They were silent for the rest of the food, and he eventually wandered off with the cans and the bottle to find water. He ended up finding a house—a lucky break. He picked the lock, snuck in, stole several water bottles, refilled theirs, grabbed a pair of soft shoes for his younger self to wear, and even snagged some food and medical supplies. Like a shadow, he left with their new goods in a new backpack. The house was nice, but he had more important things to worry about. He padded back to the small fire to see Desmond unwrapping his feet. They were blistered and raw, oozing puss and blood, and he couldn't stop the wince when he saw them.

"You remember it?"

He nodded, sitting down beside him. "I do. Where's your ointment?"

They said nothing more as he cleaned his feet, caked in dirt, applied the ointment, and wrapped them before putting on the soft, moccasin-like boots. He moved to the boy's hands and cleaned them, staring sadly at the raw palms and bloody welts as he bandaged him. He remembered the abuse. He remembered how no one came to his aid despite the obvious injuries.

Finally, Desmond spoke: "What was Bill like whenever you saw him for a second time after you ran away?"

Des shrugged in return. "He hadn't changed. He actually forced me to become crazier. Insisted on it. Then tore me to pieces in front of the entire order."

"What order?"

He inhaled as the boy crawled into his lap, and he wrapped his arms around him as if to protect him. Then, on his exhale, he told him all about the order, the Templars, the secret war, and what had actually happened to him.

By the time they were done, the rays of dawn were peeking over the edges of the trees. He had found a dense thicket of brush, showing the boy how to make a make-shift shelter as he spoke of the secret war and everything. They had snuffed out the fire, made themselves disappear, and then crawled into the small clearing in the thorn-laden thicket. As Des curled around himself, pulling the boy close and hearing his breathing even out quickly, he closed his eyes, exhaling gently. His skin was scratched and poked, but he had lent the boy his hoodie, and that was the important thing. He remembered the feeling of neglect and doubt, and he was going to start by loving himself. They could reach Kalamazoo tomorrow night, and he could carry him the other thirty miles. There was a nice homeless shelter there, and he remembered getting a warm meal and some more ointment for his wounds there.

He would right the wrongs of the past one by one.

He slept deeply that night, no nightmares, no night terrors, no nothing. Just deep darkness and peaceful rest. So, when he woke up to find his younger self shaking, he could easily wake enough to rub the boy's thigh, earning a fearful look.

"Don't worry, Desmond. The first night's always the shocker, waking up in some place that is not your bed in some place that is not your home. It's always frightening."

He watched the kid nod slowly, the boy in his arms turning around completely to press his face against his chest.

"I want mom," the boy whispered.

And he remembered that. He remembered the pain of not having his mother around to comfort him. It didn't matter that she willingly turned a blind eye to the abuse because she had comforted him when he needed it. He remembered the sensation of longing for his mother that had seemed to drip in over the course of his first night on the road, that hideous feeling of loneliness and wanting a companion even though it dawned on him that no one back at the Farm cared for him. If someone had truly cared, he wouldn't have run.

Perhaps he could replace his mother for his younger self. He knew what he wanted, the coddling and the love that he never got at home. He could love himself as conceited as that sounded. He could spoil himself with love and affection.

Anything to save himself pain later on.

He held the boy, feeling him tremble and saying nothing as he let the boy cry softly. He let him cling to him, feeling his tears soak through his thin tee shirt. They needed to get moving soon, to get to Kalamazoo soon, to get to Abstergo soon.

But as he heard the muffled sob into his chest, he decided there were more important matters at hand.

He would have to save his mother before she let herself die at the hands of the Templars. He softly shushed himself, rubbing his back and knowing exactly what he wanted. He knew what he wanted when he cried, a chest to sob against, a hand rubbing his back, and the other wrapped around him tightly to make himself feel loved. He remembered that feeling of isolation. He pulled himself closer, tighter, letting him cry as his song changed from "I miss mom" to "Why me?" until the boy had cried everything in his system and violent hiccups wracked his body, his nose dripping and his eyes puffy and red-rimmed. He offered a concerned look, not a smile because he would punch himself if he smiled, and used the edge of the hood to dry his eyes before pulling out the hankie from last night.

It was only semi-clean from washing it with a bottle of water, but it was still usable, and when they finally crawled out of the thorn bush, he could visibly see the relief in the boy's face. He remembered that look, that one that he saw in the mirror of the shelter after running away and he let himself cry. He remembered it, and his entire chest hurt with those memories.

"Sorry about that," Desmond muttered as he wiped his eyes and sat on his ass near where the fire was yesterday.

Des shook his head. "Don't worry about it. I'm just glad I could see you cry, instead of locking yourself up in a shelter and pulling out your hair."

"Is that what you did?"

He offered a shaky smile. "Yeah. I did. Had some nice bald spots on my head the next day."

Desmond looked at him, blinked, then laughed quietly, shaking his head. Des washed the hankie with another bottle of water, then squeezed the cloth out and tucked it into the pocket of his hoodie. The boy was still wearing it, but it was probably for the better with the hood covering his eyes for their travel. He looked at the boy, pulling out a protein bar and one of those small boxes of cereal. He didn't even know what he had grabbed, but despite the two water bottles wasted on the hankie, he still had the tiny water bottle Desmond had grabbed and two more bottles, with a box of protein bars, a mix of various cereal boxes, a couple of cans of various things, and even a box of macaroni.

Of course, he had no idea how they would make a box of macaroni on the run without milk and butter, but the noodles had to be worth something.

"Where did you get all that?" the kid asked with a frown, and Des looked up at him.

"I stole it from a house not too far from here last night. That's where I got those shoes, too."

The boy was quiet as he looked down at his feet. His frown deepened.

"You stole them?"

"If you're worried about that, just wait until you make your first kill."

The boy looked hilariously startled, and Des couldn't help but laugh.

"Come on, Desmond. I told you: I'm gonna teach you how to live on the streets."

He grabbed himself a protein bar and handed the kid the bag. Desmond looked at him suspiciously as he took it and put it on. Before he opened his breakfast, he turned around and crouched for Desmond to get on his back. He wasn't expecting a struggle to walk: he knew how bad his feet were hurting him.

"Kid, this is what you've been training for. Trust me: your father was preparing you to fight and kill."

"Yeah. I remember that from the training, but I was hoping I could have gotten out of it," the boy said as he shrugged on the backpack, rose shakily to his feet, and climbed without protest onto his back.

"You wouldn't. I'll shield you as much as I can, but it's inevitable. Especially when we go to Abstergo."

"They'll have guns, though," the boy muttered, holding on tightly.

That backpack weighed more than the boy it felt like. Of course, Des also remembered how skinny he was at the time he ran away. Just borderline malnourished, he had often thought. He started walking at a brisk pace, occasionally pausing to take a bite of the protein bar.

"We'll have something better."

"That mind-control thing?"

"Exactly."

"And you know how to use it?"

"Champ, I've murdered so many men with that thing. Ironically, to rescue our father. Not ironically, to kill the Abstergo goons with the guns."

It was quiet after that, all thoughts of Des's on reaching Kalamazoo, and the younger probably thinking about everything he'd learned over the course of the night. They reached the highway, and started walking.

By midnight, they were both sick of it.

By early, early morning, he could feel the younger getting itchy on top of his back, the only thing holding him back from walking the injuries on his feet, although Des could guess soon he'd ask to be let down and he would walk regardless. He himself was sick of walking along the road. His feet were rather sore, and he was still hungry. They hadn't stopped yet for "lunch," but Des was eager to get to New York as quick as possible to take care of that stupid final temple.

It was their lucky day when a car slowed down, the window rolled down, and Des's eyes were flooded with the color blue in the dark night just momentarily.

"Where you headed?" the man asked.

"New York," Des replied, feeling Desmond press his face against the back of his neck. "Or Kalamazoo first. Just gotta get away from Grand Rapids."

The woman on the inside smiled warmly. "Come on in! We'll give you a lift to Kalamazoo!"

"Are you sure this is safe?" the boy whispered, and Des nodded.

"We'll be safe, Desmond. I promise you I'll teach you your first trick once we hit Kalamazoo."

The boy was silent but slowly slid off his back. He grimaced at the look of pain when his feet hit the pavement, but Desmond hobbled to the door, clutching the backpack close as he slipped into the back of the sports car. Des slipped in beside him, relaxing into the seat.

"Thanks a million."

The car picked up speed again as the man laughed. "No problem. Why're you running away from Grand Rapids?"

"Abuse survivors," he muttered, wrapping his arm around Desmond when the boy leaned in.

The car was silent for a while before the woman looked back at them. They were friendly enough looking people, young like a freshly married couple. The woman was in a business suit, and the man in regular clothing. He wondered what a pretty young lady like her was doing in a business suit at early morning. Her makeup was done nicely, her strawberry blonde hair done in a tight bun. He vaguely wondered if she was a psychiatrist, then almost laughed at the idea of asking her for a session.

"Abuse?"

Younger Desmond showed her his bandaged hands, the bruises on his arms, and then took off his shoe to show her the bandages on his feet. Des grabbed the foot gently, just before Desmond could put it back in the shoe, and unbandaged it and the other foot, taking the backpack and reapplying the ointment and bandages. The gauze he had originally put on it was disgusting, soaked completely through with what little was left of the ointment and the pus from the blisters and raw skin. There was a laceration on the right foot on the side he had taken extra care around and an infected, stitched gash on the left from a stick that he had accidentally stepped on in one of the runs his father made him do. The ointment had seemed to help a little, some of the ugly coloring gone and the inflamed skin not quite as puffy. Yes, he remembered that miracle ointment. He carefully stuffed the disgusting gauze and bandages in the backpack, packaged in the box he had taken from the protein bars, then undid the bandages on the boy's hands to stuff them in there.

They were scabbing over nicely, and when the boy pulled them back after he unbandaged them, he nodded in compliance. He could respect the decision to let the wounds on his hands get some air. He tucked the moccasin-like shoes into the backpack and zipped it before leaning back. Desmond curled against him, and he slung his arm around his shoulders as they leaned together. Des's gaze slipped back to the woman who was watching them worried. He offered a soft smile to her.

"Don't worry. We're going to make it."

"Would you like a place to stay until that boy's feet star—"

"Isabel, we really don't have the room in our house," the man said.

"Julian, we really don't have a choice. That boy needs to stay off his feet!"

The man frowned, and Desmond frowned as well, tucking himself tighter against him.

"Really, ma'am," Des responded, reclining in the backseat, "we'll be okay if we can just make it to Kalamazoo."

"Don't listen to my husband. He's an idiot. We have plenty of room. If he gets sent to the doghouse, he just doesn't want to sleep on the couch. Your brother there needs to stay off his feet. I'm glad you ran away. What kind of father does that to his child?"

Des grinned like a shit, reclining as the woman turned around and pointed at her husband.

"I swear, if you do that to our children, I'm going to rip off your testicles and turn you into a sissy little slut I can sell for money."

The man sighed, and Des laughed, giving the boy a playful noogie. "See? There are people who care. Just no one we knew."

The boy swatted at him and pulled away, looking and frowning. "So, you're saying that we've been with the wrong people?"

Des winked. "Exactly. You'll find strangers are often nicer."

"You poor boy. How did he get away with all that?" the woman asked, looking at them again.

Desmond leaned against him, propping his feet up on the backseat and leaning against his older self.

"No one came to his help, and I was gone for a while with work," Des said. "But eventually I just turned in my resignation, took him, and ran."

"It's… nice," Desmond murmured, looking at his hands. "Knowing I'm not going to be run dead every time he catches me flirting."

"Or with a hand down your pants."

"Or mixing up instructions."

"Or accidentally stumbling during practices the day after he ripped you a new one."

"I remember that."

The woman shook her head, looking, perhaps, entirely too upset. "That's terrible."

Des shrugged. "That's why we're here now. Once he's all healed up, we're high-tailing it to New York, then over to Italy."

The lady sighed. "Yes, well, you're welcome to stay with us as long as you need to."

"Thanks, ma'am," they chorused together.

They were driven into Kalamazoo, the woman having turned in to her thoughts as the man opened the window. It was a pretty little house, a light blue and two-stories, a neighbor on either side and the porch looking inviting. The path to the front door was short enough Desmond demanded to walk by himself, although he could see the hesitancy in the boy's eyes. He helped Desmond out of the car, letting him walk slowly to the door as the woman hovered beside him. The man opened the house to them, and they were shown to a room. The woman said her husband would fix breakfast, that he didn't work and she was heading off to her office, and they could join him if they didn't want to sleep first. Apparently, the guy had gone off to a concert with friends, they got separated afterward, and he needed her to come get her.

He had never felt something so wonderful as a hot shower, and as he and Desmond settled down for the night, he just about melted into the mattress, hearing Desmond's sigh of utter contentment. The shower had been incredible, and even though he almost laughed at the filthy water that streamed down him and his younger self. Surprisingly, a shower had not been awkward between them, perhaps due to the fact that they were the same person, but younger Desmond was used to the commune showers and Des didn't have any qualms with bathing in front of another. He joked about it all the time when he and Shaun were forced to shower together to conserve both time and water in Monteriggioni. Come to think of it: he hadn't had a steaming hot shower since he was kidnapped. He felt incredibly relaxed and sleepy, and the light of morning was just beginning to peek through the window, and they were finally safe in a house, curled up in a warm bed. The comforter was fluffy and warm; the sheets, clean and crisp, and the bed itself was soft and not at all like the cots in the asylum and on the run. And the pillows were down, down pillows in the most comfortable bed of his life. After two years in an asylum, this felt like Heaven.

"Hey, Des?"

He lifted his arm as the boy turned over to stare at him. The serious look in the boy's eyes made him quirk an eyebrow.

"Yeah? What is it, little man?"

He laughed at the scowl that got him. He knew though, without a shadow of a doubt, that it was just partially a façade and that Desmond was actually a little happier with a nickname, something he had always considered a symbol of being cared about. Still, when that scowl turned back into a frown, he swore he saw a hint of excitement in those haunting golden eyes.

"I was curious."

"About what?"

"Well," the boy began, licking his lips and nestling down, those eyes boring holes into his own as he pursed his lips into a frown vaguely familiar of his father's. He blinked, shaking himself quickly of the thoughts. "I started thinking, and you must know yourself—us—pretty well by now, and… well, no. Never mind. Nothing. Sorry. What was that trick you told me you were going to show me?"

Des blinked at the sudden change in thoughts. He studied the kid for a minute, then shrugged it off when the kid refused to budge.

"It's called Eagle Vision. We're going to have to work on it, but I bet you can do it. It's there, resting and waiting."

Desmond quirked an eyebrow, just before yawning. "What's it do?"

"It lets you tell enemies from allies, targets from trash."

"That… sounds really… useful."

"It's cooler once you can actually use it: I promise."

"Are you sure?"

"Trust me."

Desmond snorted. "You're fucking batshit."

Des grinned, throwing an arm over his younger self's side. The kid jerked to pull away, and he let him, watched him roll over to the other side of the bed and scowl at him.

"That's gay, man."

"That a problem?" Des said waggling his eyebrows in the most ludicrous way possible.

Silence. "What?"

"Is that a problem?"

Desmond blinked, staring at him with wide eyes and a mildly stunned expression. He winked at the kid.

"I'm telling you: anal is wicked if you get a good partner."

He wasn't going to lie and say that didn't remember Altaïr and Malik's nights together, or, for that matter, the crush he had developed on Leonardo himself, or the not-so-subtle pining after Shaun, or the few one-night stands he didn't have with a woman.

"Soft curves are nice and all, but sometimes what you really need is a good, hard dick up your—"

"Shut! Up! Oh my God! I-I don't! Ew! What the hell, man! What the actual hell!"

He laughed at Desmond's horrified expression as if he had just told him he'd be fucking his mother later on in life. He looked absolutely disgusted and a little bit mortified; although, Des noted as the kid calmed down, he thought he saw something akin to morbid curiosity there.

"Seriously?" Desmond asked, looking at him with his lip twisted as if he were the sickest thing ever.

Des grinned like a shit and winked. "I swear, man. You wanna know all the dirty little secrets about yourself? I can tell you."

Desmond's nose wrinkled, and he pulled back slightly. "You are so fucking strange."

"I'm also twenty years out of my time."

Desmond rolled his eyes, flipped over to give him his back, and muttered, "Christ, you're an old man."

Des snorted, grinned, and settled on his stomach instead of grabbing Desmond and putting him in a headlock. "I am not old, pipsqueak!"

Desmond squawked, turning around to face him and scowl. "I am not a pipsqueak, you dinosaur!"

He grinned, looking at him. "Rawr, man."

The kid frowned, his eyebrows scrunching together. Des simply closed his eyes. There was silence for a little bit before he heard, "So, how do you do the Eagle Vision?"

Well, he thought, this was going to be interesting.