A/N: I started this a while ago, but never posted because it was unfinished. Then I killed a character in another story. And was asked for something to make up for it. So I pulled this out, dusted it off, and finished it. It's ridiculously AU (and maybe a little OOC? I don't write Shaun or Desmond much). BUT! No one dies, and it's got a happy/hopeful ending. So, Bonecrestdragon, this is for you.

-Drizzle-

Desmond pulled his hood lower over his eyes and shoved his hands back in his pockets. Fucking London and its constant fucking drizzle. On the one hand, it's wasn't really all that cold. On the other hand, it felt like the same temperature no matter what time of day it was. Forty-something and drizzly. All the fucking time. It was not the first time he wondered how he had ended up there.

Of course, he knew the answer. It was a simple one. Simple and pretty and blonde. Lucy. He had stupidly quit his job in New York and followed Lucy to England, sure things would work out just fine. But, of course, they didn't. Lucy betrayed him. And left him alone in this drizzly, grey city, and he had too much pride to go running home and admit to everyone that it had been a mistake.

So he found himself a shitty room in a shitty flat with a slightly crazy Turkish guy who Desmond was pretty sure built bombs in his spare time. But Yusuf was also the perfect bit of crazy Desmond needed to keep this depressing city from completely eating his soul.

Although Desmond couldn't blame either Lucy or Yusuf for why he was standing on a quiet street corner in the wet, grey London air. That was all Shaun's doing. And Desmond really had no idea how he had ended up there.

He had run into Shaun—literally—on his way out of the café around the corner from his flat. Admittedly, he hadn't been paying attention to where he was going, but Shaun's little tirade was a bit over the top. Especially considering it was Desmond's coffee that was spilled and Desmond's phone that shattered on the sidewalk. Shaun came out of the incident completely unscathed. But he let out an impressive string of curses and got red-faced and probably had his fists clenched. Desmond didn't really remember, being too flustered by whole situation and the fact that he was going to be late to his interview.

His interview had gone well, despite him showing up late and still rattled from the incident. When Claudia, the woman who owned the bar, asked how he was finding London, Desmond had unthinkingly commented on the city being full of assholes. Claudia just arched an eyebrow at him, and he hastily explained how he had lost his coffee, destroyed his phone, and been called a tiny child by the too-well-dressed ginger he'd accidentally bumped into. Claudia laughed so hard she nearly fell out of her chair. And then she hired him. Desmond had returned to the café to repurchase the same coffee he'd lost an hour prior only to find that Shaun, belatedly developing some sort of conscious, had paid the barista for a coffee for Desmond's next visit. He had also left a business card.

Desmond sent a short email to thank him—both for the coffee and for inadvertently helping him get a job.

Shaun had replied with mild curiosity about how he'd helped. So Desmond retold the story—and didn't even feel guilty about telling Shaun he'd called him an asshole. Shaun didn't respond.

But then, two days later, Yusuf was out climbing buildings or some such nonsense, and Desmond was hungry. And he wanted pizza. So he sent Shaun an email and asked if he could recommend a decent pizza joint in the neighborhood near the café.

Shaun's response was something along the lines of "I have a job, you know. A job that requires a great deal of concentration, so you'll forgive me if I don't have time to play tour guide."

Five minutes later, Desmond got another email with the name of a restaurant a few blocks away.

It wasn't New York pizza, but it was decent. Desmond told Shaun as much in an email. Shaun replied with some insignificant question about being from New York, and a string of emails ensued. Emails that lasted into the evening, when Shaun was clearly no longer at work.

Then trickled into the next day.

And the next week.

And the week after.

And somewhere along the way, Desmond may have admitted to being homesick. Or lonely. Or perhaps both. It was one of those emails that he shouldn't have even sent. But he'd hit the send button before he really thought about it.

Shaun's reply suggested going out on the town and enjoying "the local color."

Desmond couldn't tell if Shaun was being serious or being snarky. Snark was sometimes difficult to detect in email, and Shaun seemed to be full of it. Unable to make up his mind about the intent, Desmond decided to ignore the email and go to bed.

When he woke up, he found another email. With a date, time, and address.

And so Desmond was standing on a street corner in the fucking drizzle, waiting for the asshole who had called him a tiny child. And he was still trying to figure out why.

Maybe it was because he was homesick. And lonely. Or, maybe, it had something to do with the fact that he grinned whenever he saw the little blue light on his phone flash, letting him know he had a new message. Or that he sometimes found himself checking his email even when the light wasn't flashing. You know, just in case. Because he liked hearing from Shaun. Even in email, he could tell Shaun was smart. Not just clever, but legitimately smarter than most people. Smarter than Desmond, for sure. He was funny, too. Witty. The kind that made Desmond laugh out loud, earning looks from Yusuf across the room.

Then again, maybe Desmond was just bored.

But when Desmond saw Shaun turn the corner, still impeccably dressed save the drizzle-spattered glasses and hideous red and blue striped scarf, and his stomach did some thing that felt much too much like butterflies, he decided to stop thinking about why he was there.

"Oh, good," Shaun said by way of greeting. "You're not late."

Desmond just sort of stupidly nodded and followed Shaun to the station. It took him a minute to think to ask where they were going.

"Croyden" was all Shaun said.

After a couple of stops and some small talk, Desmond asked, "Where exactly is Croyden?"

"South." Shaun looked at him for a moment and shook his head. "You're very trusting, getting on a train with someone you barely know to go somewhere you've never heard of. I could be a killer, you know."

Desmond snorted out a laugh. "I've worked as a bartender for a long time. I'm pretty good at spotting trouble, and I know I can defend myself."

"Listen to you, trying to be all 'bad-ass.'"

"I'm sure I've been in and broken up more fights than a historian," Desmond replied.

"Are you mocking my job?" Shaun tilted his head. "Because I'll have you know I do very important things for the museum. I have a gift, Desmond. I have a gift for seeing things. Making connections, like your 'spotting trouble,' I suppose. Only useful."

Desmond rolled his eyes and laughed again. "So why is the frightening, killer historian taking me to Croyden?"

Shaun smirked. And pulled a little envelope from his pocket, handing it to Desmond. Desmond opened it and pulled out two tickets.

"You're taking me to soccer game?"

Shaun grimaced and snatched the tickets back from Desmond's hand.

"Football match, Desmond. Football. Match. And yes. I did say local color, didn't I? And you told me last week you hadn't been to one yet. We will drink overpriced pints and eat mediocre pies and call the referee a wanker at least once."

"A wanker?" Desmond raised his eyebrows.

Shaun narrowed his eyes. "Is there a problem?"

"Nope," Desmond shook his head quickly. "Just clarifying."

The rest of the train ride was consumed by Shaun explaining to Desmond the way the professional soccer—football—worked in England, the worst teams dropping down to a lower league and the good teams getting bumped up. It was pitch not a field and boots not cleats. Desmond, of course, knew all of this already. He'd watched games on television with Yusuf and, well, he wasn't an complete idiot. But after weeks of emailing, he decided he liked listening to Shaun talk.

And when his brain made that particular decision, his stomach did that thing gain.

"You could at least pretend to listen, Desmond," Shaun said, shaking his head.

"What? Sorry, I was—no, I was listening. Your team will probably lose today because they're playing against the top team in the league. I was listening."

Shaun turned out to be wrong. They did drink overpriced pints and ate mediocre pies and called the referee a wanker. But Shaun's team won. It was a lucky mistake, but a win is a win. And, as he watched Shaun, impeccably dressed, bespectacled, historian Shaun, sing and chant and swear just as loudly as the rest of the mostly-drunk crowd around them, Desmond ignored the drizzle and grinned.