September 25, 1212

-/-

Darim squirms on the uncomfortable chair in his dad's office, trying not to think too hard about the fact that he's only ever been invited into the room before to hear bad news. And his dad looks really upset right now, so probably something's really wrong. Darim wracks his brain, trying to remember if he's done anything recently that could justify the grim mood in the room, and comes up blank.

"What happened?" he asks eventually, because even if the answer is terrible, it can't be anything worse than being forced to wait any longer. Besides, everyone was totally fine when he left. Things can't have fallen apart that fast.

His dad sits down next to him, looking at Darim very intently. "Do you remember," he says slowly. "When Sef was born, and we had that conversation about your responsibilities as an older brother?"

"Yea," Darim says. It's actually the first really clear memory he has, because he'd only been two years old at the time. "Why? Mom's not- she's not pregnant again, is she?" Not that it would really be a bad thing, but- well, it's been a while.

"No."

"Oh." Darim frowns and guesses again. "Then- is Sef alright?"

"That's complicated," his dad says.

"How can it be complicated?" Darim demands. "Either he's alright or he's not."

"I told you then that it's your job to protect Sef, because he's younger and smaller than you. And you've done a really excellent job with that, especially once Desmond came into the picture. But... things are going to have to change now. You're not exactly the oldest anymore."

Darim laughs. He can't really help himself, because he doesn't know how to react. "What?"

"There was an accident," his dad says. "With the apple. Sef and Desmond were here at the time, and they're both older now."

It should be impossible to believe, but Darim has no trouble. He keeps thinking of the day Desmond came to Masyaf, and of seeing him change from a grown man to a child. "How old?" he asks quietly.

"Twenty five."

"Wow." Darim is seventeen, and twenty five still seems an impossibly long way away. "That's- what am I supposed to do?"

"I'm not going to lie to you," his dad says. "This is not going to be easy for anyone. Things are going to have to change around here. I know you're used to protecting your brothers, because they were younger and they needed it. But the apple-"

"They don't need me anymore," Darim says quietly. "Is that what you're saying?"

"Not at all. I'm saying that they need you more than ever," his dad says. "Just in a different way. I need you to be calm. I need you not to distance yourself from them. I need you to be the one that keeps this family together because-" his mouth twists briefly into a humorless smile. "Sometimes I think you're the only one of us that's at all sane."

Darim nods, dazed but not sure what else to do or feel. "When do I get to see them?" he asks.

"A couple hours," his dad says. "I told your mother and Malik before you got back, and they're all talking it over now."

"Okay," Darim says. He doesn't even object to being the last one to find out, because he's only just gotten back home, and anyway it sounds like no one outside the family knows. Except Malik, and he pretty much counts as family anyway. "I can wait."

Apparently on cue, Darim hears an outer door open, and two voices talking quietly. Darim's out of his chair and halfway to the door when he thinks to look to his dad for permission. Maybe this isn't okay. Maybe it would be better to wait, and leave this for later. Or never.

"Go on," his dad says, and Darim pretty much bolts through the door.

His first impression is that two strangers have just walked in, and Darim finds himself lingering against the wall near the door, suddenly and uncharacteristically shy. Instead of saying something, Darim just stands in silence and watches.

The closer he looks, the more points of familiarity he's able to pick out. Desmond is easy to identify- his arms at least are as distinctive as ever, one marked by ink and the other burned nearly to the shoulder. Sef, on the other hand, is recognizable less as himself and more as their father's son. Grown up like this, he really looks like their dad. There's a certain softness to his features though, probably from their mom, the two sides of his heritage coming together to give him a look that is distinctly his own.

Darim suddenly feels like he's falling, like the world is upside down and he has nothing to hold onto. His little brothers are older than he is now, and Darim suddenly realizes that's what his life is. It's protecting Sef and Desmond, from the world, from themselves, from each other. If they don't need him, who is he supposed to be? Darim glances over his shoulder, and shares a look with his dad. Neither of them says anything, but Darim feels a little better knowing he's not the only one that's lost a little bit of purpose today.

And it's worse because Desmond and Sef don't seem to care. They're not even arguing, they seem happy. Darim frowns and crosses his arms defensively before finally speaking up. "So how did mom take it?" he asks.

"Uh-" Sef winces, apparently only now noticing that Darim is in the room. "Well, she's pretty surprised."

Desmond snorts and mutters, "Understatement."

"Is she pissed?"

"She was at first," Desmond says. "But she calmed down. Sort of."

"Dad's not too mad either," Darim goes on. "So that part's probably my job, right?"

"If you're worried that no one's going to tell us how stupid we were, don't bother," Sef grumbles. "Malik's got that one covered."

"Good," Darim says. "He's better at it anyway."

They hesitate, and silence starts to fall awkwardly over the three of them. It would be very easy, Darim realizes, to just say nothing and let the silence stay. But if that happens, they won't be able to start talking next time without it being awkward, and the silence will be all there is. They won't talk, they won't be friends, they'll be brothers in nothing but name. And Darim is angry at them, for fighting somewhere stupid, and growing up, and for leaving him. But when no one else speaks up, he bites down his anger and does it himself.

"So do you still have to go to training?" He asks, leaning back against the wall. "Because that would be pretty weird."

"Nope," Sef says, and grins at him. "Older means more experienced."

"Wow," Darim says. "Way to skip all the hard parts. Does that make you guys full assassins?" Overnight. And yesterday they were novices.

"It hasn't come up yet," Desmond says, shrugging.

"Oh." Darim frowns, thinking about more experience and hard parts and the stuff older guys do with girls. "So… have you… you know. With anyone?"

Desmond throws back his head and laughs, while Sef's face goes through a series of expressions that suggest he hasn't thought of this possibility yet. Behind him, Darim hears his dad make a choking noise from where he's apparently been listening in.

Darim laughs a little, and then Sef smiles- just like that, it's not the same as it was, but at least it's not silent anymore. It's something new. The way it has to be.

-/-

March 13, 1213

Six months later

-/-

Lately, since getting his memory and his old body back, Desmond's been struggling to figure out what and who he's supposed to be. He lived for twenty five years in the twenty first century, was born and lived and very nearly died there. But in Masyaf, a place he's only lived for thirteen years, he's sort of found a family. A messed up family, true, but from what everything he's seen- in New York, in Masyaf, even in the animus- pretty much everyone's family is messed up.

"Hey," Darim says, and Desmond realizes he's climbed up next to him without his hearing. "Why are you sitting on a roof in the middle of the night?"

"Just thinking," Desmond says. It's not the first time he's wandered up somewhere quiet to think, and it probably won't be the last. "What are you doing here?"

"I was looking for you," Darim says, as though this is the most obvious thing in the world. "It's your birthday."

"Right," Desmond says. "I forgot." He hasn't, but he doesn't want to talk about it, either. Unfortunately, Darim doesn't seem to get the hint.

"So, how old are you, actually?" he asks.

"Uh-" that's actually a good question. "Technically, I have a twenty five- sorry, twenty six- year old body. But I spent thirteen years here after living for twenty five years in the future, so that makes me thirty eight."

"So-"

"And then again," Desmond goes on. "I won't be born until 1987, so that makes me negative seven hundred and seventy four."

"Wow," says Darim. "Alright, I'll be honest, sometimes I'm really jealous that you and Sef got to skip most of the novice training and go straight to full assassin. But at least when people ask me how old I am I can just say seventeen."

It's meant to be a joke, but Desmond doesn't smile. Technically, it's not true that he and Sef are full assassins- Sef had been inducted a couple of weeks after the incident with the apple, as soon as it was clear that he's come through with all the training and skills he would have had if he'd aged normally. Desmond, on the other hand, hasn't decided yet if that's something he wants.

Darim's eyes dart down to Desmond's left hand, which still has all five fingers. The right hand, of course, is half crippled from that long ago burn at the temple in New York, and will never be able to work a hidden blade. "You never told me why," he says. "Dad says you're a very good assassin. He says you saved the world in the future, but technically you're still a novice."

Desmond sighs. "It's complicated."

"Why?" Darim asks.

"It…" Desmond hasn't actually told anyone his reasons yet, but for some reason he keeps going. "It's the hidden blade. This is the only period in history when you have to get your finger cut off to use it. I just feel like if I do that, I'm committing myself to this century. And I haven't decided that yet."

"So you're thinking about leaving?" Darim asks.

"This isn't my time," Desmond explains.

"Why not?" Darim asks. "You spent thirteen years here. You said it yourself."

"Yea," Desmond says. "And twenty five in the future."

"So what makes that century more important than this one?" Darim asks.

"I want to go back to New York," Desmond says, and realizes this is true only as he says it out loud. "I need to look at my life there, and then look at my life here, and figure out where I belong."

"Here," Darim says. His voice is equal parts stubborn and plaintive.

"Well." Desmond leans back and stares up at the stars, even though there are no answers there. "I'm glad you're sure."

"Did you tell dad any of this?" Darim asks.

"No," Desmond says. Then he frowns and stands up. "But I'm going to."

"What, now? It's the middle of the night."

"Which just means he'll be messing with the apple while Maria's asleep," Desmond says. "It's probably better for him to spend the night arguing with me than whatever he's using the apple for."

Darim makes a face and nods, standing as well and following Desmond off the roof. It's so obvious to everyone else that the apple is dangerous, but Altair cant seem to let it go."How would you do the time travel?" he asks.

Desmond shrugs. "The apple, maybe," he says. "It's precursor technology, and they're the only ones that know how time travel works."

"And suddenly I am very in favor of you going away for a while," Darim says. "Dad uses that thing way too much." Desmond nods, and stops outside Altair's office door.

"I'm going to ask him on my own," he says. "I'll tell you how it goes, though."

Darim shrugs and leaves without protest- he wants nothing to do with the apple, and he has no doubt that's what his dad will be occupied with at this time of night. Sure enough, when Desmond goes in and closes the door behind him, Altair is hunched over, cradling the apple on his lap, eyes focused on something in the distance only he can see.

-/-

March 13, 1213 (Moments later)

-/-

Desmond's lip curls in disgust almost involuntarily at the sight of the apple's too-familiar glow. For a second he just stands in the doorway, trying to steel himself before going in. Talking to Altair shouldn't be difficult- Desmond helped raise Altair. He's been in his memories, thanks to the animus. And Altair has been something of a father to him, too. They used to be close- but over the past few months, everything's just been awkward and weird. Since Desmond regained his memories, they've hardly even spoken.

"What do you see, when you look at the apple?" he finally asks, loudly. Altair jumps and for a second glares daggers at Desmond, clutching the apple closer to himself. Then he sighs, seeming to deflate as he drops the apple onto his desk. Still within easy reach, Desmond can't help noticing.

"Nothing," Altair says. "It's not exactly seeing. It's… something else. A kind of sixth sense, maybe. I don't know."

"It's not healthy, that's what it is," Desmond says.

"So everyone keeps telling me."

Desmond snorts and sits down across the desk from him. "Maybe you should try listening."

"What did you come in here for, Desmond?" Altair asks.

"I actually came to ask if I could borrow the apple," Desmond says. "I want to go back to New York for a while. And I need the apple for that."

"What?" Altair's eyes seem to flash as he glares daggers at Desmond. "You come in to tell me that the apple is dangerous, and then you say you want to take it for yourself?"

"I said you were using it too much," Desmond says quietly.

"I'm not."

"Only every day," Desmond says, completely failing to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. "That's not much at all, really."

"It needs to be understood," Altair says. "It could do a lot of good, if we could only figure out how best to use it. And I'm close, I swear I am, I just need a little more time..."

Altair trails off, the anger fading as his whole body seems to slump. Desmond is reminded, not for the first time, that his ancestor is actually a very small man, shorter even than his wife. Normally he's so self possessed, it's difficult to remember. Desmond waits him out, not ready to say anything if Altair is just going to get angry again.

Finally, the man sighs, and offers Desmond a sheepish, apologetic smile that Desmond hasn't seen for years now. "I sound ridiculous, don't I?" he asks. "I'm not so far gone I can't hear myself, it's just..."

"It's an addiction," Desmond says quietly. "And it needs to stop."

He watches Altair tense, then force himself to relax. "Fine," he manages. "Fine, you can… take it for a while."

"Thanks," Desmond says. Then, because he has no plans of running to New York in the middle of the night, and because Altair looks like he might just go back to staring creepily at the apple the second he leaves, he changes the subject. Or tries to. He's barely managed to open his mouth when Altair interrupts.

"How are you dealing with the bleeding effect?" he asks. "Do you still have trouble with it?"

"No," Desmond says, which is sort of a lie. He hadn't had any problems with it at all before getting his memory back, and only a few scattered hallucinations since then. Nothing too bad, and since half of them are visions of Masyaf, where he actually is, it's sort of like he's not hallucinating at all. "Not since New York."

Altair fixes him with a look that has Desmond squirming involuntarily. "I believed you the first time you told me that," he says. "In New York. Because I was a kid and I really wanted to think everything would be alright. But I'm not a kid anymore, and I don't believe you."

"Fine," Desmond says. "I'm still sort of seeing things, but it's honestly getting better. I don't think I'll ever get over it completely, but I don't plan to slash my wrists open anytime soon. You?"

"It gets worse the more I use the apple," he admits. For a second they both stare at it, then Altair nudges at the golden sphere so that it rolls toward Desmond along the desk. "Take it," he says. "Take it far away."

-/-

October 31, 1213

Seven months later

-/-

It's nearly half a year before Desmond actually leaves for the twenty first century. He holds onto the apple for that whole time, keeping it locked away and hidden from Altair. For a couple weeks the master assassin stomps around like a drug addict on withdrawal, but over time he actually starts to recover.

Then after that, after he knows that Altair is going to probably make a full recovery from his overuse of the apple, Desmond keeps coming up with new excuses to delay leaving. It shouldn't be that hard to go, but Desmond has never been good with saying goodbyes, and after all, this place has been home to him for nearly fifteen years now.

Finally, Sef is the one that confronts him about it. "You need to get out of here," he says. "Everyone's just sort of in limbo, waiting to see if you leave or not. And if you're going to come back. So just go already."

"I've been trying," Desmond says. "But it turns out I suck at goodbyes."

Sef shrugs. "So don't say them."

"What?"

"Didn't you tell me once that you ran away from your parents when you were sixteen?" Sef asks. "Just do that again. Run off in the middle of the night."

"I can't-" Desmond stops and actually thinks about it before he can get the rest of the complaint out of his mouth. The truth is that skipping all the explaining and the goodbyes is extremely tempting right now. Besides, he hasn't decided yet if he's coming back. Maybe this is just going to be a see you later, and not a real goodbye. "I can't possibly ignore advice that good."

"About time," Sef says. "You should try not ignoring me more often, I swear I give good advice."

Desmond laughs. "Do you mind explaining where I've gone when people notice I'm missing?"

"Course not," says Sef. "Are you leaving now?"

"Yep," Desmond says. He feels suddenly cheerful, like an enormous weight has been lifted off his shoulders. "Before I change my mind."

"Then-" Sef pulls off the bag he's been carrying over his shoulder and digs around in it until he finds a package wrapped in brown cloth. "Dad was going to give this to you himself, but if you're leaving, he'd probably want you to have it before you go."

Desmond takes the package and unwraps the cloth, raising his eyebrows when he sees the hidden blade inside. It's not quite the same as the ones he's gotten used to seeing in Masyaf- the blade has been modified to work with five fingers instead of four. "Where did this come from?" he asks.

"Well, Darim mentioned to dad that you haven't become a full assassin because of some weird problem with not wanting your finger cut off. So he had this made."

"Wow," Desmond says, and even knowing that this kind of blade is common in the twenty first century, the fact that this one has been made specifically for him is something special. "Tell him thanks?"

"Sure," Sef says. They shake hands, and then Sef pulls Desmond into an awkward but heartfelt hug. It feels like an apology more than anything else, over the years of anger they've wasted on each other. "Just try and come back, alright?"

"No promises," Desmond says. He still has ties in the twenty first century that make it hard to walk away altogether, but right now the idea of abandoning Masyaf is even harder. "But yea. I'll try."

They pull away and Sef rubs at the back of his neck, clearly a little embarrassed. "So… I'll see you around," he says.

Desmond nods, and straps the hidden blade onto his forearm. It fits perfectly, like it's been made for him- which it has. Then he pulls out the apple from his own bag and watches Masyaf dissolve around him.