A/N: Unbeta-ed, as per always.

Summary: So maybe, just maybe, Desmond shouldn't be having this much fun screwing with the Black Hills Assassins.

Keep the home fires burning
Chapter 4

Considering the nature of what had happened merely four and a half hours prior, it wasn't entirely uncalled for them to leave the clinic promptly before Abstergo recovered from the damage they'd dealt and followed their trail. The doctor—a man whom had initially been more than a little cowed when the three frantic assassins had shown up in his building with Seventeen bleeding on his doorstep—had immediately been up and arms against the idea but had relented once he realized that Doctor's Orders weren't going to change their minds.

Nonetheless, they were grateful for the doctor's help. With a passing of hands where a hefty blank envelope made its way into the good doctor's coat pocket and the given assurance of, "Patient confidentiality," that extended farther if the wrong people came knocking, the assassins were well on their way back to base with a new 'recruit' in tow.

Well, sort of.

The thing with collecting a potential Assassin on the field was the fact that, there was substantially little time to explain everything that was needed. That was why introductions, let alone initiations, were rarely done on the field.

There was no shortage of people who had no idea what Assassins and Templars were other than their stereotypical portrayals. It would give any well-meaning assassin a headache, but recruiters were adept at setting the hypothetical record straight.

From William's experience, all recruiters found some sort of pride and pleasure with telling the age long story of their life's work. William was no different in this respect. There was a satisfaction with seeing the eyes of men and women light up as a world long hidden was revealed before them. Yet at the same time, there was always that small amount of guilt for what burden they would be putting on their new brothers and sisters.

Disbelief was expected, followed by confusion and skepticism. All potential recruits displayed some healthy degree of each, a trend that William was familiar with having done his fair share of recruitment duties. Subsequently, William had become adept at reassuring said recruits that, no, we aren't crazy, and yes, some conspiracies are actually true, in the calmest and most reasonable way possible.

So, William was quite prepared (excited, even) to ease Seventeen into his transition into the Assassin's Order. No doubt the man had many questions that William was more than happy to answer and really, the more he spoke, the more Seventeen seemed to get it.

In fact, Seventeen took the explanation of their identities with very little fuss. He was very accepting of their introduction—understanding, even—that William would have been suspicious if a sudden sense of foreboding hadn't hit him at the same time that Seventeen unexpectedly laughed and asked, oh so innocently—

"That's code for something, right?"

William's thoughts derailed, did a 180, and sputtered to a stop. "Come again?"

"What you just said. You know, 'assassins'?" Seventeen smiled guilelessly, air quoting the aforementioned word.

William opened his mouth, closed it, and then opened it again. "Seventeen, we're really—"

"I mean, that explains the corporate sabotage." Seventeen bulldozed on, nodding self-satisfyingly to the surrounding assassins' sheer amazement. "That building was from that big company, Abstergo, right? I'm all for saving the environment by stopping global warming, greenhouse gasses/emissions, and yeah, no one is more behind the Fuck the Sun club than I am, but c'mon, calling yourselves assassins for being radical environmentalists is pretty extreme."

Between Helena's sudden jerking and the strangled sounds that Gavin had started making in his corner, William could only berate himself for thinking that anything would go so easily.

No amount of argument seemed able to convince Seventeen otherwise. If anything, Seventeen went with it, nodding and winking exaggeratedly whenever 'Assassin' or 'Templar' was voiced aloud.

("Gotta admit, Seventeen's not wrong when he associates Templars with 'pollution,' eh, Bill?" "You're not helping, Gav'." "I think it's adorable, cari." "'Lena, please.")

"Perhaps we should just let him believe what he'll believe." Helena had sighed once they were out of earshot. She was watching Seventeen, who was obediently settled on a table a little ways away as the good doctor unraveled his bandages and checked over the younger man's midsection. She put a finger to her lips thoughtfully. "It could be… beneficial to us."

"The guy would probably be safer that way." Gavin agreed (if not a little glumly). They couldn't really blame him. Gavin had literally pulled out all of the stops to get their message across to Seventeen to absolutely no avail. "He doesn't have to be an assassin for us to keep an eye on him."

Gavin wasn't wrong. Seventeen's perception of them being 'environmentalists' did allow the Seventeen some degree of distance from their organization and though it wasn't ideal, that had been the point of all this, right? Ensure Seventeen's safety from the Templars.

That didn't mean they had to be happy about it.

"Thanks for the ride." Seventeen said once they were well within the city limits of Rapid City. "You can drop me off anywhere here."

"Here?" Helena asked and the assassins gave him odd looks. There was a bus stop nearby but it would be another hour before busses began their routes for the morning. "Joven, we'll drive you where you need to be."

"Yeah, kid." Gavin leaned forward, arms folded on his knees. "Surely you got folks waiting for you. They must be worried sick."

"I haven't seen them since I was a teenager." Seventeen said and grinned carelessly. "Can't miss who isn't there."

"Pretty young to move out so soon." William noted offhandedly and that hesitance there when Seventeen's mouth opened just slightly was enough for the assassin to confirm his suspicions.

A runaway. That made sense as to how Seventeen had landed himself at the Abstergo facility. Runaways were ideal victims for abductors. It wasn't a far stretch to imagine the Templars using a member of a vulnerable population as a subject pool. However, being a runaway wasn't an identifiable trait. How Templars had managed to catch someone like Seventeen whom conveniently happened to be a runaway was odd unless…unless he was part of another vulnerable population like—

William blinked, shooting a look of disbelief at Seventeen. "You're homeless."

"I am not—" Seventeen started, before he stopped, cocked his head, and considered the accusation as if it had suddenly dawned on him. "Actually, huh. I guess so."

The van screeched to a stop. ("Ow, shit!" "Sorry!")

"What do you mean, you guess so?!" William demanded a little incredulously.

"I mean, I'm pretty sure I don't own my apartment anymore at this point." Seventeen reiterated and he sounded mildly dismayed rather than the distressed that William thought he should be. "Missed rent and all that. Housing can be vicious."

At the horrified looks he was getting, Seventeen laughed. "Hey, don't worry about me. The bar I work at—the owner and me are cool. He, ah," Here, Seventeen glanced out the window a little too quickly and nodded approvingly, "He actually lives around here."

From the rear-view mirror, William saw Helena tsk in disapproval, but she nonetheless pulled the van to the side of the road.

"We'll contact you." William when Seventeen hopped out. At the raised eyebrow he got from the younger man, William smiled, but didn't elaborate as to how considering no contact information had been changed.

William thought he heard something that suspiciously sounded like an amused, "good luck with that" as the van door slid shut, but brushed it off as just his imagination.

He'd later come to regret that.

"We should have just interrogated him right there and then, politeness and regulation be damned." Gavin said a week to the day they had left Seventeen on the side of the road. Back home at the Farm from yet another cursory comb through Rapid City, the assassin collapsed into one of the many chairs of his best friend's office with a hefty sigh. William barely spared him a glance, too used to Gavin's theatrics and more invested in reading reports from returning teams.

A week. It had been one week since they had dropped Seventeen off at Rapid City and they had caught neither hide nor hair of Seventeen since then. When they had finally gotten back to base, the first thing they did come morning was send some spare operatives out (with Gavin leading) to find Seventeen's workplace but unfortunately, it was to become the first of many days for them to come back empty handed.

("Did you know there are 56 bars in Rapid City? I do. I went to them.")

"His name. At least we could've gotten his actual name." Gavin moaned and silently, William shared that regret.

They shouldn't have been too overconfident. Usually, it would have been easy to find all the info they needed of a person of interest, regardless of whether they had their name or not. All it would have taken was a quick hack job and with the knowledge that Seventeen was a runaway with a bartending license, it should have been practically effortless to determine his personal info via the Missing Person or state license databases.

Keywords: Should have been.

They had gone over all reported cases of missing persons in the past ten to twenty years, but none had come close to matching with anything they had on Seventeen's. It was like Seventeen didn't even exist.

Either that or lied about being both, but Seventeen had seemed sincere…

William rubbed his eyes tiredly. "And Abstergo?"

"Quiet." The other assassin hummed. "Our eyes on the streets haven't seen any rats."

Which was fortunate. Knowing that the Templars were none the wiser was a comfort. A part of him realized that it was be a waste of resources to further search for Seventeen when it was obvious at this point that the man didn't want to be found, but that hadn't kept them from hoping...

It was some time later when the paper pile on William's desk had dwindled down to half the stack did Gavin drag his feet out of his office with a parting, "Get some sleep, Bill."

William waved him away even though a glance at the clock told him it was getting late. There was still much left to do. Reports to read, missions to assign, and also getting word to the Mentor about their status on the Animus blueprints whereabouts…

The smallest of sounds accompanied by his skin prickling made him freeze.

His hand reflexively wrapped around the pistol hiding flat under his desk. The assassin kept his breathing steady, index finger curving around the trigger before he registered the light pitter patter of footsteps as—

He jerked his hand back.

"Desmond." William barely got out before there was fifty pounds of cherub barreling into him. Little arms wrapped around his waist as his six-year-old smiled toothily up at him. William chuckled breathlessly, heart beating a little calmer as he fondly carded his hand through his son's hair. "What are you doing still up? Where's your mother?"

"Ma's asleep." Desmond said dutifully.

William raised a brow. "And you aren't because…?"

His six-year-old made a resistant sound.

Sternly, "Desmond…"

Desmond bowed his head, shame in every inch of his mannerisms when he admitted quietly, "I had a bad dream."

Again? William sighed, stroking his son's back soothingly. "They're just dreams. You know that. They aren't real, son."

"I know, but—" Desmond bit his lip and hid his face William's hip. His little body trembled. "Everyone was gone and you and ma weren't there and She was standing over everybody and laughing…"

William's motions faltered minutely, before resuming steadily even as his mind raced. Once was chance and twice a coincidence, but a third night in the past two weeks with the same premise?

"She shows up a lot, doesn't she?" William mused and Desmond nodded against him.

"Don' like her. She's mean, keeps arguing with her sis, and—" His words melted partway into a yawn, "needs a terrible piss."

William laugh rumbled deep in his chest. "Therapist, son."

Desmond mumbled something into William's hip, but in lieu of repeating when William prodded at him, gestured at the manila folder on the side of his desk. There was a hastily scribbled Seventeen on the tab and William dimly realized that Gavin had left it there on his way out.

"Who's Seventeen?"

William's eyes narrowed. "Were you eavesdropping?"

His son ducked his head. "Um…"

"Good boy."

William ignored how Desmond beamed under his palm in favor of opening the folder with his free hand. It was disappointingly thin and a pathetic excuse for a dossier with its only page comprised of the most basic of information on Seventeen, but it was all they had.

"Is he a bad guy?" Desmond wondered, arching his back to peek. "Like Abs-turd-go?"

The corner of the father's mouth quirked up. "Abstergo, son. And no, he's... an ally."

Desmond blinked up at him. "'sassin like us?"

"That's code for something, right?

"If only." William winced. Rarely did he or Helena recap their missions to their son, but seeing Desmond yawn again… He hefted Desmond up to his lap and when small arms wound warmly around his neck, William launched them into the tale of capture, rescue, and radical environmentalism.

"'venteen sounds silly." Desmond said decidedly once the retelling was finished and the pure conviction in his son's statement caused William to snort.

It would be easy to laud Seventeen as 'silly'. Would be so easy to overlook Seventeen's utter senselessness and leave it at that, and yet…

"I would watch over him if I were you." The doctor said amid William's inward note to self to add the doctor's clinic as 'friendly' to other teams. He shot the doctor a confused look but the doctor's eyes were trained on Seventeen, weathered and very nearly sad. "I worked in veteran hospitals long before opening this clinic. Some people, you know, when they've lost something important to them… they get possessive of about whatever they manage to regain. Your friend has that look to him."

And William could understand that when he recalled how Seventeen had pulled the doctor aside, mumbled quietly in his ear, before receiving a plastic bag moments later full of what William had recognized as scraps of was left of the clothes Seventeen had bled all over in. None of the assassins had commented on it as it was evidence of their stay and better off in their care as a precaution, but now William had a reason for why the doctor had gotten a particular look on his face when Seventeen had thanked him for it, all the while clutching the bundle tightly to his chest.

Coping mechanisms. There were many, many assassins William knew whom had their own quirk to deal with stress and when he reevaluated Seventeen, carefully weighed every exposed mannerism of that quiet, strange man; willful ignorance, intentional or no—well, William could understand someone who wanted their peace.

But…thinking them as radical environmentalists?

"Yeah, he is quite silly." William agreed, "But he's a good guy. He saved me, your ma, and your Uncle Gavin."

Desmond's eyes went round. "He did?"

"Yeah. We were going to keep an eye out for him just in case anyone bad came along for him, but…" William sighed sullenly. "He's good at hiding, it seems."

Desmond cocked his head. "Why didn't you bring him home?"

"Tenets, son." William reminded, smiling indulgently. "What are our tenets?"

Desmond chewed on his lip, brow furrowed in concentration.

"Only hurt bad guys."

"Stay your blade from the flesh of an innocent—"

"Hide and seek sharp objects."

"—hide in plain sight—"

"And stranger danger."

"—never compromise the Brotherhood— what has Gavin been teaching you?!" William exclaimed, but Desmond just giggled at him, much to the Miles patriarch's exasperation.

Desmond puffed his cheeks. "Uncle says those are old rules!"

"Doesn't make them any less relevant." The father rebutted, but the former wasn't without some truth. The path of a modern era assassin no longer lied in simply killing the corrupt. Their currency laid in exposing secrets. They were whistleblowers at the very core.

Another yawn escaped Desmond and William smiled tiredly. He ticked his nose against his son's forehead, making his boy giggle. "Now, let's get you to bed, hm?"

"Okay, daddy." As they left the office though, William missed how Desmond snuck one last furtive look back at Seventeen's file.

In Desmond's defense, the whole idea sounded way better in his head.

It wasn't that he didn't want to be an Assassin. He'd already come to terms with it, understanding that it was everything that he was. He would not go running away from his heritage in good conscious even if he were 20 years in the past.

But that was just the thing that stopped him. He was in the past but that came with several implications and its fair share of problems. For one, he technically already existed. Desmond Miles was a six-year-old child living at the Farm, not a 26-year-old man whom had fallen down a rabbit hole. Being an Assassin in this time meant going to the Farm. Being an Assassin in this time meant giving up more of himself than he could actually afford.

Not to mention the matter about his younger self and what would incur if they were to meet.

Now, Desmond was no expert on time travel, but one instance of Shaun going off on a tangent and dipping into his old conspiracy theorist tendencies came to mind. Regretfully, Desmond had nodded off somewhere during the historian's spiel, but from what he could remember, 'time travel,' 'paradox,' and 'spontaneous combustion' had definitely been in the same sentence. Suffice to say, Desmond wasn't too keen on testing it out.

Desmond rose up from his haunches, pocketing his makeshift lock pick when he succeeded in unlocked the door. With a quiet, "I'm home," murmured under his breath, the time traveling assassin stepped into his place of residence for a little over two weeks, nose wrinkling when the air still smelled just as stale as it had been when he'd first broken in.

Home, sweet home, as Desmond called it, was an abandoned apartment complex situated in the middle of a row of condemned buildings in the outskirts of Rapid City. The south side of the city was rife with them, a dead zone in the otherwise booming metropolitan area. That would certainly change in 20 years (the five block radius would turn in to a popular shopping center, if Desmond recalled correctly) but right now, the boarded up and graffiti decorated buildings were exactly what Desmond had in mind.

Under the radar and away from prying eyes, it made for a perfect hideout (assuming you could take the not-up-to-standard safety codes. (He could already imagine Shaun's distaste at the place. Rebecca certainly would have had a grandiose time snooping through the decrepit rooms for goods and as for Lucy and his dad—)

Desmond collapsed into the lumpy couch, sprawling his good arm over his eyes as his thoughts drifted to the Assassins.

It had been tempting—so painfully tempting— to go with them.

Hell, it would have made everything so much simpler to even just spill the beans to his parents, but Desmond had forced himself not to because how would they even take it? It wasn't like he could just go up to his parents and say, "Hey, I'm actually your son from 20 years in the future and long story short, we get our asses kicked by Abstergo. Also, what's for dinner?"

Yeah, that'd turn out great.

The ploy had been needed. If they knew he didn't take them seriously, then they'd reciprocate in kind. He wouldn't hide from the assassins if they found him, but he couldn't afford to get too close to them. He needed the safety of anonymity if he was going to pull some strings to change the future. Work in the shadows to serve the light, after all and intentionally misinterpreting their invitation into their ranks had been the most convenient way attaining that.

Desmond lips curled.

And okay, maybe it was also kind of fun to just fuck with them, too.

Spirits a little higher, Desmond pulled himself out from his slump, deciding to make the most of the last couple hours of sunlight left of the day. Daily scouting of the city had informed him of a fortunate lack of Abstergo presence in the area and by now, Gavin's team (it was almost laughed how easy it was to evade them) would be well out of his city.

He locked door from the inside and after casting a final look over his humble abode, shimmied out and down the window. Desmond made quick work of navigating his way down from the fifth floor, using the guardrails as handholds to build momentum and swing over spaces where he couldn't edge across in his descent.

First on the agenda, Desmond figured once he hit the ground, was look for a job. He couldn't keep stealing from rich-looking douchebags to pay for his meals forever and as for his clothes… he grimaced when his hand caught a tear on the front of his hoodie. Unfortunately, hobo-chic wouldn't be in for another couple years.

(A part of him that was more Altair than Desmond didn't find it a problem (blend in; no one looked at the homeless, it said) but the part that was Ezio was—in Desmond's imagination—practically frothing at the mouth.)

Two hours into his search found Desmond still at square one. He was discouraged, but not particularly surprised. There wouldn't be many places that were willing to allow anyone to work 'under the table,' but Desmond had hoped that at least one of the shops and bars around the seediest parts of the city would be able to give him something.

Self-consciously, he tucked his hood more securely over his face and ducked his head as he passed a security camera. He weaved himself behind a group of teenagers likely on a night on the town and just as they passed his mark—

Desmond effortlessly slipped the wallet up his sleeve and grinned secretly as none the wiser, the business suit wearing man glared and griped about 'hoodlums without manners bumping into him' before returning to yell at the poor soul on the other end of his cellphone.

'Score.' The wallet felt heavy when Desmond let it slip down to his hand. He turned a corner to disentangle himself from the group and pocketed the thick wad of bills before quickly tossing the wallet and credit cards into the nearby bushes.

He kept his head down, blending in with small groups of people, and taking detours (just in case) as he made his way back to the Hideout. People passing him paid no mind and just as listlessly, Desmond sunk into the monotony of being normal, dampening his senses to just that of city noises and the undecipherable babble of—Desmond's steps faltered.

"—that brat! He saw our faces!"

Curious, Desmond pressed himself low and flat behind a dumpster of the alley. He strained his ears, picked out three voices: two males, one female.

"…already at Robbinsdale Park. We can't risk the shipment being sent out if we have piggies on our tails…"

"…wearing a sweater with birds on it. Got it? Search at the east end, I'll take north and you…"

Desmond reared back, mind racing. A sweater with birds on it? Hadn't he seen something like that before? A fire escape ladder caught his attention and Desmond wasted no time in quickly climbing to the top of the apartment building for a bird's eye view. He flashed his Eagle Vision at them once, mouth curling at their dull, red coloring below, before he made his way over the adjacent buildings, eyes searching the emptying streets raptly.

Patterned birds, patterned birds. His head swung left and right. He was so sure he'd passed someone like that in the corner of his eyes…

There!

Desmond breathed out a sigh of relief, catching the hint of gold hiding in the narrow hallow of the Hwy 16 overpass among empty boxes and trash.

He heard hushed sniffling the moment he landed on the concrete and making sure his footsteps were loud and deliberate; the former bartender approached the source slowly. Abruptly, the sniffling ceased.

"Hello?" Desmond called tentatively and immediately, the bundle of gold in his Sight gave a cry of distress, burrowing deeper in his nest of cardboard boxes. Desmond chuckled at the picture and lowered himself down to his haunches, deactivating his Sight as he regarded the shaking house of boxes. The kid's fort didn't seem to be able to entirely hide his back and as such, Desmond got an eyeful of the happy ducklings adorning his sweater.

Cute. "I like your sweater."

The boxes froze, clearly not expecting the comment. It waited, but when Desmond didn't move or say more, seemed to relax marginally.

"T-thanks."

"Did your ma make it?"

The topmost box of the fort perked up, as if surprised. "…Yeah. How did you know?"

Desmond chuckled and the boxes seemed to like the sound if the way that it scooted closer to him was an indication. "Well, you're ma stitched together, 'Mama's Little Man XOXOXO' on the back."

"WHAT?!" Little hands went to the back of his sweater, swatting and missing the stitched phrase, all the while making an embarrassed, "Nooooo."

Desmond grinned widely, amused despite the situation. However, something nagged at his mind. He had thought that the sweater looked familiar only because he'd seen it during his outing, but the more he looked at it… Desmond shook his head.

"I think it looks cool." Desmond said and the little hands froze.

Shyly, "You do?"

"Yeah." Desmond said meaningfully. "Your Ma must love you a lot to make you that. She must miss you whenever you're gone."

"…Yeah…" And Desmond waited patiently, counting the seconds the boxes took to collect themselves, until:

"Can you, um… can you take me to her?" The boxes asked, and the cardboard rumbled, creasing and ripping at the sides.

"That's why I'm here." Desmond assured and when he stood up, extending his good arm to help the kid off the ground, that was how he finally figured out why the sweater had been so familiar to him.

(Because oh, oh no.)

Desmond could barely keep the shock from his face when the kid shyly looked up at him, smile bruised but trusting, until his senses suddenly screamed, making all thought retreat to the back of his mind.

"Hey, you!"

Desmond twisted around, instinctively pushing the child behind him. His Eagle Vision flared automatically and the red aura that seared across his vision made Desmond smother a curse under his breath.

It was the man from the alley. Luckily he was without his friends, but the guy didn't look too friendly himself as he gestured to Desmond's charge, smiling vaguely. "That your kid?"

The boy buried his head against Desmond's back, whimpering.

"What's it to you?" Desmond countered and readied himself for a fight when the guy's smile widened, his posture shifting to make a great show of the gun in his waistband. The last thing Desmond wanted was a confrontation, but…

He glanced down at the child shaking like a leaf behind his legs, little hands clutching the back of his jeans like his life depended on it—and sighed.

"Stay behind me, kid." Desmond murmured and six-year-old Desmond Miles frantically nodded at him, gold eyes wide and frightened.

Trouble, it seemed, always did seem to find him, regardless of age.

Desmond was glad to find out that spontaneous combustion wasn't a thing, in any case.

A/N: Reviews/Comments are appreciated~

nikaris