This fic is a gift for CrimsonEnigma, who is really really rad. Seriously, follow her on tumblr, she's great!
Haytham was going to kill Thomas. Not now, of course. Later, when this mess had been fixed. It might be rather old-fashioned to expect a certain level of competence from one's comrades or allies… but in that respect, Haytham was rather proud to be an old-fashioned man.
There were certain things he felt a man ought to do when faced with an ancient relic of unknown power, and one of those things was to refrain from reaching out and touching it with his bare hands. Of course, it could be argued that Thomas had little control over himself, being half-drunk most of the time, but Haytham was of the opinion that Thomas would do well to realise the boons of sobriety, and quickly. Before anything… unfortunate occurred.
The afternoon had started promisingly enough, with a slightly tipsy Thomas sauntering in when Haytham was speaking with Charles about possible ways to have Braddock sent away, not wanting to entertain the possibility of killing a man who had once been his friend, although reluctantly coming to the conclusion that it was quite possibly the only way to rectify the current situation.
"'Ello, sir," Thomas had said. "I got you a treat."
He'd placed a small but apparently heavy chest on the table, just out of arm's reach of Haytham, and tapped the lid with marginally unsteady fingers.
"You know you been lookin' fer them Precursor thingamugummies?" Thomas grinned. "Well, I think I got one right 'ere."
"You found an artifact?" Charles asked, incredulous that Thomas was capable of efficiency and work on occasion.
"I'm capable of findin' many fings, Charlie," Thomas gave Charles a grin that seemed to particularly irritate him, and turned to Haytham. "One o' my men bought it off some poor sod in Charlestown. Fort I'd better get my hands on it before tellin' you sir. Looks pretty suspicious to me, wot wiv all the weird lines."
"Open it up, then," Haytham said, indicating the box. Thomas undid the clasps holding it shut with minute difficulty. Sure enough, there was an artifact inside, a rounded oblong in shape. Its surface was a dull sort of green-silver, with a hint of gold in the odd lines and circles carved into it. It was perhaps four or five inches in length, and about two in width and depth. It certainly seemed innocuous enough, but the one thing a person could count on with Pieces of Eden was that they were, at best, incredibly dangerous to an unsuspecting fool.
Haytham Kenway very much liked to think of himself as the furthest thing from a fool a man could be, but so transfixed was he with trying to discern this Piece's use from its appearance that he did not notice Thomas reaching toward it, until Charles snapped from behind Thomas one word: "don't!"; and even as his fingers hand reached toward Thomas' wrist to stop the damn fool activating it by accident or something equally possibly devastating, the drunkard's fingertips had made contact with the shape inside the chest and the carvings had come to life, burning the patterns into Haytham's retinas.
He'd blacked out.
When he awoke, apparently less than two minutes later according to the grandfather clock in the corner, he'd been groggy and disorientated, wondering why he was lying on his front and why he felt… wrong. His skin felt as though it stretched over his bones differently, his limbs weaker than they ought to be, his back somehow slightly crooked.
Haytham crawled onto his hands and knees. Why on earth was he on the floor? He'd been sitting down… Wait. The hands holding him off the floor were not his own. His fingers were supposed to be long but thick, with immaculately cut nails and skin just half a shade more tan than most white men. These hands were thinner, nails cut shorter and more roughly, pale beneath the grime.
He glanced about him: There was figure slumped over the table on the chair to his right, a man whose face he could not see but whose hands and clothes he recognised with a jolt of dread. Just behind the chair, very nearly between it and Haytham, was an unconscious Charles, who appeared to be slowly stirring back to wakefulness.
Haytham shut his eyes, and counted to ten to steady his usually unflappable nerves before levering himself up, into a standing position. Sure enough, the man slowly blinking awake on the table appeared to be Haytham himself. Given the evidence he had so far, it wasn't much of a stretch to presume that not only was Haytham unfortunately not currently inhabiting his own body, but that Charles and Thomas were also afflicted by this strange phenomena, though in what manner Haytham couldn't be certain about without actually asking the other two.
"Wake up," Haytham said, lightly slapping the face of his copy. His accent, meshed with Thomas' rough voice, simply sounded wrong. The other man opened his eyes, sat up slowly, and frowned.
"Thomas?" he asked, sharply, before apparently realising that his voice was not his own. So, that almost certainly meant that the man before him was Charles, and the man that was slowly rising behind him was the real Thomas.
"No, Haytham," Haytham replied, shortly, before turning to face the man currently examining his clothes with dismay. "Thomas, you have some explaining to do. In what possible world is it a good idea to touch an artifact of unknown power and effect with your bare skin without any sort of testing or investigation beforehand?"
Thomas glanced up, with startled blue eyes, and took an involuntary step back at the shocking sight of his own face twisted into annoyance. Haytham ignored the gasp from the real Charles.
"Well?" Haytham demanded. Thomas, handling the situation slightly better than Charles, opened his mouth to speak, slouching in his usual manner that looked simply dreadful when it was a well-to-do gentleman crossing his arms and twisting his mouth.
"I, er, I didn't fink, sir."
"That much is obvious."
Thomas winced.
"Look, we still got the artifact, right? So we do a bit o' research, Ole Mister William'll be able to 'elp us out a bit, an' we're right as rain in no time. No need to do anyfin' hasty, like."
Haytham tilted his head back and glared at Thomas. Damn it, he had a point. As much as Haytham would've liked to tear Thomas' head from his body, he'd like more to be himself again. He had a life, things to do, debts to pay and to be collected. He'd spent the past eighteen years training himself in both body and mind to be one of the deadliest men to ever live.
Haytham nodded, after a moment.
"We ought to decide how we're going to explain this to the others," he said. "They'll think us mad."
"We could have them touch the artifact," Charles suggested, still shaky and pale from shock.
"William'd be near 'nuff useless in gettin' us back to normal if 'e got changed like this," Thomas said. "Nobody knows them Indians like 'e does, an' nobody negotiates wiv them as well as 'im either."
"Speak properly," Charles muttered, and the sound of heavy footsteps came from the stairwell. John had arrived, bearing some papers, with Benjamin following him closely behind.
"Master Kenway, I've the information on the slaves kept at Southgate as well as details regarding-" John paused. "Are you three all right?"
Haytham gave Charles a meaningful nod. Charles cleared his throat.
"Ah, yes, of course."
Bollocks! That wasn't what he'd meant at all by the nod! He gave Charles a glare, and turned to face their comrades.
"Not exactly," Haytham said smoothly, enunciating each letter clearly, and was treated to the rare sights of a befuddled John Pitcairn, and a surprised Benjamin Church.