Even though the names are different, because of when this story was started, Andrew IS William Miles. They look exactly the same and I feel the same way about them. William just had the unfortunate problem of being given a purpose in chapter three before we knew he was actually Desmond's dad =u=


It was easy to get lost in the ceaseless throb of the airplane engine. Desmond stared out the window, the ocean of clouds beneath them seemed endless. Just… endless, in all directions no matter where you looked just a blanket of rising spires of condensed air below them, too high to be effected by most of them. It was just after day break, the rising behind them as they took the long way back to America, Jake was asleep in the first class seat next to them. Desmond had decided to sit by Jake on the long leg of the flight because Jake didn't know about Desmond's father, he wouldn't talk, he wouldn't ask questions, make sure he was all right. He knew they were worried, he hadn't spoken much after he woke up from his last dream with Venus, three days ago now.

Right? Three days? It felt like three days at least, time always seemed to move both too fast and too slow on a plane.

Jake didn't ask, and when it was clear Desmond wasn't going to talk either he found other ways to entertain himself, like the inflight movie, or making faces at Altair from across the aisle. Until finally he'd gone to sleep. Hawk had been comatose nearly as soon as he was on the plane and had woken only a few times to go to the bathroom, or to eat. Ezio had just kept his eye on him from the seat behind him, though didn't try to talk, instead pretending to be engrossed in the inflight movies. He'd fallen asleep shortly after Jake. Altair didn't sleep, but he dozed, very clearly too concerned about him to sleep properly, though he'd happily traded insults with Jake for a while.

Desmond hadn't slept. He hadn't slept since he woke up three days ago. He couldn't sleep. Now he was just staring out the window trying to make his mind as blank as possible.

'The Mentor is your father,' the thought came unbidden and his jaw tightened.

Desmond hadn't thought of Andrew Miles in ten years. Ten. Years. He was a warden, a jailer, he was hard, he was never happy with anything his sons ever did, he was home wrecker, and he was a cheat. He'd been sleeping with other women not his mother before Desmond was even born and he hadn't changed when he got older, not even when Duncan had killed himself. Andrew was driven and had purpose and had a plan. His plans always included his sons going on to be great Assassins, carrying on his name, helping elevate him to the position he wanted.

His father was a snake in the grass.

It looked like he'd gotten what he'd wanted. In ten years his father had gone from the head of the Farm to… Mentor. It left a sour taste in Desmond's mouth thinking it. The fact that his father had gotten what he'd wanted after all these years. And worse that he was probably the reason Desmond was in most of this mess. William, who had been in correspondence with Lucy back in Italy, and then later when he'd met him, was no doubt one of his father's lap dogs. It was why he didn't trust William beyond a brief moment, because he just felt like Andrew. He didn't doubt his dad had sent William in his stead, because he couldn't take the time to come see Desmond that day, to get the Apple, to see the man who was going insane for them, who's life was slowly trickling away while he lay in the Animus chair. Sounded just like his father actually, Andrew didn't take time for anyone. He especially didn't take time for his children, they were means to an end for him, always had been, good to know Desmond was still nothing more then a tool to him.

He pressed the heel of his hand to one eye. He was exhausted and stressed out as it was. Everything just moved, and moved quickly and even though he'd had time to sort out some of it he was still on rocky footing just from being kidnapped by Abstergo in the first place. He'd never just had time to just stop, there was always something. Running, or training, or fighting, or grieving, or dealing with all the stupid and fucked up shit in his life that just came at him one after another after another after another. And now this.

This wasn't helping.

He just wanted to go to sleep and never wake up.

He was glad no one on the plane was a mind reader, his ancestors would have snapped at him for thinking that. He had a purpose, he had a destiny. He didn't want it, he'd never wanted it. But they all were just puppets for fate, and fate was a bitch on her period and didn't care what you wanted.

It seemed fate was driving forward for this confrontation though. Because Desmond knew that if his father was there he couldn't just pretend he wasn't. Ten years ago he'd been a kid, too scared to speak up to his old man, too intimidated to tell him to fuck off, too meek to demand answers about anything, real answers. He had a lot to say to Andrew now. He was ten years older and butted heads with guys thrice as scary, and intimidating, and intense as his father, not even counting his ancestors. He had some choice words to say to his father, and he knew the others wouldn't like it. They were used to being secret, quiet, only showing themselves when they had to.

Desmond grinned to himself morbidly. Subject Four had killed the Mentor before Andrew, whoever he was, a figure that literally had been a myth to Desmond growing up that he sometimes heard the adults talk about like it was the voice of god. Altair had killed the one before that.

Maybe Desmond would kill this one.

The thought didn't even phase him. He contemplated that, that he didn't even flinch when he thought about killing his father. Even Altair had flinched away from killing Al Mualim, he hadn't wanted to, he'd done so out of need, and then he'd grieved for months after, silently, showing no one the stain him of being a father killer. Desmond didn't feel the familiar flinch though. But he also didn't feel any blood lust, no drive to commit. He was very familiar with the feeling of both and they just weren't there.

He hadn't thought of his father in ten years. Before there had been fear, and anger. Now he just sort of felt numb. A numb that made his hand curl into a fist he didn't realize he was doing until he looked at it. He forced the fingers to unfurl and rest on the arm rest properly as he stared out the window.

Across the aisle he heard Altair wake up again. He'd been in and out of half sleep all night and he looked over at his ancestor where he stretched, unbuckled his safety belt and stood up. The first class cabin was empty except for them and Desmond tracked him when he went to the lavatory before looking out the window again, his fingers tapped anxiously on the seat rest.

He wore gloves, because it hadn't gone away. The glowing thing. It wasn't all over his arm at least, just in sports, connecting and disconnecting from one another like some sort of circuit was trying to push through to be seen on his skin, but wasn't there yet. It didn't stay either, but would fade in and out of sight so even if it wasn't on his hands at some point didn't mean it wouldn't be in the next hour. It had been his idea, but he'd forgotten how cumbersome gloves were, even skin tight leather ones like he was wearing.

He started when the chair in front of him creaked. Altair was leaning over the top of the chair, looking at him. "You sleep?" he asked.

"No."

Altair frowned, "You should try to get some."

"What are you, my father?" he growled.

Altair stared at him for several seconds, "Better one then Andrew," Altair said calmly, not at all baited.

He rubbed his face with both hands. "I can't sleep," he said quietly, staring at the back of the chair, unable to look at his ancestor, who was just trying to help.

"You need to."

He looked at Altair then, "Why don't you sleep all the time?" he asked unhappily.

"Nine hundred years of mistakes," was Altair's answer. "Enough to keep anyone up at night."

"Or days," Desmond said.

Altair smirked, "Or that," he agreed.

"What if I can't do this?"

"Do what?"

"What you think I'm supposed to do? Stop the Assassins and Templars from fighting? Or like the Ancients say, save the world. What if… I can't," he bowed his head and grabbed the back of his neck. "That shit'll keep you up at night," he said almost too soft to be heard over the drone of the plane's engine.

"You won't do it alone," Altair told him. "We'll always be here. Literally," and Desmond gave a sort of pained laugh. "Hey," he ruffled Desmond's hair playfully, "You'll be fine."

Desmond looked up at him, "And if I'm not?"

"Then we'll fix you," he jumped when Ezio spoke behind him, mimicking Altair's position, only on Desmond's chair. "Just like the first time."

"Or, I'll fix you," Altair said, amused. "Since you can't do anything," he added to Ezio.

"Screw you," was all Ezio said.

"When we get to the Temple," Altair ignored Ezio, "You can ask your Ancient friends why this is happening," he picked up Desmond's right hand. "I'm sure they have answers you want."

"And if they aren't good enough?"

"That's life, sadly," Altair said and gave Desmond his hand back. "Now try to get some sleep, the flight attendant said we're landing in six hours, and you're running on fumes."

"I'll try," Desmond said.

"Good enough," and he motioned to Ezio before getting out of his seat he was in and going around to sit next to Ezio. They immediately started to talk in hushed tones. He wanted to ask what they were talking about, but didn't.

The sun had risen behind them now, and light was pouring in through Desmond's window. Next to him Jake grumbled and turned in his reclined chair, waking for a moment. "Close the fucking window Des," and squinted at him a moment. Desmond shut it with a clack and he closed his eyes again. Desmond tried to do the same, but he never could sleep in planes. He leaned back in his chair and focused on the sound of the engines and Altair and Ezio talking behind him, too quiet to understand.

He didn't sleep.