The first time Desmond leaves the Farm, he's eight years old.

It's an unexpected gift, one his father offers without any prompting from Desmond. He says something about showing Desmond what their way of life is all about, but Desmond doesn't pay much attention. He's excited by the idea of leaving, because he's heard about cities and the outside world, and he wants to see them for himself more than he wants anything else in the world.

They go to New York. There's some kind of assassin business going on there (nothing too dangerous, Desmond hears his father tell his mother, when she finds out and starts to worry), but Desmond doesn't understand the particulars at all. He doesn't want to understand, he just wants to see new sights and go to new places.

He never gets to see more than the inside of their motel room before he gets sick. He wakes up their first morning feeling mildly queasy, and whines until his dad throws up his hands and tells him to stay in bed and eat some cough drops. "We'll be back in a couple of days," he says as he leaves with his team.

"You're leaving me here?" Desmond asks.

"This is important," his dad says, and leaves before Desmond can say anything else. Which is probably good, because the next words out of Desmond's mouth are ones his dad would have never let him live it down.

"Aren't I important too?"

But there's no answer. There never is.

The sickness intensifies with a suddenness that's almost as terrifying as its intensity. Within half an hour, Desmond goes from being slightly ill, to collapsed on the bathroom floor. There are dark spots in his vision, and his stomach is churning like a boat in a storm. He feels hot and feverish, almost out of his mind with the pain of it all. The world has a surreal, nightmarish quality to it that scares him so badly he actually wishes his dad was there.

But no one comes, and all Desmond can do is curl into himself and wait for the pain to end.

Except it doesn't. Not for a long time, for hours that feel like days or weeks. After, Desmond is never really able to say how much time he's lost. His memory of the illness is spotty, and he knows he's lost time. But that's good, because the parts he does remember are something out of a horror movie. In one particular moment of clarity, Desmond remembers standing in the dingy bathroom, craning his neck and standing on his toes to see his own back in the cracked mirror. His reflection shows him something inhuman- muscles writhe and twist under his skin, reshaping themselves in impossible ways. He reaches one hand over his shoulder so he can feel a bulge of muscle form under his fingers, ooze downward, and merge into his lower back.

Then Desmond throws up and passes out again, slipping gratefully back into the relief of oblivion.

Sometime after that, though, Desmond wakes up. The fever is gone, but he feels weak and tired. But still better than before. He's curled up on a sort of nest built out of pillows and blankets, and there's something soft and warm wrapped around him.

It feels so good to just lie there, without the pain, without being out of his mind from fever that Desmond doesn't move, not until his bladder starts to complain about being too full. Then he opens his eyes, turns his head, and sees.

"No!"

Desmond scrambles to his feet, tripping over himself and running to the bathroom as fast as he can.

"No no no no no-"

He stops in front of the mirror, pale and horrified at the sight of his own reflection. With shaking fingers, he reaches over and pinches himself just above the elbow. It hurts like it would if he was awake, but that's not possible.

That's not possible because there are wings on his back. He can see them in the mirror, he can feel feathers brush against his back. He just can't believe it.

"No," he says again, like denying the wings will make them vanish. "No!"

But deep inside, he knows it's too late. The wings aren't just some parasitic growth tacked onto his back. They move the same as his arms, twitching and jerking as he freaks out- experimentally, he spreads one wing, and watches it (feels it) shoot out clumsily, knocking into the wall on the other side of the room. He feels like a baby kicking its legs at random, still trying to figure out how to get it under control. Everything feels wrong- he's too light, somehow, and off balance from the growths coming out of his back.

After that, everything is kind of a blur. He remembers running for a long time, and hiding when he can't run any longer. He doesn't want to be seen, doesn't want to see himself through anyone else's eyes.

He runs and hides for a long time. Days. Weeks, maybe. He starts to lose track as panic eats at his mind, stealing his ability to think, until he's something wild and animal.

This might have gone on indefinitely, except that one morning Desmond wakes from a restless sleep to find a stranger standing above him, watching him with eyes that look almost golden. Desmond starts and half jumps up, scrambling away on all fours because it's faster than standing. But he's backing into a corner between a low wall and a dumpster, so he can't go far. He ends up crouched on the ground, wings half lifted as if to take flight.

(He can't, of course, he has no idea how to fly and he's too terrified to learn)

The stranger snorts, a sound that could be either annoyance or amusement. He strides toward Desmond with quick, steady movements that closes the distance between them before Desmond can protest.

"Calm down," he says. "You're going to hurt yourself." He puts his hand on Desmond's back, in the space right between his wings. There are feathers there, small and fragile, and the man's hand moves gently across them in a way that feels unbelievably good. It's like scratching an itch that's been driving him crazy, and Desmond can't help leaning into the stranger's touch. The hand keeps moving, steady and firm and soothing across his back, and gradually Desmond feels himself start to calm.

His wings droop until the tips brush against the ground. Somehow, he ends up leaning against the stranger, lulled into a sort of half stupor by the feel of fingers in his feathers. His eyelids feel heavy, and Desmond starts to drift off a little. Time passes, until at some point Desmond hears a noise like the cooing of a baby bird, and jolts awake, panicking a little because the sound is coming from him-

"Don't," the stranger says, and Desmond pushes down the urge to run, pressing closer to the man instead. Dimly, he hears his father's voice in his head.

Don't talk to strangers. Don't go out on your own. Don't do anything stupid. Don't trust anyone. Don't, don't, don't…

It's a little too late to start following that advice by this point. Anyway, it's not like his dad has ever been there for him- this stranger he's never met is already kinder.

"I don't know what's happening to me," he mumbles, because he can't bring himself to say what he's really thinking, which is, I'm scared. Help me.

He's not sure what he expects or what he wants at that moment. The world seems huge and impossible, too complicated for him to deal with or understand. Desmond is dirty and smelly from his time on the streets, tired and terrified of his own body. He feels like he's going to throw up, or fall over (he's so off balance he can barely stand up straight), or pass out. All he can do right now is sit perfectly still with his face buried in a stranger's chest and wish for someone to save him. Anyone.

Please.

And amazingly, the man seems to understand. He doesn't ask Desmond to do anything, just sits down next to him in the dirt and the garbage next to the dumpster, and says, "You're filthy."

"Sorry-"

"Don't apologize," he says. "Learn." And while there's nothing angry in his voice, there's still something about it that makes Desmond listen. He pulls one of Desmond's wings toward himself and runs his fingers through the feathers. He calls it preening, and explains every move he makes in a calm, informative monologue. When he finishes the first wing, he tells Desmond to try the second on his own.

Desmond does his best, and whenever his fingers stumble the stranger is there to correct him, guiding with a patience that Desmond isn't used to. "How do you know what to do?" he asks as they finish.

"Experience."

Which doesn't tell him much. "You work with birds?"

A chuckle. "Sort of," the man says and half turns and pulls off his shirt so Desmond can see his back. It's muscular, like the rest of him, and covered in scars. Desmond's eyes are drawn to a pair of nasty ones on his shoulder blades. They look like they've been broken open and then healed over again and again. And Desmond thinks he can guess what they are.

"You had wings," he says. "Like mine."

"I still do."

And before Desmond's astonished eyes, the muscles of the man's back starts to writhe under his skin, subtly at first and then more energetically, until they look like they're about to burst through the man's skin. And then they do, scars tearing open and wings stretching out like they're reaching for the sky. The man grunts, obviously in pain, and Desmond sees blood running in red rivers down his back.

"Wow," Desmond breathes.

The man turns back to Desmond, reaching forward with his wings so Desmond can feel for himself that they're real. They're solid under his fingers. "You can hide them," he says.

"Yes," the man says. "It hurts, but people tend to notice wings."

"Can you teach me?"

"No," the man says. "Not yet."

"Why not?" Desmond asks, his voice half a whine. The stranger half smiles.

"Because you're young," he says. "Still a hatchling."

"So?" Desmond asks, pretending the name doesn't bother him. Hatchling.

"You need to know your body before you can hide your wings like that," the man says. "You're not exactly human anymore. Things are different."

"They're just wings," Desmond protests.

"There's more," the man says.

"What?"

"Humans can't fly," the man says. "Not even humans with wings. It takes more, and whatever it is that causes the wings does other things too. Hollow bones, eagle's vision, instincts…"

Desmond frowns, thinking hard. Hollow bones- that's a thing birds have, he's heard about that. And it explains why he's been so off balance, why he almost feels like he's going to float away every time he moves. The vision thing sort of makes sense too. He's noticed a kind of weird glowing since his wings showed up, colors that mean something that he understands without knowing how he understands. And the instincts… he remembers waking up in the motel room days (weeks?) ago, curled on a nest of blankets he doesn't remember making… it makes him feel weird, knowing the wings aren't just on his back, they're inside his head, changing the way he thinks and what he does.

And it hits him then, just how little he knows about what's happening to him. But this guy- he seems to know all about it. And it's not fair that he's showed up out of nowhere, dangling hope in front of Desmond, only to vanish again because he's not old enough.

"Okay," he says. "I understand." And he stands, turning away from the man on the ground, trying not to think about where he's supposed to go next.

"But I can teach you other things," the man says, and Desmond freezes, not sure if he can believe his own ears. "How to hide. How to fly."

And, perfectly on cue, a gust of wind blasts through the alley toward them. Desmond's wings half lift in expectation, catching the wind at what he somehow knows is the perfect angle, and something flips in his stomach.

How to fly…

"You want me?" Desmond asks, cautiously. Because as much as he wants this, he doesn't know what the stranger is expecting out of him. "Why?"

The man doesn't answer. He doesn't need to. Even his own father doesn't want him (he left him in the motel room, all alone, without even saying when he'd be back), but this stranger somehow does. Desmond can see it on his face, in his eyes, and most importantly in the glow all around him- eagle vision? - that shines in the brightest blue Desmond has ever seen. Friend, it means. Ally, trust, family-

So Desmond smiles. Just a little. He can live with this. "Okay," he says.

"Good," the man says, and Desmond waits while he his wings vanish again, scars healing over seamlessly. It still looks painful. He pulls his shirt back on and picks Desmond up before he has a chance to say anything. He's small for his age (too small, his dad likes to say), and he fits snugly into the man's arms.

"Hey!"

"Tuck your wings in, hatchling," the man says, ignoring the protest. Desmond does as he's told, mostly out of surprise. It's not comfortable, with his wings trapped between his body and the man's arms, but he can understand the need to keep them hidden. Still, he has to complain about something.

"I'm not a fledgling," he says.

"What?"

"That's a baby bird. I'm eight."

"You're still a child."

"Then you're a-" only Desmond can't think of anything good, so he just finishes, lamely- "A big… bird. And if you get to call me fledgling, I'm gonna call you-"

"Fine," the man says, almost but not quite laughing. "Let's not go down that road."

"My name's Desmond," he says.

"Altair," says the man. "Nice to meet you, Desmond."

-/-

Note- Yes, I know there are already multiple 'assassins growing wings' fics out there, but I read them all and I wanted more so I started writing one.

Trivia time- there's a group of people in the Polynesian islands that use the stars to navigate between islands. One of the main stars they use is one they call 'Big Bird'. Most of the world calls it 'Altair', though.

...I might possibly have been waiting for a chance to point that out for a solid six months. Seriously, there's just something about that star that makes people think about birds, apparently.