Chapter Text
Desmond dreaded the day he was supposed to begin changing, especially since it was something that had been hung over his head for years. Ever since he was little, he was told over and over, it seemed. Back then, it sounded like a blessing, something amazing, like some great gift, to grow these wings.
And looking at the other avians, Desmond would often feel awe and a strange pride. He'd have wings like that someday, or so he was told. But as he got older, the tests and training, building endurance, he felt like he was being pushed so much harder than everyone else. Having that idea of wings in the future began to take on the appearance of a chore.
Slowly, he grew to resent the treatment, especially since it meant he wasn't allowed to leave the Farm. Not even once. He didn't think he looked that different from the more human of the Order. So his eyes were gold sometimes, and he had a nictitating membrane. So what?
Alright. It definitely wasn't supposed to hurt this much. Desmond scooted off of the bed he'd slept on for practically two decades, maneuvering his way on his stomach. He crept through the halls barefoot, hoping not to get caught as he took the long trek toward the avian wing, where he knew he could find Altair. Hell, he'd even risk waking the Syrian as long as it meant he could nab some painkillers without being carted off to med bay for the abscesses over his shoulder blades.
There wasn't a noise that happened within five feet of his door that Altair didn't hear or was aware of. He slept light, had for a long time. You didn't get to be his age without learning how to sleep with one eye open. He slept with the sun, waking and sleeping when it did and did so on his stomach. Most avians did, their wings too big and clumsy to sleep on their sides or back without getting in the way or aching when they woke up. The tips of Altair's primaries nearly touched the ground when he slept that was how far they hung off the bed, even slightly folded as they were.
He woke when someone came near his room. For a second jerking into half wakefulness of just knowing someone was there but not knowing if he needed to wake fully or not. His eyelids fought against gravity as he stared at the door and waited to see if they'd walk past or not.
Desmond stood at the door for a long time, bracing himself against the sturdy frame while he tried to ignore the tight pain in his back. He hadn't realized he'd begun to sweat, teeth nearly grinding with how tightly his jaw was clenched.
He let himself in after steeling himself. The only thing that got him moving was telling himself that he was a grown man, dammit, and it didn't hurt as bad as that time he broke his ribs.
That was a fucking lie, it hurt like hell, and he was probably just making it worse by refusing to admit he should have submitted himself to medical for the surgery to release the wings. Honestly, most of the things he did were while he was nearly delirious with pain, so nothing Desmond really did made any logical sense.
"... Altair...? Are you-" He tried not to swear too loudly, even though it felt like the heated throb of pain was beginning to subside for the time being. "Are you awake?" Desmond finished kind of dumbly, pushing the door half open.
Altair's eye opened fully, just the one. What the hell was Desmond doing here? He didn't even sleep in this part of the compound. With a grunt he pushed himself up a bit, his long, sandy wings folding up a bit so they didn't bump into anything. "Des?" he asked, blinking, "What the hell are you doing here?"
"I didn't wanna go to med," he blurted, immediately hating himself for being forthcoming. "I just want to be able to sleep." For Desmond, Altair had a slight, warm glow, but that was the extent of what he could see in the dark.
Since his talent with Eagle Vision made itself apparent, he found himself in an almost perpetual state of it at night. Desmond's avian instincts drove him to be wary in the dark.
"Med?" Altair was momentarily confused, his brain needed a few seconds to catch up. Then he was dragging himself out of bed. His wings sagged and his primaries dragged along the floor, he wasn't awake enough to hold them up properly, they were so damn long. Like most avians Altair lived shirtless since it was annoying to get clothes that would fit and conform over your wings. He walked over to Desmond who had sweated through the thin shirt he was wearing. Altar cocked his head at Desmond in a bird-like manner, Desmond's eyes were sort of halfway into Eagle Vision, like a flickering lamp. "What do you want?" he asked again.
Desmond was quiet for a minute, catching the last of his breath. "Vi...codin?" Altair had given it to him once - and he'd pilfered plenty. "It- they really hurt."
He didn't want them to be ready, he didn't want to be ready. Each time he told himself that, though, a part of himself wanted so badly to have a pair like Altair's. Or even Connor's, strong, banded and dark.
It was a struggle for Desmond to bite back a pained whimper. "I don't wanna be awake when they take them out," he finished, feeling uselessly lame.
Altair was more awake now, more alert. "What?" but it was rhetorical, he wasn't expecting an answer. He grabbed Desmond by the shoulder and turned him around, so his back was to Altair and he yanked up the back of Desmond's shirt. His back was malformed from the large abscesses that took up most of the space on either side of his spine. Altair could see the pointed joint of the wing press against the skin like an infant in the womb before it vanished again.
He laid his hand very gently on Desmond's skin, barely touching. Well they looked ready. The skin usually grew thin, nearly to the point of being translucent, when the wings needed to be released. It'd do no good to send him to the medical area, they wouldn't cut them out anyway even though he could see a bit. Bill was controlling when exactly Desmond had his wings out. No one liked it.
He turned Desmond back around and frowned, "C'mon, I'll get some," he pulled Desmond into his room and closed the door. It was much cooler in his room than the hallway, Altair liked it that way since avians burned warmer than normal people, had a higher metabolism. What was cold for humans was acceptable for avians. Desmond though felt warm where Altair touched him. "And some cold water," he said and made Desmond sit on his bed before going into the bathroom he shared with the room next to his with Ezio. He opened the drug cabinet and pulled out the pain killers and filled a cup, that they usually used to rinse out their mouths, with cold tap water. "Here," he handed Desmond two of the capsules, and the water.
He had to literally bite his tongue when Altair checked the lumps, even with how light his touch was. Desmond had gotten used to feeling them move under his skin, but he really tried not to move them of his own volition.
Pushed to sit, he sat without question, watching Altair leave. He wriggled out of his shirt, nearly moaning at the relief simply removing the garment provided. He had no idea that the slight pressure of even the damn shirt caused pain.
Desmond looked up when he heard the door again. He almost drank the water without taking the pills. And the water was absolutely amazing. He thanked whatever fickle, lucky star he had for his metabolism, knowing he would soon feel the pain killers.
Altair put his hands on Desmond's head, making him look up at Altair, who frowned. Desmond was nearly completely delirious with pain. "Why didn't you go to med before you went to sleep for pain killers?" he asked Desmond seriously. He could remember what it was like the few days before his wings had been let out. It had been agony. But he hadn't been an idiot about it and had taken vicodin like clockwork to keep the pain at pay.
He turned his head into one of Altair's hands, feeling the stub of his missing finger and finding it oddly comforting. Desmond opened his mouth to answer before he really had thought the words over as he often did. "They would've done a buncha tests... I'm tired of needles and beeping monitors and stethoscopes - they're freezing cold."
And being told to breathe deep, no, deeper, from the diaphragm boy, not the chest. He had just wanted to sleep, and not deal with the latex gloves that made him sneeze.
Desmond yawned, more resting his head in Altair's hands now.
"Not this close to them coming out they wouldn't have," cause you messed up this close to them needing to be removed and you could fuck the entire thing up. They didn't tell you that till after the surgery though. "Feeling better now?" Altair asked him as Desmond sagged in his hands, he knew the area where Desmond slept was kept at a temperature more suitable for humans. In their rooms, Altair and the other fully grown avians that is, they insisted on a lower temperature so they didn't sweat themselves to death. Being in here probably felt like a breath of fresh air.
He asked if he could sleep there - or really tried to, tongue thick and heavy with sleep now that the pain was nothing more than a dull thought at the back of his head. Desmond's body knew too well that it needed to sleep, not only because it was dark, but his body would process the painkillers a lot faster than it said they lasted on the label and he might only have this chance to actually make it into a deep sleep.
Altair chuckled lowly in amusement when Desmond's mouth opened and moved a little to speak but nothing came out. "C'mon kid," he said and went to drag Desmond over to the head of the bed. It wouldn't be the first time Desmond had slept in his bed, he used to; when he was little. His or Connor's, because Bill was a hardass about everything including keeping Desmond away from the rest of the flock. Altair lay down on his side, Desmond next to him, the kid was practically asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. Altair was tired, it was really late and he was ready to go back to sleep too. He shifted, kicked out the wing that was against the bed, it stuck out at a strange angle from his body, but it was comfortable. He raised the other one up before fanning it around Desmond, wrapping him in a cocoon of feathers, though didn't touch his back. Altair closed his eyes.
Dead to the world, he slept the rest of the night and woke with the sun even though he could not feel it. Pain came, immediate but second to the fact that Desmond knew that the sun was rising without seeing it. For a brief moment he felt fine, although disoriented somewhat, and in that moment pressed himself against the rigid flight feathers surrounding him as if he expected to be in a nest rather than a bed.
He carefully rolled himself onto his stomach, feeling the growing wings move through the fluid, still trapped. Desmond thought they were trying to spread, and buried his panic. There were crescent marks from his teeth in the meat of his thumb.
Unsure of exactly what changed, all he wanted then was them out so he could breathe.
Altair was awake when the sun was up and watched Desmond find it a few minutes later. He stayed where he was though, his big golden brown and sandy wing curled around Desmond's body like a shield from the sun that created diffused like through the curtains. "How do you feel?" he asked once he thought Desmond could function. The mounds on his back were significantly more translucent than Altair remembered them last night, either he'd seen them wrong..
Desmond let out a breath he hadn't quite realized he had been holding and sucked in another. "... Hurts," he ground out.
It wasn't that the wings were there surrounded completely in fluid, but coming to a point where they were stuck, folded awkwardly because they had grown into the space they had. The pain was a stiff kind of soreness that clung to his neck and shoulders like frostbite right before it went numb.
He forced himself to his knees, really only so that he could curl up in a pseudo fetal position. Desmond groped for his back, although his fingers stayed clear of the lumps, knowing the pain of touching them far too well.
Why the fuck weren't they just... born with them? Desmond did not feel like it was worth feeling like his spine was ripping from his body just to sprout a pair of wings. Each exhale was shaky, a little clipped. He was blocking the pain. Or, at least, what he could, which clearly was never enough.
"Yeah, they do," Altair agreed and pulled his wing up and retracted it as he sat up. He'd brought the bottle of vicodin with him last night. "Open your mouth," he said as he unscrewed the child safety cap and tapped a few into his palm. "Honestly why you don't have a bottle of these in your own room is beyond me," but then Altair had also destroyed medical equipment during his transition to winged avian because they wouldn't give him the strong stuff people like him needed to combat the pain of not just bones rearranging themselves, but also a whole new limb trying to burst out from under your skin. Since then he'd had a bottle of vicodin in his room at all times and no one said shit to him about it.
He took these dry, shaking like a leaf until his body went numb. It didn't quite relax, but he absolutely relished the feeling of the pain ebbing. Desmond twitched when he tried to straighten up a bit and he felt something warm and wet ooze a trail down his back. Having the abscesses leak wasn't new, but it made him stiffen. It was definitely thicker than the usual biological slurry.
"... Almost took too many," Desmond grunted. He dropped his head back into the pillow, eyes still screwed shut. "I want them out," he mumbled haltingly. "I just wanna eat, too, guh..." He could hardly keep anything down when the growing pains hit. Above all, though, he just wanted them out of his back where it didn't hurt anymore. It didn't help that they kept twitching and moving.
"They'll be out soon," Altair said and squeezed his shoulder comfortingly. It was concerning though that Desmond didn't know how to regulate the pain meds. "We could go to the med ward, see if they'll take them out early," though he doubted it. Bill wouldn't let them until they were nearly about to burst out of Desmond's back. The only reason some of the others hadn't had to suffer through that was because the flock leaders were around to put Bill in his place. Bill and his wife didn't have wings, but Desmond got them from his mother's side of the family. With Desmond though guys like Haytham or Edward, the oldest avians they had around, had little sway over what happened to him. Desmond was Bill's son, and he'd do what he wanted with his son. It was annoying and destructive, but there wasn't much they could do other than... well... not tell Bill.
Desmond made a pitiful noise, high pitched and at the back of his throat. He really hoped he was nodding, though he was too busy trying to stop the limbs from moving. When he was completely under the medication, though, it didn't matter much.
He felt like his eyes were always red and puffy, and sniffed out of reflex, nose positively stuffed. It took some doing, but Desmond got himself to the edge of the bed. Any other pain than the ever-present one in his back would have been welcomed with open arms. Hell, he would've walked right into a blade if it put his wings to rest.
"Hey," Altair said as Desmond wriggled away from him. One of his wings moved to sort of cup Desmond from falling off the bed. That wouldn't be good, especially if he landed on his back. He crawled over to Desmond, holding his wing in place, "Do they still hurt?" Altair asked, even as he placed his hand on Desmond's back. When he didn't react in pain Altair pressed his hand firmly back against the moving limbs. Some liquid oozed from his pores, but nothing substantial. The wings still inside Desmond's skin tried to push against Altair's hand but he was stronger and after a moment of pushing they relaxed, like finally accepting they had to wait to be spread.
Desmond sagged when they gave in, feeling a knot of pain unravel for the time being. Of course, it was replaced by a pang of hunger. He could think and walk, and he had an appetite which was made clear by an empty, squelching growl of his stomach. It made his face flush in embarrassment.
Altair chuckled, "C'mon, lets go get some grub," he squeezed Desmond's shoulder and rolled out of bed, his own wings folding up a bit. He went to the bathroom, washed his hands and pissed before going back into the bedroom with a washcloth he used to wiped Desmond's back off. "C'mon, out of bed, food time," and he dragged Desmond up to his feet.
He stood - albeit a little unsteadily - even with Altair's help. It probably was not healthy for him to have skipped eating this long, even less so because his body had been burning through whatever reserves he had to grow these wings.
Desmond sat heavily in the mess hall, sinking into the normally uncomfortable stool. At least, as heavily as his frame would allow. When he remembered that the food was halfway across the room, he made to move again only to be made victim to a vicious headrush.
"Just sit," Altair said, pushing Desmond back onto the seat. Christ this kid needed something in his stomach and probably some supplements on top of that. He went to where you could get food and piled the plate high with carbs and calories. He saw someone there looked at him oddly, because there was a lot of food on the plate, and because Altair still wasn't wearing a shirt, but Altair glared at them and they looked away. Good. Fucking humans couldn't keep their damn eyes to themselves.
He went back to Desmond who looked pale and set the plate down, "Eat," he said, sitting across from him. He'd brought himself food too, a much smaller plate though full of empty calories and carbs his body would burn off without much effort.
When Altair presented him with the plate, Desmond disregarded utensils, manners and basically every function that did not include getting food from the plate to his stomach. He chewed though, but found he had to stop and wait a few times to actually pause, swallow and collect himself. Other than that, he ate like he always did: with a black hole stomach despite being unused to actually eating this much recently.
Offhandedly, Desmond found himself hoping he didn't just turn around and puke, but holy shit, food was pretty goddamn amazing right now, and it definitely seemed to kickstart his metabolism. It also meant that wing growth would continue at a much faster pace since getting fresh energy.
Altair watched Desmond eat, down the table some people regarded Desmond with disgust. Oh this would get around, that Bill's son had not only eaten with his hands, but also didn't seem concerned with stopping. Altair didn't mind. He'd watched Ezio go through a similar state a few years ago when his wings had finally grown in. He did however grab both of Desmond's wrists at one point and hold them down on the table. He'd eaten about half the food Altair had brought him at that point. "You need to stop for a second so you don't make yourself sick." Altair said, giving Desmond's wrists a squeeze and knew he couldn't pull away. "Also drink," he added, nodding at the water he'd gotten while Desmond had been eating. He let one of Desmond's wrists go.
Desmond's fingers flexed when his hands were pinned. He brought the released hand to his mouth so that he could lick his fingers before reaching over to grab the cup. The water wasn't as cold as what came out of Altair's tap, but it felt pretty awesome sliding down his throat.
He said his thanks with a hum, looking up at Altair until he was allowed control of both hands. Stopping and actually hearing what Altair had said didn't make him want to eat again - he'd already had plenty of fever dreams, involuntarily puking in order to stay light enough to flee, and other strange things that the surfacing avian parts of him supplied his unconscious with. Desmond was looking at the food with a deep frown when his brain supplied the memory and hormone-instinct.
"Desmond," Altair said, drawing Desmond's focus to him, away from the food. Desmond's eyes flickered back and forth from gold to brown like a flashlight going on the fritz his second eyelid blinking rapidly like a camera shutter. Shit. He needed to have that surgery, he'd start hallucinating soon. "Eat," he ordered. When he was done here he was going to see Ed and Haytham. Bill wanted to wait but damnit Desmond was one of theirs. Technically winged avians fell under the jurisdiction of the highest ranked member of the flock. There was a stupid rule that said those without wings still fell under human policies. It meant Bill called the shots. But this could be bad if Desmond was allowed to suffer much longer. His wings wanted to come out. He would talk to Ed and Haytham. Maybe they just... wouldn't tell Bill. Then by the time he found out he wouldn't be able to do anything about it.
His brows drew together and he glanced back at the plate. Desmond didn't exactly want to eat, and groaned, the sound not quite the usual guttural human noise. He ate, though, driven by training to obey those above him. The second bite had his stomach remembering how much it needed the food, and he seemed, by all matters, to forget whatever it was that he saw.
Desmond was almost done before his eyes flickered again. He dropped the cup of water that had been destined for his mouth and reeled back when it splashed across him. It shook him out of the stupor though, but whatever it was that he saw already upset his wings, abscesses beginning to ooze again as they tried to spread again, but were still too weak to break skin.
"Fucking... fucking... rattle-fuck," he snarled under his breath, still heaving for air.
"Shit," Altair hissed and got to his feet, quickly going around to the other side of the table. He grabbed Desmond's head to look at him, his wings coming around the both of them to shield Desmond from the stars of the other people eating breakfast. "Des," he said, using a gentle voice, Desmond blinked hard at him. Even from here he could see that the forms on Desmond's back were taunt, the skin thin and translucent, threatening to burst. "I'm taking you to the med ward," and he helped Desmond stand, one of his wings going around Desmond protectively and walked him out of the cafeteria. Fuck Bill these were coming out now.
Desmond was really lost. Altair's voice came swimming in as he slipped back under. It pulled him back up, but left him disoriented. He wasn't exactly quiet either, though it was mostly just a babbling mess that made a lot more sense to him than Altair.
His eyes cleared enough to be filled with pain, and that sound was a screeching scream. He didn't wanna be conscious, not when they came out, but he couldn't speak. Not when his mouth was too busy screaming on the exhale. It was really only horrible when the fact of the matter was Desmond's lungs simply held a lot more air even when he began to hyperventilate.
It wasn't as if he was cooperating very well with Altair either. No, he spent equal time screaming until it became hoarse as he spent trying to claw at his back and Altair both. He'd rather be hallucinating than feeling this.
In the medical ward, he ended up just panting mostly, regaining a tenuous control of his vocal chords.
Once he got Desmond into the med ward the doctors showed. "What's going on?" one asked as Altair stuffed a gag into his mouth. God. His head was ringing from all that crying.
"He needs to have his surgery, now," he said.
The two of them looked between each other, "We haven't gotten the go ahead from Bill-
Altair flared his wings out menacingly. The underside of his wings were the color of charcoal smeared sand. "I don't care," he growled. "You will perform the surgery now. We will deal with Bill's hissy fit once it's over. If you don't I will cut him open myself."
Again the two doctor's traded looks. Altair knew they were scared of him. Most humans were, scared of avians that was. Despite being lighter than humans their muscles were larger, their organs, especially their hearts and lungs, were larger. Their muscles made them faster, stronger, their hearts pumped more oxygen enriched blood through their bodies so they could react faster and think faster. "Okay," one said, "we'll prep him for surgery."
The table they strapped Desmond to was an old piece, but it did the job of holding a thrashing Avian still when medical attention was needed to perform a surgery. Sedating them was almost always out of the question. It never lasted for the time needed, or it simply did not work at all.
Through the haze of pain, Desmond was clearly not pleased. His eyes were wide, almost glowing hot enough to be completely white. He was afraid, even if he couldn't flinch at the sound of gloves snapping, or really feel the slight added pressure when one of the doctors used gauze and isopropyl alcohol to clean and prep the taut skin.
The older of the two whistled as he drew the mask up over his nose and mouth. Desmond had even begun feathering, even though they were only the semi-clear tubes of shafts, they made bumps in the thinning skin of his back that were visible.
It took most of the body weight of one of them to keep the wing still enough for the doctor to take a scalpel to Desmond's skin. They had barely re-situated for the right wing now when the left forced its way from Desmond's back explosively. That had Desmond screaming again even around the cloth gag to keep him from biting his tongue.
His wings certainly were not waiting, and Desmond flinched when the weight of the sticky, pus and coagulated blood covered limb flopped gracelessly against his back. There was blood and fluid pretty much across the entire room. The right wing tore ribbons of Desmond's flesh up with it, both looking almost too large to have fit against his back.
Both of the wings just trembled, muscles to move them exerted with just the task of forcing them out.
Desmond felt the tear tracks on his face, and slowly became aware of the sound of his blood dripping from the right wing, and a particularly wet slap as a strip of his skin (itself, mostly bloodless) hit the ground.
The blood was more from skin that normally would not have broken, and both doctors were already working on cleaning and mending it to prevent scarring. In itself, it was a mostly useless gesture. Most of the skin of the back sloughed off once the wings were free. The body simply scrapped all of that skin, since there was already a new set of layers for the wings.
Altair stood with his arms folded behind the OR's doors. They had windows, you could see into the OR, which was honestly a glorified closet they'd made mostly sterile to perform surgeries in. They were important to have when you had avians in the area. Before modern medicine avians had just cut themselves to release the pressure of their wings, none of this surgery malarkey.
His jaw clenched when he saw that Desmond was starting to feather. Bill had waited too long. Your wings were supposed to be naked when they came out; that was healthy. If they started to feather inside your body the follicles could become infected exposed to the pus and mucus of your wing sacks that nearly acted as open sores. At least now Bill couldn't sink his claws into Desmond. Edward was the oldest avian in the compound, the 'official' leader of their little flock, though Haytham often acted more towards that role.
Now Desmond was avian and Bill could fuck off for all Altair cared, he wasn't human anymore as far as chain of command went. Altair and the others would take care of him. He needed to tell the others Desmond's wings had come. But he didn't want to leave until his surgery was over. So he waited, watching as Desmond's body seemed to relax into the gurney now that he didn't have that harsh, unbearable, pressure on his back anymore.
Desmond waited as patiently as he could for them to remove and dispose of the gag and free him from the gurney. It wasn't until each follicle had been checked, and each inch of the pink, new flesh cleaned that he was allowed movement once more.
The dull ache and slight pain of ripped skin was nothing to him. They were feelings he was aware of, but not concerned with. More than anything, he was tired, exhausted, and ready to go back to sleep. To hell with the fucking sun and the fact that it was just past noon now.
He was allowed to leave once the doctors decided that the only side effect was fatigue. The limbs were awkward, half folding and unsure of how to move, and for a long time, Desmond just sat at the edge of the table, trying to wrap his mind around the extensions of his body.
One of the doctors came out and said they were done, Altair could go in if he wanted. Altair did so and Desmond looked up as he approached. Altair's wings flared out to half curl around Desmond, some of the edges of his feathers touched Desmond's naked wings. They were tiny things compared to Altair's, new and fragile despite their strength. But they would grow quickly.
The flock would make sure he was on a proper diet to not stunt their growth and to make sure the rest of his bones and muscles didn't suffer. "Hey," he said gently and tipped Desmond's head up gently. Desmond looked like he was about to fall asleep where he sat, "ready to go?" he asked.
Desmond jerked a little, finding it really weird that he could feel Altair's feathers brushing over the wings behind him. He realized that they itched, and when he noticed it, the feeling was like fire.
He nodded when he noticed that Altair wanted a reply.
"Good," he helped Desmond up, "The others will find out soon you had your surgery," if for no other reason than they could smell it. The smell was a bit overwhelming. It was similar to the idea of new puppy or new baby smell, avians who were going through their downy phase had a certain smell to them. Humans didn't notice, but to avians it was like holding up a big sign that yelled 'keep bad things away from me I'm fragile!' Every instinct Altair had wanted to take Desmond back to his room and keep him there until his first molting and his flying feathers grew out. At the very least he could take Desmond back so he could sleep, no doubt the rest of the flock would arrive at his door at some point to be told properly about Desmond's wings.
He placed a protective arm around Desmond's shoulders, his wing mirroring him, shielding Desmond's still very vulnerable back. Desmond didn't seem to care where he went or what happened to him, just glad he was probably going to probably go somewhere cool and able to sleep. Altair took him back to his room and showed him the bed. "Sleep on your stomach," he reminded Desmond before he just fell asleep any which way. At this stage he could still probably sleep on his back, but he'd wake up in pain if he did, not to mention he'd ruin Altair's sheets with his peeling skin.
He felt himself kind of tumble into Altair's bed, crawl up until he was comfortable. Desmond grumbled and buried his face in the pillows. It seemed to be just enough to make him forget the sun was up - exhaustion notwithstanding.
Desmond's wings twitched, and then stretched out before going limp against his back and the bed around him.