August 12, 2013

"So, Desmond. One week postpartum. How are you feeling?"

"Um. Pretty normal, actually, considering the circumstances. Hey, stay still!" This last part was addressed to Andrew, who was trying to wriggle out of Desmond's arms. "You wanna fall on the floor? I don't think so! Stay still so I can keep a hold on you, kiddo."

Stacey smiled a little. "Do you have any complaints to report?"

"Well, that nausea seems to be done. Nothing else to complain about, I guess, except the stretch marks and stuff, but I already know you can't do anything about that. When can I start working out again? I wanna lose this residual belly ASAP. "

She tapped her pen against her chin thoughtfully. "I suppose... whenever you feel like you can handle it. But start out light, okay? Walking before running, running before lifting weights, lifting weights before climbing, you get the idea."

He nodded. "Yeah, I got it... Heh, check it out, Stacey. He's doing that thing again, looking for my nonexistent boobs." Andrew was burying his little face in his father's chest, mashing his open mouth against the shirt repeatedly, drawing deep trembles of laughter from Desmond. "I dunno how long it's gonna take him to figure out I don't have anything for him to latch onto."

Stacey chuckled at the sight. "I suppose every baby does that when the person who gave birth to them is holding them. The reflex is a little pointless in this case. Speaking of giving birth, how's your birth canal doing?"

"Ugh." He shuddered. "Can we not call it that? And don't you dare say 'vagina' either!"

"Okay, how's your... genitalia? Is that better?"

He snorted. "That's a little better, I guess. It's, uh, stopped bleeding finally." Desmond was glad he'd read up on pregnancy and birth, so the postpartum discharge hadn't come as a surprise. It had still been super weird, though. "And hopefully it'll never bleed again, 'cause those pad dealies are fucking uncomfortable. From now on, I just wanna forget that part of me even exists."

"Well, even if you don't menstruate, you will need a Pap smear every few years, okay?"

"Pap... smear," Desmond repeated slowly. I'm not sure what that is, but I'm pretty sure I won't like it. It sounds gross.

"That's a test done to check for abnormalities in the cervix," Stacey informed him. "Cancer cells, for example. You have a family history of cancer, remember?"

"I..." He looked away, his mouth suddenly dry. "Yeah... I remember."

Stacey quickly changed the subject from his late mother. "Okay, then! Everything on your side seems to be fine, so let's check out Andrew now. Let's start with his weight."

Desmond was still inexpert at handling the fragile little human, and it showed in the awkwardness of Andrew's transfer to the scale. He watched over the medic's shoulder as she weighed the neonate. "Yo, I think your thing's busted."

"Hm? What do you mean?"

"I mean this doesn't make any sense," he said, tapping the readout. "How can he be six pounds ten ounces? He was seven and two before. I remember exactly it was seven and two, just like Ezio's door code."

This reference puzzled Stacey. "Ezio's... door code?"

"Back in Italy- Oh, forget it." Desmond stopped the explanation almost as soon as he'd begun. "That doesn't matter. Just, tell me why he's lost weight!" He sounded suddenly worried.

"It's okay, it's normal," she reassured him. "My reference books say babies lose about five percent of their birth weight in the first week, from water weight or something."

"Or something?" he repeated, not liking the vagueness.

"I don't know exactly, okay? I'm not a pediatrician, Desmond, and you know it," she said as she handed Andrew back to him. "I'm experienced in patching up injuries, not bringing up babies. Sorry."

"Right. Of course." Desmond let out a soft nervous laugh. "Because there's a lot more dying Assassins than newborn ones, like you said before." The words dying Assassins replayed spookily in his mind, and Desmond found himself hugging Andrew a little closer.

August 13, 2013

"Stella, stellina... La notte si avvicina..." Desmond murmured softly as he set Andrew down gently in the crib. "La fiamma traballa... La mucca nella stalla... La mucca e il vitello... La pecora e l'agnello..."

He'd woken up this morning with the tune in his head, and trying to figure out where it was from had driven him crazy for hours. Then as he'd been rocking Andrew to sleep after his midday feeding, the music's context had suddenly flowed into his consciousness. It was a lullaby that had often been sung to the Auditore children.

As soon as he'd had this revelation, Desmond had begun to hum the tune, and eventually the words had come to him as well.

"La chioccia con il pulcino... Ognuno ha il suo bambino... Ognuno ha la sua mamma..." Desmond paused and scratched his head, musing quietly on that last line. "Beh... quella parte non รจ vero. Non per te," he said to the motherless little boy. He then resumed singing, inserting some additional lyrics.

"Ognuno ha la sua mamma, salvo Andrew, che ha il suo papino... E tutti fanno la nanna." He stood there, leaning lightly on the crib railing for a while, not even conscious of how much time passed.

"Desmond?"

"Mm?" he responded to the quiet voice from the doorway, not taking his eyes or his mind off of the sleeping baby.

"I, uh, I'm going up to Montreal again... Another intel transfer."

"Mm. Bring me a souvenir."

"Sure thing, bud."

"Hey, you know what, Becca?"

"What's that?"

"You were right... he is kinda cute."