Thinking about Desmond time travel back to Altair's time. Read a fic the other day with a Malik/Desmond pairing, and I thought it was neat, so the pairing might be that, I guess?
For some reason want to throw in Clay too, just because. Anyways. Jerusalem. Our intrepid (hah!) pair goes and absconds with the Apple before Altair and friends get there.
When the time comes, Altair does his foolhardy thing. Everything goes more or less the same, except that everyone is very confused as to where the Apple went and taking their frustrations out on each other. Now, Desmond, who has lived as Altair - who has, in a sense, grown along side the man as he becomes a better version of himself. That Desmond wants to save Kadar.
Clay, who is very irritated about being dragged along in this merry trip to the past, is absolutely incensed. Of course, this doesn't stop him from following along with Desmond to rescue Kadar. (It also doesn't stop him from falling in love with Kadar, but that's a different story.)
Kadar wakes up to a face like Altair's but not and the sounds of someone who really likes complaining ("This is horrible, Seventeen. We're going to die of the common flu within a month-"). They don't have the resources to keep him knocked out forever, but they try to cover up as much as possible to prevent Kadar from recognizing them. Kadar begins to wonder if the Altair twin was just a figment of his imagination or not.
When Kadar is well enough, Desmond knocks him out as safely as he can and they basically do the equivalent of dumping him on the Jerusalem bureau door then knocking and running.
Malik is very surprised to see his brother - not cold and dead but warm and alive, if still wounded - and if you told him it was a gift from the gods, he would believe you wholeheartedly.
Meanwhile, Desmond and Clay move to a whole different section of the city. Desmond, who has a 21st Century knowledge of medical practices, introduces the importance of cleanliness and begins to make poultices with the rudimentary survive-in-the-wild knowledge he got from the Farm.
The poor begin to know him as Healer. He sells his products at the market, and they're good enough to keep him and Clay financially stable.
Clay, meanwhile, has grown bored of complaining and is now fully invested into bringing science early, fuck the timeline, Seventeen. He's here, queer, and ready to bring all of these fools into a new age even if he has to drag them kicking and screaming.
Now that they have disposable income, it'd be easy to move into a more affluent place, right?
But Desmond - who ran away at sixteen, who has known hunger and fear - sees the children on the streets, gaunt faces and wide eyes and he buys the staple crops.
The first time he drags out a large cauldron into the street, Clay throws his hands up and goes back in. "You're going to get mobbed, Seventeen."
Desmond adds in staple grains and vegetables and meat and what sort of seasonings he's managed to scrounge up. The end result isn't a five star meal or anything, but it tastes all right ("Seventeen, I can't decide whether or not I miss Abstergo's lovely meals or not.") and it is warm and it is as good as Desmond is going to get, what with an unfamiliar form of cooking and the sheer size of the meal.
By now, there are children and teenagers and adults and all sorts of poor population nearby, scenting the air. Desmond spots a child - maybe roughly eight years of age - licking his lips and staring longingly at the pot.
"You," he calls, pointing at the child. "Boy, come."
For a moment, it looks as if the child is going to bolt, but then he steps out from the shadows and shuffles closer. He stops out of arms reach, eyes darting everywhere, prepared to run at the slightest sense of wrong. "Mister?"
"Go to my house. There's a pile of bowls - bring it out. Ask the man inside if you can't find them. There's a bowl of this for you if you do."
Hunger winning out over suspicion, the boy scampers inside.
("What? What are you doing in here?" Clay grumbles. "What does that bastard want now? The bowls are over there, now leave me alone.")
The boy comes out with the nine bowls of differing colors and patterns that Desmond had been able to scrounge up. Some of them are chipped but all of them work well enough. As promised, Desmond scoops out some of the unholy amalgamation of a porridge into one of the bowls.
"You will eat here," he says, pointing to the carpet he had laid out. "You will wash your bowl when you're done, with the soap over there."
The boy nods earnestly, and Desmond hands him the bowl. He scampers over to the rug then sits and positively inhales the food.
"Slowly," Desmond warns, half afraid the child is going to end up choking and vomiting.
The child slows.
Other children inch their way closer, staring at the boy and his food in something like envy. A few look lime they'd be willing to come to blows over it, but Desmond keeps a sharp eye on them.
"I need some chores done. Same payment," he says, tilting his head at the food, and the children come even closer.
A girl of maybe ten years of age draws up the courage to step closer. "Mister? What do you need done?"
And that's how Desmond ends up feeding the poor population of Jerusalem.
