Only it's not quite as simple as that, because Connor won't allow Ratonhnhaké:ton to drink the tea immediately. He says this place is too dangerous, and they should find somewhere more secluded. Haytham points out that they don't have much time, and Connor just insists that he wants to take it as soon as possible. Desmond listens to the debate without contributing, very aware that he is the odd man out here. It's not so much that he isn't really here, because neither is Connor. But he's not a fighter like the rest of these people, and he isn't as invested in events.

He already knows they will fail.

And he wonders if the others have realized that yet. Desmond hasn't made a secret of the fact that Washington is still king in his time, which obviously means he's still alive—so this plan will fail. Maybe they know, and just don't care. Desmond almost doesn't care. With so many other impossible things going on here, who's to say that they can't change history? Maybe Washington will actually die this time.

But every time he starts to think that, as the nagging, wiggling feeling of hope starts to light up inside him, Desmond remembers where he is and why he is there. He remembers a lifetime hiding what he is from Washington's soldiers. He remembers the insane decrees that make life almost impossible for people to live and support their families. He remembers the animus and what they need to see from Ratonhnhaké:ton's memories. He remembers that they will fail.

Desmond is jerked back to himself as the others get up and start moving at last. Apparently Connor has won the argument, and they are looking for somewhere safer to let Ratonhnhaké:ton take the tea. Fine—Desmond goes with them, and he sits on the edge of the group without being told. Haytham's comment from earlier about him being useless is still on his mind, and Desmond is reluctant to impose himself on the rest of the group.

Maybe that's why he's the one that sees it. The way Ratonhnhaké:ton is constantly looking at the tea in its flask, like he can't pull his eyes away. The way his fingers keep going toward it, then stopping abruptly. Desmond has seen that look before, back at the bar in New York (it seems so far away now). Tired men and women with nothing on their minds but the next drink. Addicts.

And Ratonhnhaké:ton isn't the only one. Haytham keeps edging toward it as well, and Desmond watches him stop and force himself away time after time after time. It makes him angry, Desmond can see it on his face. He wonders suddenly what form the tea has given Haytham. Form, or forms. He wonders how many times Haytham has taken it.

When Ratonhnhaké:ton has taken the tea, Desmond asks. He doesn't do it because he wants to talk to Haytham (no, God no). It's just that this is the moment of danger, with the acrid smell of the tea in the air all around them (and Desmond knows he has a stronger sense of smell than normal people, but he this is like a living thing in his nose, and he's half convinced that even the dead could smell it). This situation is strange and impossible, but Desmond actually knows what to do here.

"How many times?"

Haytham jerks his head up, eyes narrowed. But he's not looking at the one dose of tea that still remains in Ratonhnhaké:ton's flask anymore, and that's a start.

"How many times..?"

"You know what," Desmond says, and Haytham does him the courtesy of not pretending.

"Three," he says.

"What—" Connor had been staring at Ratonhnhaké:ton until this point, but he looks at Desmond and Haytham instead. "Are you talking about the tea?"

"Yes," Haytham says sharply. Everything he says to Connor is sharp. Like a blade.

"You took it three times?"

"Yes."

"So are you part wolf, like Ratonhnhaké:ton?" Desmond asks.

"It affects everyone differently," Haytham says. "I never met the wolf."

"Then what did you meet?" Desmond asks.

A short pause, then: "An eagle."

Desmond feels his eyes go wide. "My grandfather was part eagle," he says wistfully, because it's been a long time since he saw the old man, and he's one of the people that makes his family worth being in.

"I am not your grandfather," Haytham says firmly.

"I know," Desmond says. "He wasn't a dick." This comment is rewarded with a surprised smile from Haytham, one that the older man quickly covers up. Still. Progress is progress. Haytham's not even facing the tea anymore, focused entirely on Desmond. "Can you fly?" he asks. "My grandfather could fly."

"Yes," Haytham confirms.

"Can you really?" Connor asks. Haytham doesn't even look at him.

"What else?" Desmond asks, leaning forward with all possible interest. "Besides the eagle."

"I believe I'm entitled to some secrets of my own," Haytham says, almost smug as he sits back and crosses his arms.

"Please?"

"Not today, Desmond (Thank you)."

He nods uncertainly, still disconcerted by the strange way Haytham speaks. He thinks the second voice, the one that sounds more formal and doesn't show up that often, must be the Haytham from Connor's world. Maybe he knows how close he is to losing himself in the tea. Desmond nods back uncertainly, and scoots a little closer to the rest of the group along the floor.

"This is insane," Connor whispers, and Desmond feels bad for him. His world, from what Desmond has heard, doesn't have anything like this. Two people in one head, humans with bits of animals in them, magic teas—none of that is real for him the way it is for the others.

"He's waking up," Desmond says, because he isn't sure what to say to Connor, and because Ratonhnhaké:ton is in fact starting to stir. There's a happy, almost euphoric smile on his face. Like a child that knows it will wake up safe and sound in its parents' arms. "Let's see what he's bringing with him."

-/-

Ratonhnhaké:ton wants to fly when he wakes up. The sky is calling him, singing through his veins. "I have wings," he says reverently, despite all evidence to the contrary. His back and shoulders are bare against the floor but he knows. "I can fly."

Connor puts a hand on Ratonhnhaké:ton's, pulling him into a sitting position. It grounds him a little, enough that Ratonhnhaké:ton can remember he is human. "Maybe later," he says.

"Who did you meet?" Desmond asks.

"An eagle," Ratonhnhaké:ton says. He almost misses the way his father's face changes for a moment, but manages to catch the flicker of pride there. That doesn't feel quite as good as the transformation itself, but it's a nice bonus.

It takes him a few steps to get walking to work right, but by the time they're out of the building and under the open sky everything feels right again. Ratonhnhaké:ton doesn't think he can force his feet to stay on the ground a moment longer, and with no thought in his head but freedom, he flies.

And when he flies, everything is suddenly clear. It's like he's been walking around in a fog for his entire life, but as soon as he spreads his wings for the first time, the fog is swept away. When he lands again, far above the ground with his feet on a roof and his eyes still turned to the sky, the fog comes rolling back into his mind. And he is not alone. Ratonhnhaké:ton hears the rustle of wings at his side and then his father is at his side.

"You can—so you are like me," Ratonhnhaké:ton murmurs.

"As I took the tea first, I believe it would be more accurate to say that you are like me."

Ratonhnhaké:ton nods. He can't pretend he much minds that. "I have a question," he says.

"Hmm?"

"How did they ever catch you?" he asks. "When you can do that?"

His father smiles. Not the kind of smile that means he's happy. "That's a long story," he says.

"We have time—"

"We don't. Not if we want to get after Washington."

And Ratonhnhaké:ton does want that. He wants to find Washington, and kill him for what he'd done to his mother. "Will you tell me later, then?" he asks.

"If the time is ever right," his father says. He moves toward the edge of the roof and gestures for Ratonhnhaké:ton to follow him. When that doesn't immediately happen, he stops and looks back. "Come, Ratonhnhaké:ton."

"I'm just—" he glances over the edge of the roof and feels his stomach clench. This is higher than nearly anything he's ever climbed—the only thing that comes close is the red willow itself. "I don't like heights."

"(Really?)" His father sounds almost shocked, like this is some kind of revelation. Maybe he's thinking of Connor, because Connor doesn't seem to be afraid of anything. Ratonhnhaké:ton is. He nods without looking at his father. "You flew up here."

"That was different," Ratonhnhaké:ton mutters.

"Is it the height?" his father asks. "Or the fall?"

"The fall." He is thinking about flying again, about spreading his wings and returning to the ground that way. But his father grabs him by the arm and pulls him a step or two closer toward the edge instead.

"Father—"

"You will only grow more afraid the longer you wait to face your fears," his father says, and he sounds almost kind for the first time.

"What do you want me to do?"

"Fall."

He jerks back from the edge, as far as he can get with his father's hand still around his arm. It's a surprisingly strong grip, considering his recent imprisonment. "No."

"You'll live."

"How? This building is three stories—"

"See that hay cart on the street?"

"You think I can land in that?" Ratonhnhaké:ton demands. It looks barely the size of a button from up here. When Ratonhnhaké:ton squints and holds his hand up, he can cover the entire thing with just his thumb.

"I know you can," his father says, and a moment later he has released Ratonhnhaké:ton's arm and jumped. Arms spread, back straight, dropping like a stone. When he squints, Ratonhnhaké:ton can just see his father climbing out, brushing hay conscientiously from his ragged clothing.

And Ratonhnhaké:ton is not at all sure he can do that. If anything, he's pretty sure he can't. The smart thing to do would be to fly down. Ignore his father and the impossible jump. But that would mean disappointing the man, and Ratonhnhaké:ton has only just gotten him back. He's seen the way Haytham and Connor interact, the coldness there, the hate.

Ratonhnhaké:ton doesn't want that. The only question is whether he is more or less afraid of falling to his death than he is of losing his father's approval. Does he even have his father's approval? Or does it just seem that way, compared to Connor? (Then again, Ratonhnhaké:ton is half convinced that his father likes Washington more than he likes Connor)

He takes a breath, and he jumps.

This feels nothing like flying. Ratonhnhaké:ton squeezes his eyes shut and tries not to think about the helpless feeling, of being unable to control his own body. He has just had time to think longingly of wings when he hits the hay cart. It makes a loud noise, and all the breath goes out of Ratonhnhaké:ton's lungs in an instant. He sits up, panting and gasping for breath, and spots his father looking at him, arms crossed, eyebrows raised. Ratonhnhaké:ton has the uncomfortable feeling that he's just failed some kind of a test, but then his father smiles a bit.

"Well," he says. "That certainly wasn't the most elegant leap of faith I've ever seen."

Ratonhnhaké:ton stares at him, shaking his head in silent alarm. For some reason, this seems to amuse his father to no end, and the older man nearly bends over double laughing. And maybe there is some humor to it after all, because after a second Ratonhnhaké:ton starts laughing too. And it feels good to laugh like this, with his father. It feels like everything is going to be alright.

-/-

Connor is relieved when Ratonhnhaké:ton finally returns with their father. He is concerned and confused when he sees the two of them smiling. "What happened?" he asks. "What's wrong?"

"He told me to jump off a roof," Ratonhnhaké:ton says, but he's still smiling when he points at Haytham. Like maybe the whole thing is more of a joke than a reason to be angry.

"I don't get it," Desmond says. "Who cares if you jump off a roof? You can fly!"

"Never mind," Haytham interrupts quickly. "We need to move on, as quickly as possible."

"How do we get to New York, though?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asks, suddenly serious again. "It's guarded in every direction on land, everyone knows that. And Washington has every ship that goes in or out of port accounted for."

"There has to be some kind of vessel," Connor insists, because he has a hard time believing there are no options at all. "Something small, maybe."

"I might have a few ideas," Haytham says. "But I'll need some time to go out and talk to my contacts. Alone."

"I don't like that idea much," Connor says, but he's only managed to get the first few words out when Ratonhnhaké:ton nods. "Alright," he says. "We'll meet back here just after dark to compare notes."

"Perfect," Haytham says crisply, and he turns and takes flight without another word.

"Awesome," Desmond whispers, but then Connor frowns and Desmond gives him a sheepish look in response. "Look," he says. "I know you don't like the guy, but you have to admit. The flying thing is pretty cool."

It is. Not that Connor would ever admit that. "Come on," he says instead. "We should do some investigating of our own while father is following up on whatever his leads are."

"Sure," Ratonhnhaké:ton agrees. "Where do you want to start?"

But Connor doesn't really know this world, and in the end they settle on canvassing the streets near the docks in their tight little group. Connor walks with Ratonhnhaké:ton near the front, while Desmond hangs back a little ways, taking in the sights (and, Connor is sure) the scents of the docks. After a while, Connor realizes Ratonhnhaké:ton has released his half visible pack of wolves, and that the animals are loping along with Desmond. They seem to make the younger man happy, and the wolves seem more like dogs at his side than wild animals.

Connor raises his eyes heavenward for a minute, contemplating how insane his life has become since dropping into this world. After a while, he turns to Ratonhnhaké:ton. "Did father really try to push you off a roof?"

"Not really," Ratonhnhaké:ton says. "He was teaching me to do this… I can't remember what he called it. Leap of faith?" Connor's stomach twists a little, and maybe his face does too, because Ratonhnhaké:ton notices. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Connor says. "Everything's—" No, not really. Maybe it's a petty concern, but Connor really is bothered by Haytham teaching Ratonhnhaké:ton how to make a leap of faith. "That's usually something only assassins know how to do," he explains. "I don't know where father learned it in the first place, but he… he shouldn't have been the one to teach you."

"Who should it have been, then?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asks. "I assume you must know how to do it, or you wouldn't be so upset."

"I do," Connor agrees.

"So who taught you?"

Connor hesitates a moment, then nods. "An old man," he says. "Called Achilles. He took me in when I needed someone. He's the one that gave me my name."

"Sort of a father figure?" Desmond calls, and Connor and Ratonhnhaké:ton both turn to look back at him. He's resting one hand on the ghostly wolf next to him, fingers buried in its fur, but his ears are perked straight up and facing the two of them.

"It's rude to eavesdrop," Connor grumbles. He purposefully doesn't answer Desmond's question, even when he turns back to Ratonhnhaké:ton to continue their conversation. "I just think it's dangerous for you to trust father like this," he says.

"But he's my father," Ratonhnhaké:ton says quietly. "And I've wanted to know him my entire life." And there's nothing Connor can say to change his mind. Not when Ratonhnhaké:ton hasn't lived the same life that he has. They go back to searching for some kind of a ship.

But when night begins to fall, they still haven't found anything. Connor sighs and suggests they start turning back—as loath as he is to meet back up with his father, he knows that it would be worse to avoid him tonight and inevitably run across him later. But they're only halfway back to their starting point when an eagle touches down halfway between Ratonhnhaké:ton and Desmond, and a moment later resolves itself into Haytham. "That looks strange," Connor grumbles.

"(It certainly feels strange)," his father responds, and Connor eyes him in surprise. He is fairly sure that had been his father speaking, not Ratonhnhaké:ton's. It is strange to agree about anything. "But more to the point," he continues, in his more normal voice. "I have found us a ship."

"Really?" Desmond asks eagerly. "We couldn't even find so much as a canoe."

"Well, luckily not all my contacts have been killed while I was rotting in that cell," Haytham says. "And one of them was kind enough to tell me about a plan to free a ship Washington captured a few months back. They're moving tonight, and if we help them get the ship away from Washington's men, we will be able to accompany them."

"Who is your contact?" Connor asks.

"The ship's captain," Haytham says. "He—"

"What about the ship?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asks. "What's it's name?"

"Her name," Connor corrects.

"Her name," Haytham says, with a pointed look at Connor. "Is the Aquila."

And Connor's whole body goes cold with the shock of it.