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29 June 2007 @ 05:39 am
Don // { welcome wagon }  
Title: welcome wagon
Characters: Don, Sarah Ailes, Jack Ailes
Prompt: None.
Placement: This takes place at the start, in the year 1984, before everything in my fic-verse and waybefore Don - The Chase Begins Again.
Word Count: 581
Rating: PG for petit gratuitous language.
Spoilers: None for the film; none for my story.
Author's Notes: Don meets Sarah. This, of course, was before the drugs and the parties and the murder. He was just a snarky little kid next door.
Disclaimer: I do not own anything from Don - The Chase Begins Again, not even that golf ball that Don used to kill the mole in that COMPLETELY AMAZING scene. I do own the Ailes brood, and this particular take on Don's past. Please don't sue me; I'm a college student now, and you won't get a dime!







I met him when I was seven and a half years old. I remember my age because I wore it like a banner then, like a badge that garnered me the right to do many more things than a seven year old could even conceive. I used my age to bolster my claim that my parents had no right to hold me hostage in this strange, new country. Back then I still thought that my words held some value in their minds.

"You can't do this to me!" I screamed as my father walked, slowed by the gigantic box he was carrying to the door.

"Shh!" He was losing his grip on the cardboard. His body wasn't used to the heat, and my aggravation was surely wearing him down. I could almost taste the stale peanuts I would eat on my plane ride home.

"I'm seven and a half years old! You can't treat me like a slave!" I was screaming so loudly that my voice cracked at the louder notes. My father stopped in an attempt to reposition the box in a more favorable position. The box would have none of his negotiation, but this gave me an excellent vantage point to finish him off.

"Be quiet! The neighbors will hear you!" My father said this in a hushed, frustrated voice. I watched his thin fingers grapple with the box as it wilted in the thick air. I knew my victory was near.

"I won't be quiet in this hell!" I felt the surge of energy that comes from using forbidden grown-up language. As the box slipped from my father's grasp and onto the brick walkway, I screamed, "I'm going home!"

My father was too angry to follow me; I escaped around the house to the back yard, which was well-manicured and filled with a myriad of flowers and a beautiful (if somewhat grandiose) water fountain. In protest, I began to throw rocks into the shallow water.

"You will break the fountain." He said in awkwardly perfect English syntax. I turned around, wiping a stray tear from my face.

"Damn the fountain." I said courageously, waiting to see his eyes widen. Swearing was a big deal back home, and I assumed an even bigger deal here in India, where everyone wrapped themselves in sheets. He met my gaze levelly, though, unimpressed. I threw another rock at the gurgling fountain to spite him.

"Stop." He gritted his teeth. I raised my hand to throw a larger rock, but he grabbed my wrist before I could. He squeezed until it almost hurt, but I wouldn't let him see my discomfort.

"Let go of me." I said in an almost-scream. He tightened his grip. "You can't touch me. I'm not your whore!" The word hung in the air, resting on a thick cloud of hot humidity and waiting for the next syllable. After a moment of glaring, his fingers released my wrist.

"You are right." He said in a cocky voice, without the remorse I thought he should have. "Whores are pretty." He backed away from me, with a smile on his face that confused me. It confuses me even to this day. I didn't feel insulted, under that smile I felt a strange kind of happiness combined with nervousness.

I stood dumbfounded as he walked. My mouth hung open to catch flies even after he disappeared over the white fence, and I walked around in a daze for the rest of the week.

At that moment, I decided to give India a chance.
 
 
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