytham, much less actually died. He’s maybe… twenty five, thirty? Pirating age, the time time in his life Desmond always thinks of when he thinks of Edward.
"I mean, I guess." Edward shrugs. "You're dead, and the last thing I remember is Haytham waking me up to tell me the house was being attacked, and we all know how that turns out." Desmond frowns--so this is an older Edward? And he just looks younger?
Edward shrugs, then looks thoughtful. "You know, I wonder--if Jenny hadn't told me I was going to die that night, do you think I would have? I might have fought harder, or done something differently. So maybe if I hadn't known I was going to die, I wouldn't have."
"Edward," Desmond interrupts. "Not to stop you while you're waxing philosophical, or whatever, but first of all I'm not dead."
"You're not?"
"No!" he waves his stump. "The thing just took my arm, it didn't kill me."
"So then why am I here, if I'm dead and you're not?"
Desmond shrugs. "Maybe you're not dead. How old are you, Edward?"
"Forty two."
"Yea?" Desmond reaches over with his good arm and pokes at Edward. He feels as solid as he ever had while visiting, and Desmond wonders what the rules are for ghosts. "You don't even look like you're thirty yet."
"Huh." Edward pulls off his shirt. ("God, Edward," Desmond protests. "You had to go and make this weird.") "Look at that." And they both lie in bed and stare at the clean, short scar in the middle of Edward's chest. Desmond cautiously reaches out to touch it, and feels fresh scar tissue as well as dried up blood under his fingers.
"So you did get killed?" he asks.
"Sure looks like a sword went through me," Edward agrees. He wraps the fingers of one hand around the other wrist. "Pulse," he reports.
"And you're breathing."
"So." Edward pulls his shirt back on, much to Desmond's relief, and resettles on his side of the bed with his hands behind his head, staring up at the ceiling. "I got stabbed to death, but instead of actually dying, I came to visit you in the future where both of us are still alive. And I lost about fifteen, twenty years."
"Fifteen," Desmond says. "You're not quite that young."
He settles back so he's also watching the ceiling; it's marginally more comfortable that way, and it's not like he has to see Edward's expression to know his ancestor is making a face at him. "Are you sure you're visiting?" Desmond asks. "I mean, not that I would complain if you were, I'm just really happy to see you at all, but it usually feels different."
"Add it to the list of questions," Edward says. "Along with 'why am I alive,' 'why are you alive,' and 'why am I suddenly your age?'"
"I also have a question." And Desmond literally falls off his side of the bed at the sound of the unexpected voice.
"Dad!" he gasps, scrambling back to his feet. "How long have you been here?"
But William ignores him, arms crossed over his chest as he glares straight at Edward. "And my question is: what the fuck is going on?"
"Okay," Edward mutters as he also stands up. "Maybe this isn't a visit after all."
Desmond tries again. “How long--”
“Since I came to see if you were up yet and found you spooning another man in your sleep!” William snaps. “I’ve been sitting here for half an hour, trying to figure out what you think you’re doing. And then you finally wake up, and I have no idea what I just witnessed but I would like an explanation. Now.” Desmond flinches away from the anger, and then rallies a little when he feels Edward’s hand on his back.
"You can see him," he says, pointing between his father and Edward. "That shouldn't be possible."
"Why is there a dead pirate in your bed?" William practically shouts at Desmond.
"Um…" Desmond shoots a sideways glance at Edward, who mostly just looks like he wishes he was still invisible, which is absolutely no help at all. "That's kind of what we were trying to figure out." He mouths 'say something' at Edward, who shrugs and then looks over at William.
"Technically I'm not dead," he says. "We think. Probably."
"That's not what I meant," Desmond hisses at him. "I meant something that will make everything make more sense, not less!"
"But I have no idea what's going on either!"
"Just say something!"
Edward looks back at William, whose eyebrows are climbing so high up his face they seem to be in danger of flying away altogether. "I am also not technically a pirate," he says. "Anymore." He hesitates. "I mean, I'm not actually sure if 'piracy' is a thing that just kind of sticks to you for the rest of your life, but I did actually get pardoned, if that makes a difference. So… probably not a pirate. Anymore. Definitely not legally."
"There's probably a statute of limitation too," Desmond adds.
"Oh, yea," Edward agrees. "Probably. And I haven't done anything wrong in like… five hundred years."
"Three hundred," Desmond corrects.
"Eh." Edward waves one hand dismissively. "Maths was never my strong suit."
And then they look at each other, and suddenly they're both giggling like fools. Desmond sits back down on the bed when it feels like his legs are about to give out, and feels the mattress dip as Edward collapses next to him. "I have no idea what's going on," Desmond says happily. "But I am so glad you're back."
Edward reaches over and suddenly they're hugging and laughing and crying, and none of William's increasingly confused protests are enough to ruin this moment. "Don't leave," Desmond begs, when William gives up in disgust and goes to wake Rebecca and Shaun, possibly just because he feels like he needs backup. "Please, Edward, don't leave. It's been awful without any visitors."
"Like you said earlier," Edward says. "This doesn't feel like a visit--I think I'm really here, and I don't think I'm leaving any time soon."
Which makes Desmond break down crying again. "Thank God," he says, as Edward smiles understandingly and pats him on the back. "Thank God, thank God, thank God…"
It takes Desmond a while to get himself back under control, but eventually he manages it. He and Edward settle more comfortably on the bed to wait, on top of the blanket Desmond had sort of accidentally stolen from Connor years ago. Desmond can hear raised voices from somewhere else in the safe house, and figures it will probably be a while before anyone comes back in the room to check on them. "Hey," he says at last. "Are you okay?"
"Fine," Edward says. "Not dead, so… fine."
"You're not dead," Desmond agrees. "But I think you must have died, right? I mean, you have the scar--" And he watches Edward's hand go self-consciously to his chest. "And I know what it feels like to… to die, and just not have it stick. It's not fun. So I'm glad you're here, but if you want to talk about it, or anything, I don't think anyone else would really understand."
"I…" Edward fiddles a little with the hidden blades he's still wearing. "Yea. I would like to talk."
But he doesn't. Desmond waits the silence out patiently, knowing that Edward won't be able to stay quiet for long.
"I remember the sword," Edward bursts out after less than a minute. "I remember watching it slide in. It didn't feel like anything, that was the worst part. Because I just watched it, and I thought no, that's not right, that's not how things work…" he laughs without humor. "I thought, the human body can't survive injuries like that… and then it all kind of clicked, and all I could think about was how Haytham was going to have to see me like that."
"I'm sorry."
"He was there," Edward goes on. "The older Haytham. He came to visit, and woke me up for the attack. And then Haytham… the little Haytham, my baby…" Desmond aches to say something, but he is not a father and he can't even imagine what Edward must be feeling at this moment. Dying, he can relate to. But not this. "I knew he must have learned to kill at some point. We both know what kind of man he grew up to be. But I didn’t want to see it start…”
"He'll be okay though," Desmond says. "He grew up strong."
"He grew up alone," Edward says. "And hard, and…" He wraps his hand around Desmond's good arm, squeezing tight. "Desmond, do you think he'll make it here, someday? After he dies, maybe? Because after seeing that, I would really like to talk to him again, and apologize, and just… there are so many things I never said, and it's stupid because I knew the day I would die and it still seemed like I had so much time."
Desmond has no idea what the future is going to hold, he doesn't understand the rules of this new type of visiting at all. But he nods because Edward looks absolutely miserable. "Yea," he says. "Who cares about stupid things like time? I'm sure you'll see Haytham again."
William chooses that moment to reappear in the bedroom doorway, looking tense and upset as he always does when he's confused. "You two," he says, pointing at Desmond and Edward. "Come on. We all need to have a conversation."
"Shit," Desmond grumbles, after William is gone and he's helping Edward off the bed. "He sounds pissed." He heaves a sigh and starts to follow his father. He can't quite help wishing his dad cared about him the same way Edward cares for Haytham.
"Hey--" Edward squeezes Desmond's shoulder, and tries to smile. "He cares, okay? He cares. It’s in the rules."
"Quit reading my mind," Desmond grumbles, but then they start walking again, together, leaning on one another for support. It's not perfect-- Edward has just died, after all, this reunion was never going to be completely happy.
But it's good.