For once, Desmond dreamed his own dream, remembered his own life. He knew it was his memory because of the television (for dvds only, of course; cable was part of the Templar Plot). He had waited until his parents stopped yelling and turned off the hallway light. Then he'd given them a good two hours to get to sleep, and another to be sure.
Earlier that day, he'd prepared: Janie's older sister had just made full Assassin, made her own untraceable credit cards, and was allowed to go on missions by herself. She was both well-positioned and well-disposed to acquire the contraband the younger kids craved, and through an elaborate barter system, Desmond was able to trade three shiny pencils, a Lisa Frank notebook, and a week of sweeping Janie's house for a Star Wars DVD, a bag of Twizzlers, and a graphic novel that Janie swore would break his mind.
Desmond had hidden the DVD in his math textbook, and squeezed the candy and comic book into his secret hiding place inside the couch cushion, which he had partially hollowed out for just that purpose. It promised to be a great night of sugar, pop culture, and just being a kid.
Unfortunately, he forgot about the third creaky step (what normal kid had parents that purposefully loosened the floorboards in case of intruders? And who would want to sneak into their house anyway?) and Desmond could have groaned with frustration to see his father look up at him from the couch.
William Miles was wearing sweatpants and a tank top, which Desmond was perfectly aware wasn't his normal sleeping attire. His pillow was at one end of the couch, along with a shabby fleece blanket. Desmond clenched his fists with frustration. His perfect night, ruined by whatever they had been fighting about.
"Des, son? You couldn't sleep either?"
It was best to play along. "Yeah, I kept trying to sleep. I think maybe I need a drink of water." He went to the fridge to pour himself a glass from the jug. Even if they'd been close enough to get city water, the Farm didn't approve of fluoridation. Boiling the water from the slightly untrustworthy well was near the bottom of Desmond's list of favorite chores.
After rewashing his glass, Desmond padded back through the living room. His father was looking rather wistful. "Come here and sit with me, son."
Desmond would really rather have snuck upstairs to listen to rap on his discman (more contraband, both disc and player) since his original plans were shot, but it was best not to argue.
"Were you having more nightmares like you used to?"
"No, Dad, honest. I just wasn't sleepy." He betrayed himself by yawning. "What I mean is, I lie down but I'm just thinking so much I can't sleep."
"Thinking about what?"
How much I want to get out of this crazy place. "Just, you know, stuff."
"Fire?"
"Not anymore. Just stuff. Kid stuff, I guess."
William nodded, and to Desmond's embarrassment, he found he was leaning on his father's pillow. It smelled comforting, like a pillow should. Like a father should. William chuckled. "How about you lie down here? Count some sheep or something."
Desmond stifled a yawn. "Every time I count sheep, I end up wanting to run away and be a pirate."
"A pirate? Why?"
"'Sgotta be better than counting sheep all the time." He snuggled down into the pillow, and his father tucked him in tenderly, then covered Desmond with his coat. It smelled so, so comforting: a little sweaty, a little spicy, a little soapy, faintly bloody, but mostly fatherly. Now perfectly content, Desmond was out like a light.
Except it had never happened that way, Desmond realized as he slowly regained consciousness. He had shivered under the ratty blanket that smelled like feet, while his father awkwardly sat at the other end of the couch reading work stuff. There had been no concerned conversation about his sleep patterns, just the irritable order of "Count sheep or something, Desmond, just please go to sleep already." And he had never ever mentioned the pirate thing.
Desmond had barely slept that night, and he had never again even pretended to seek comfort from William. This whole dream had been wishful thinking, so real, so perfect, so much like what a dad should be that he could still smell it even though he was almost completely awake now. He resisted opening his eyes, concentrating on remembering how it smelled in his dreams to have a dad, not just a father. A tear trickled from each eye. Oh, that was just silly. Here he was, a grown man, a bartender and an Assassin, sniffling over a silly dream. He wiped his nose on the thick, embroidered wool fabric of his blanket--
No, not his blanket.
Haytham was so going to shank him, for real this time, for snotting up his jacket.
Re: Teaser!
Earlier that day, he'd prepared: Janie's older sister had just made full Assassin, made her own untraceable credit cards, and was allowed to go on missions by herself. She was both well-positioned and well-disposed to acquire the contraband the younger kids craved, and through an elaborate barter system, Desmond was able to trade three shiny pencils, a Lisa Frank notebook, and a week of sweeping Janie's house for a Star Wars DVD, a bag of Twizzlers, and a graphic novel that Janie swore would break his mind.
Desmond had hidden the DVD in his math textbook, and squeezed the candy and comic book into his secret hiding place inside the couch cushion, which he had partially hollowed out for just that purpose. It promised to be a great night of sugar, pop culture, and just being a kid.
Unfortunately, he forgot about the third creaky step (what normal kid had parents that purposefully loosened the floorboards in case of intruders? And who would want to sneak into their house anyway?) and Desmond could have groaned with frustration to see his father look up at him from the couch.
William Miles was wearing sweatpants and a tank top, which Desmond was perfectly aware wasn't his normal sleeping attire. His pillow was at one end of the couch, along with a shabby fleece blanket. Desmond clenched his fists with frustration. His perfect night, ruined by whatever they had been fighting about.
"Des, son? You couldn't sleep either?"
It was best to play along. "Yeah, I kept trying to sleep. I think maybe I need a drink of water." He went to the fridge to pour himself a glass from the jug. Even if they'd been close enough to get city water, the Farm didn't approve of fluoridation. Boiling the water from the slightly untrustworthy well was near the bottom of Desmond's list of favorite chores.
After rewashing his glass, Desmond padded back through the living room. His father was looking rather wistful. "Come here and sit with me, son."
Desmond would really rather have snuck upstairs to listen to rap on his discman (more contraband, both disc and player) since his original plans were shot, but it was best not to argue.
"Were you having more nightmares like you used to?"
"No, Dad, honest. I just wasn't sleepy." He betrayed himself by yawning. "What I mean is, I lie down but I'm just thinking so much I can't sleep."
"Thinking about what?"
How much I want to get out of this crazy place. "Just, you know, stuff."
"Fire?"
"Not anymore. Just stuff. Kid stuff, I guess."
William nodded, and to Desmond's embarrassment, he found he was leaning on his father's pillow. It smelled comforting, like a pillow should. Like a father should. William chuckled. "How about you lie down here? Count some sheep or something."
Desmond stifled a yawn. "Every time I count sheep, I end up wanting to run away and be a pirate."
"A pirate? Why?"
"'Sgotta be better than counting sheep all the time." He snuggled down into the pillow, and his father tucked him in tenderly, then covered Desmond with his coat. It smelled so, so comforting: a little sweaty, a little spicy, a little soapy, faintly bloody, but mostly fatherly. Now perfectly content, Desmond was out like a light.
Except it had never happened that way, Desmond realized as he slowly regained consciousness. He had shivered under the ratty blanket that smelled like feet, while his father awkwardly sat at the other end of the couch reading work stuff. There had been no concerned conversation about his sleep patterns, just the irritable order of "Count sheep or something, Desmond, just please go to sleep already." And he had never ever mentioned the pirate thing.
Desmond had barely slept that night, and he had never again even pretended to seek comfort from William. This whole dream had been wishful thinking, so real, so perfect, so much like what a dad should be that he could still smell it even though he was almost completely awake now. He resisted opening his eyes, concentrating on remembering how it smelled in his dreams to have a dad, not just a father. A tear trickled from each eye. Oh, that was just silly. Here he was, a grown man, a bartender and an Assassin, sniffling over a silly dream. He wiped his nose on the thick, embroidered wool fabric of his blanket--
No, not his blanket.
Haytham was so going to shank him, for real this time, for snotting up his jacket.