It's been a loooooong time, folks. I have to admit I had forgotten this one had existed as well. I found that one and a Hunchback of Notre Dame crossover that were both apparently finished, but hey. XD I'm sorry about how I've fallen off the face of the planet. Between college and my master's program... I don't think I've really written anything in a long time. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it. :) I had forgotten how much I had liked this story. I wondered why I hadn't posted it yet.


He wasn't sure how they had found the Ankh and the other Pieces to bring him back to life. Juno was out there, and Juno was plotting something. At this point, he didn't care. He just wanted to sleep, and sleep forever. The world had known nothing but heartache, and he was ready for his to stop. He was drenched. It was pouring. It was dark. He could see absolutely nothing. He didn't know where his motorcycle was, and he sure as hell didn't know where his keys were. His clothes stuck to him like a second skin. His skin was numb. His mind was numb. He was waiting. He had the patience of a saint. It often happened this way. He was going to make sure everything was taken care of this time.

He could feel it, and when he switched on his Eagle Vision, he could see it.

The pavement beneath his feet was almost reassuring.

His father would have no more grievances with him.

He would no longer hurt for killing Lucy.

No more visions plaguing him from the past.

No one's opinion of him would be able to reach his ears anymore.

He had hoped that he was something special, but those he knew well made it known that he was not, and that there were others with the high concentrations of First Civilization DNA. He was just another cog. Minerva's and Juno's messages were not meant for him, but for someone with similar DNA, and if the world needed saving there was another who could save it instead. He was not special: he was not an assassin. He had made his mind up that he never was and never would be. It was time for him to stop trying to be.

He offered a soft smile as he saw the lights, feeling the impact of the car.

He could hear the car screech to a stop, feeling the pain radiate throughout him. He could hear someone, far away, yelling at him above the sound of the rain. He could make someone out above him, and he smiled. It felt nice. Whoever this stranger was cared for him on his deathbed. He could see the person blink, surprised. He wasn't sure who lifted his hand to touch the person's lips, floating outside his body as the pain seemed a long ways off. He coughed, feeling something alarmingly warm dribbling out of his mouth. He couldn't quite make out the details of the person above him, but he exhaled shakily.

"T-thank-ks-s," he rasped, smiling warmly at the person. "D-ive a-awa-away."

He closed his eyes, letting darkness envelope him as he felt himself float off.

He jolted away in the dark, under a wide and dark night sky.

"Sh-shit," he heard whispered, and he turned his head to look toward the voice.

It sounded familiar. He should know it, but first he needed to figure out how he was alive. He remembered the pain. He remembered the rain and the person. He remembered the impact and the lights and the warmth trickling down his chin.

"W-wait," he rasped, reaching out when he heard the person move to run away. "P-please."

There was a pause in the rustling.

"Where am I?" he asked, sitting up unsteadily.

He turned when he heard someone emerge from the brush, and his eyes grew wide. He recognized that face. He recognized that stance. He knew those clothes, that backpack slung across those shoulders. He recognized that lack of scar, and as he looked around, his stomach sunk. He knew these lands.

"Black Hills," he breathed as the boy—himself—said it at the same time.

"Desmond Miles," he said. "Oh my God. You just ran away from the Farm, didn't you?"

He looked at the boy standing in front of him, who looked alarmed and all kinds of frightened. He looked at his own hands, then back to the kid, then back to his own hands. He was in his own past. He was going to rewrite his own past. He knew what lay in store for himself. He remembered everything. He could hear the boy dart, and he was on his feet in an instant, tackling himself to the ground despite the thrashing.

"Let me go!" the boy hollered, kicking and struggling like a pro.

"Shut up!" Desmond hissed, clamping a hand over his mouth. "Shut. Up!"

"Mmmph—"

"If you don't shut up, your father will find you, and he's going to be so damn angry you're going get thirty belts to the ass."

The boy fell still. He could hear the boy's heart tapping out a rapid pulse under his hand.

"And after those thirty whips, you're going to be run until your feet blister and your hands are raw. And that whole time, that pretty little blonde-haired, blue-eyed girl that dad—Bill—likes so much will stare at you with the saddest expression you've ever seen." He grunted, tightening his grip on the boy as he thrashed again. "You'll hate her for it 'cause William likes her so much. Likes all the kids with blonde hair and blue eyes, right? Every single," he hissed when a kick landed on his shin, "damn one. And you know why he does. You know, don't you? And then you'll return home, and your mother will turn a blind eye to the fucking abuse that you went through, like she always does, because no one has the mother-fucking balls," the boy thrashed harder: he was hitting a sore spot, "to stand up to that dick-headed bastard of a demon you called 'Dad.' He drills you harder than the rest. And as much as you loathe him for it, it's his own undoing. That's how you escaped. You're better than he thought you were—ever will think you are. So you ran away. And now you think you're in the home stretch, don't you? Well I've got a story for you, kid, 'cause there's a pack of wolves roaming these parts, and they're waiting to tear you to shreds if you don't listen to me."

The boy stilled again, trembling in his grip. He could hear the boy swallow, and he removed his hand. The boy was still terrified, every muscle in his body tense, and Desmond knew that his feet were wrapped in rags and the ointment in his backpack was the only thing that would save his life. He knew that his ass was sore and raw. He knew that there were bruises on his arms from where William had grabbed him. He knew the hatred burning in the kid's veins. He's going to give himself a different ending: a better ending, even at the cost of his own life—oh, wait, haha.

"Wh—who are you?" the boy in his arms whispered.

He remembered that fear, and he let himself relax, letting the boy roll out of his hold and flip onto his butt. He pushed himself up, scowling, and looked at him from his hands and knees.

"I'm you. Twenty years from now and freshly back from the dead."

The boy frowned, looking him over closely. He knew the boy was drawing parallels between them, comparing the way they looked.

"Fine," the boy said. "What's in my backpack—"

"Ointment for your feet, which are bound in rags in those ratty sneakers of yours. Your father ran you ragged today because you were caught flirting with that pretty little blonde you've always liked. Aside from that, you've got your mother's necklace, wrapped up in a small piece of oiled rag that William uses to keep the leather on his belt fresh. You have your father's belt, which you're going to use as fire kindling when you finally camp down for the night, just before the wolves find you, and that oil there as well, just to spite him. You have an extra change of clothes: some ratty jeans with holes in them from the hand-me-downs you were forced to take from that huge-ass kid who loved to make you trip so that William would come down harder on you. You have a hankie from the blonde, who at one point used it to mop up the blood on the palms of your hands and let you keep it. That's when you fell in love with her. Get used to it: you'll always lose the blondes you love. You have a knife, a gun with a half-empty clip you'll waste in a panic, and a water bottle that's going to almost kill you with how tiny it is—"

"How did you get here?" the boy asked, looking completely and utterly spooked.

Desmond barked a laugh, pushing himself onto his ass. He shook his head, knowing that this was his second chance. He had to make the time count while he could. He had to change his future, and change it fast. His own backpack was missing. The woman had probably taken all the money he had stuffed in there just to make sure that the order didn't get their hands on it. He sneered, looking at the boy, who was still watching him warily.

"I got here through the very thing that will make your life hell later on in life. I'm here to guide you, kid, and give us a better future."

The boy frowned. "I dunno—"

"Here," he said, unzipping his hoodie and offering it out. "Put this on. Pull the hood over your eyes. Address me as father, and whatever you do, don't look up 'cause your eyes are gonna give you away quicker than a cat in a hen house."

His younger self looked confused, but Desmond knew what was coming.

"Hello? Who's there!" he heard in the familiar voice he had come to loathe so much.

He rose as he watched himself snatch the hoodie and pull it on, zipping it up and flipping the hood up as a flashlight appeared.

"Who are you?" he heard his father growl as he dusted himself off.

"Who I am is of absolutely no concern to you. Gotta problem with it?" he said, cracking his knuckles and meeting that terrifying gaze he had learned to stand up to.

William frowned, looking him over and apparently deciding against trying to intimidate him. The light slid over his younger self slowly.

"Your kid? You look awful young."

"Teenage pregnancy. Ever heard of it?" he said with a sneer, crossing his arms as his younger self tucked himself behind him "At least I love my boy. Best gift of my life."

He could hear the quiet snort his younger self gave as he felt a face press into his back to stifle the giggles. William's eyes narrowed, the grip on the flashlight tightening. He watched his back straighten and knew those signs. It happened only when William was getting irritated. Anyone who knew him would back down—but Desmond was through with giving into him. He would never know it was his own son that was going to be pissing him off.

"I'm glad to know you love your son so much," the man said through gritted teeth. "But my son is missing from his room."

"Really? Well la-de-fucking-da, man. Just how much did you abuse him to make him run away?"

He grinned triumphantly when those eyes narrowed dangerously.

"How old was he? Six? He's probably dead from the wolves around here."

"He's sixteen, and with those wolves here, he probably is dead."

"Oh, I dunno… a sixteen-year-old is a pretty smart kid. Particularly if he's been abused enough to run away from home."

He watched as those eyes flicked back over to his younger self, and he snarled. He knew William knew that Desmond was more than he seemed, but he could tell he didn't know who he was. Just that he had some sort of information that he didn't quite understand how he got.

"Get the hell away from us unless you want a fight."

There was a tense silence, and Desmond sneered, refusing to break the stare of William's. Although if there was much more time with them standing here, there might not be a William for the future.

"Very well. Take care then," his father said as he turned on his heel and walked away.

He watched until William had vanished, then wheeled around and grabbed his younger self's shoulders, squatting to look him in the eye.

"We have about ten minutes to get the fuck out of here, which means that we need to leave now so we have plenty of time to kill those wolves if they attack us."

The boy nodded hurriedly, golden eyes wide, and Desmond turned around.

"Get on my back. You're not fast enough, and your feet will kill you. I'll clean them for you later."

The boy obeyed, and Desmond adjusted to the weight on his back before taking off running—passed the wolves and hearing the boy's squeak of fright. Used to running with this weight when he would carry a novice back to base as Ezio, he knew he could make it at least twenty miles thanks to all that Goddamn training. He was going to start training himself now, training himself better, making him learn those instincts that he lost his mind for originally. He had to tell him what to expect. He wasn't meant to be an assassin. He was going to protect himself. Someone else could save the world, the ungrateful bastards. If they all died, then they would all go down in a fiery blaze from hell, and he would laugh the whole damn time.

His feet found the pavement of Highway 131, and he took off running down it. He had to get through Grand Rapids, and head toward Indiana. They had to beat the snow and ice that would come in a few days. He had no money; the kid had no money. They could stay at the shelter. They could run to Kalamazoo, and he could steal a bike. He could take a bike, and they could get into Indiana, from there into Ohio, travel to the coast, forge a ticket onto a cruise liner over to Italy, and lie in wait for Clay.

Or, they could detour into New York, visit that final temple, steal the damn treasure, and save the world before it needed saving, then take down Abstergo completely and avoid getting Clay dragged into this mess as a whole. He pursed his lips, pacing his breathing as he ran through the streets of Grand Rapids. His younger self was holding on tightly, and eventually, twenty or so miles into his run, he stopped in the middle of fucking nowhere, heaving for breath and just about dying again. But they were safe for now.

The boy slid off his back slowly, frowning as he heaved and panted, sitting just off the edge of the road. He saw him sit in the corner of his eye. He rested his head between his legs, feeling, for all the world, like a fat man entered into a triathlon without any training. He swallowed huge mouthfuls of air, feeling the questions burning inside his younger self. He had a lot of answers to give the poor boy. He gasped loudly, taking the water bottle when offered and draining it all. It helped, and shortly after, he had caught his breath. They were good now.

"Just why are you here, and why are you doing this?"

Desmond heaved a wheezing laugh and shook his head, gesturing for the kid to follow him. He led him into the forest and started a fire, sitting down before looking at him, frowning. The boy was watching him closely.

"I'm doing this because if I don't, you're going to end up a smooshed bug on someone's car."

"What?"

He grimaced. "Look, kid, I'm you. I know that doesn't make any sense, but I'm going to show you things you'd have to wait ten years to find out. If I had let you on your own, you would have been ripped apart by the wolves, poisoned by the sun, hardly alive when you crawled into a shelter, use all your ointment on your feet and your infected wolf bites. You'd make it crawling to New York, dead into Manhattan, where you'd become a bartender. You'd pick up a motorcycle, and then you'd be kidnapped because of it. The people who kidnapped you would mentally torture you, the people you thought were your allies would do the same, and then you'd stab the woman you fell in love with, fall into an uncontrollable depression, and then be ridiculed by your father and your allies about being useless—even though you saved the mother fucking world."

The boy was watching him closely, frowning in clear disbelief.

"And it all sounds crazy, but that depression that you hide so well will eventually cause you to stand in the middle of blinding rain on the highway and smile when you get hit by a car. Smile. You'll enjoy it. I'm here to save you from yourself and this fucked up world. I'll show you all the shit that could happen, and we'll save a couple billion lives in the process."

His younger self kept staring at him.

"All that crazy shit about conspiracy theories is bullshit, but your father's been holding out on you. Those enemies he talks about? Yeah. They're real. They're out to get you, and they're torturing your distant cousins as we speak. I'm going to make sure none of that happens. We're going to take them out, and you're going to live a great life."

He watched his younger self lean back on his hands, which made him wince. He met his gaze, staring at him and just praying his words would get through to him.

"I don't believe a word you're saying," the kid said, and Desmond deflated.

He shouldn't have bothered. He wasn't even sure the kid was sure he was him. He covered his face with his hands.

"But I believe that you're going to save me from the future I've signed myself up for."

"It's not the future you chose," Desmond growled.

"Whatever. I'll trust that you'll guide me into a better future."

He paused, then rubbed a hand against his eyes as he looked at the kid, who was staring at him seriously. The fire crackled merrily, and he could hear the insects all around them in the cold night.

"Why?"

"Because I believe that we're the same person—and if you're what I'm going to be, I'll jump on the wagon to change my future. You look like shit, dude, and you look like you're, like, fifty. Everything you say sounds absolutely batshit psycho."

Desmond couldn't help the smile that tugged at his lips. He didn't remember himself being quite so awesome as a teen.

"And I don't think I like the idea of being poisoned by the sun, or torn apart by wolves, and you clearly know what you're doing, so I'll let you use your experience to get me through."

He couldn't stop the smile as the boy pulled out two cans of soup he had stolen. He remembered those quite clearly. With a chuckle, he took one of them and used the hidden blade to punch a hole in the top. The boy startled, staring at him wide-eyed. He opened a second hole and set it near the fire, holding his hand out for the other can. Apparently, he still had his hidden blade. At least the Fates had a sense of humor.

"Call me Des. We're going to be riding together for a while, and I know how to avoid all of our biggest problems."

The boy slowly handed over the second can, and he punched two holes into it, setting it beside the other. Des leaned back on his elbows, staring at the stars and sighing.

"I really do sound crazy, don't I?"

He didn't need to hear the spooked answer to know that he was.

"I was locked in the asylum for several years. Look, Desmond—you know how strange that sounds to say that?—I don't know how long I have here, or why I'm even given a second chance, but you're not going to like what I tell you."

"Then why tell me?"

"Knowledge is power, and power corrupts, and corruption is absolute. If I can be the one to give you the knowledge, I can guide your corruption and turn it into your greatest weapon. I'll teach you how to survive, how to fight, how to steal, lie, cheat, torture, murder, and live all in several days. I'm not an idiot, but I am crazy. I don't… if I'm given a second chance… I don't want to be driven to that point again."

There was silence for just a moment before he heard a quiet, "What point?"

He grimaced, looking at the boy before flopping on his back. "That soul-eating depression. Just when you think you've got everything going for you, it all gets taken away from you, and you're left wondering what you did wrong for so long. You're just… hollow. There's no life in you. Your mind is broken, and you're stuck in a dark cage with no way out. Your father thinks you're the scum of the earth for killing a golden child, the one man you fall in love with treats you like shit, your days at the bar become a forgotten memory lost under all the pain of the mental hell you've been through…"

The boy was silent, and Des stared at the stars. It had been forever since he had last seen stars through his own eyes. Nevertheless, he looked when Desmond came crawling over to him, frowning. He sure did frown a lot as a kid. They met gazes, and he swore he could see that depression already there, already eating away at him, and he realized with startling clarity that it was. He hadn't known it when he was younger, but it was there already, a slow-killing poison to rot out his bones and destroy his soul. He reached out, ignoring the suspicious look he got as he wrapped his arm around him and pulled him into a tight hug. He had been dying the whole time he had been on the run, and it took him twenty years and a second chance to realize it.

And then he started crying.

He could feel the boy tense in his arms as he cried, but he couldn't help it.

"I'm sorry," he rasped. "I'm so sorry."

He gritted his teeth, trying to pull himself together, and nearly choked on his own breath. Eventually, he felt a skinny set of arms come to rest against his chest, hugging him back and resting against his heaving chest as he cried. He finally stopped after several minutes, wiping his nose and his eyes on his sleeve when it's offered back. They sat up, and he took the bloody hankie that was offered, blowing his nose before shaking his head and throwing it to the side, laughing. He kept laughing, unable to help himself as it evolved into a manic, despaired sort of laugh. The boy at his side looked slightly spooked again, and he rubbed a hand across his eyes and forehead, rocking back and forth.

"Oh my God, we got dealt the shit end of the stick, didn't we? The abusive father, the shitty ending—Clay dies; Lucy dies; your father fucking lives; we go crazy; your best friend hates you—oh my God!" his voice is, perhaps, slightly higher pitched than it should be, but he can't help it. "We'll rewrite all of it, Desmond! We'll fucking destroy the timeline and rule this God-forsaken world. Fucking shit, I'll get avenged! Oh my God!"

He laughed for a while more before his face twisted into one of despaired pain, staring at the fire.

"I'm a fucking lunatic. I'm so sorry you had to find out the hard way, Desmond… This is your future if we can't change it."

He tore his gaze away from the flame with force, seeing himself, ten years younger, holding out a can of Campbell's chicken noodle soup. He blinked, staring at it before he found himself reaching out to grasp it. The metal burned in his hold, and for once he had never been happier to have the pain. The forest around them lent to a feeling of privacy, even with the stars shining through the gap above them. This clearing seemed to be all theirs.

"Here's to changing the future, then," the boy said, and Des looked at the boy, who was holding out his can in the form of a toast.

He knew the metal had to be burning his fingers, but he figured that he might not be able to feel it. He knew how raw his hands were, how accustomed to the pain he had become at that point. But for right now, it was just him and his sixteen-year-old self, out to change the future in a fucked-up sort of wild ride into Hell.

He clanked their cans together and took a sip of the broth, closing his eyes as he realized that this might just be the best thing that's ever happened to him. The liquid burned its way down his throat, and he felt calm.