Haytham had heard Connor’s approach from a mile away, thanks to a loud skirmish with some redcoats along the snowy paths of the Frontier. One of the soldiers had yelled “Assass-” only to be silenced, the only clue to his fate a wet gurgle.
Haytham sneered to himself. So much for the Assassins’ legendary stealth. He had deduced that his son was after the traitor, Church, same as he was. In that case, he’d be coming this way. Haytham climbed up to the one of the overhanging wooden struts in the nearby church and waited for his estranged son to arrive.
Connor arrived in much the same fashion as Haytham expected, charging into the small dilapidated church with no thought for stealth or caution. Some Assassin Davenport’s trained Haytham smirked to himself, preparing for the ambush.
As Connor sauntered in through the narrow doorway, Haytham tensed his muscles and pounced, as a cat pounces on a mouse.
Connor was knocked down by the force of his weight and Haytham quickly pressed his advantage, pinning his son to the hard wooden floor and releasing his hidden blade. The assassin scowled up at him.
“Father,” he stated flatly.
Haytham smirked down at him. “Connor. Any last words?”
Connor seethed. “Wait.”
“A poor choice,” Haytham replied mockingly, left hand flashing forward with his hidden blade.
Connor shoved him backwards, kicking him away for good measure, before springing to his feet, accusing Haytham of conspiring with Church and the Loyalists.
Haytham rolled his eyes, frustrated with his son’s inability to see the true situation. His goals were more or less aligned with that of the Assassins after all, and he said so; freedom, justice and independence.
Connor retorted that his Templar brothers Johnson, Pitcairn and Hickey surely had no such aspirations, considering they “sought to steal land, sack towns and murder George Washington.”
Haytham sighed, annoyed at the other man’s naiveté. He explained they were not stealing the land so much as protecting it, and encouraging diplomacy – no thanks to Connor ruining his plans. As for Washington, well. They were better off without him and his miserable leadership skills.
It had been his criticism of Washington that had set Connor off. Before he could so much as draw his sword, Haytham found himself slammed against the church’s wooden wall, Connor’s own hidden blade pressed against his jugular.
“George Washington is a better leader than you could ever dream to be,” Connor hissed, dark eyes flashing with rage. It was at that moment that Haytham couldn’t help noticing his likeness to Ziio. Especially that dark look of fury. That was very Ziio. He pushed such thoughts aside in favour of slamming his knee into his son’s gut. As Connor doubled over in pain, Haytham sidestepped and suddenly Connor was the one who found himself with his back against the wall.
He winced in discomfort as the rough timber dug into his spine but forced himself to ignore it, still breathing heavily and clutching his stomach. Haytham crowded him, pressing closer so he had no room to manoeuvre. “You’re aware that I’ve killed for less,” he said softly.
“I’d expect no less from a Templar,” Connor spat, skin rankling unpleasantly from his father’s proximity.
Haytham laughed at that, a quiet, dark chuckle. “Hypocrite,” he breathed.
He regarded his son silently, sharp eyes taking in his discomfort. It almost verged on fear. He was even shivering. Surely Connor was not such a coward that he’d shake at the first sign of danger? After all, Haytham had no intention of actually killing his son – not yet, anyway.
“Are you afraid?” he asked curiously.
Connor glared at him and raised his chin defiantly. “No.”
“Then why do you shiver so?”
Connor had not even realised he was shaking until then. He held his large frame still, suppressing his discomfort, even as his father drew closer. “I dislike people touching me,” he informed him. Surely there was no harm in telling him that? It was not exactly a secret after all.
“Even when they mean you no harm?” Haytham found himself asking. It was not such an odd thing of course, but judging by Connor’s behaviour it was not so much a mere dislike as an abhorrence that spoke of a deeper trauma.
“Do you expect me to believe you mean me no harm?” Connor replied sceptically.
Haytham laughed shortly. “No! Never that! But in general, do you allow no one to touch you?”
Connor looked miffed. “Not that it’s any of your affair, father, but why should I? There’s no reason for people to touch me.”
The Father of Understanding damn him he looked disturbingly like his mother in that moment, all riled up and defensive.
“Never?” Haytham asked, tone dropping to a suggestive lilt before he could stop it. He cursed himself inwardly, what was he doing?
Connor simply looked puzzled, unsure at what his father was getting at. “Yes. Never,” he confirmed. He moved then, making to shove Haytham away, but Haytham grabbed his wrist firmly and pinned it against the wall above his head.
“What if you wished to pursue relations of a more... intimate nature,” Haytham asked, voice low. His body was pressed rather indecently against Connor now, but he found he was caring less and less.
It seemed the Assassin had finally caught on, a dark blush spreading across his features. He turned his head away from Haytham so he had more room to breathe, baring his throat in the process.
Haytham found himself wanting to mark that throat, displayed before him as it was. He inwardly recoiled from the thought and gave himself a good mental shake. This was his SON. Not to mention an Assassin!
However the seeds of such thoughts had already been sown. When Haytham Kenway wanted something, he took it, consequences be damned.
Connor could sense that the air of threat surrounding his father had passed, though he was still unsure as to his intentions. Nevertheless, he allowed himself to relax somewhat, forcibly ignoring the Templar’s proximity and his own rather compromising position. “I have yet to find someone I would wish to be with in... such a way,” he answered, hesitant but honest.
“Is that so?” Haytham replied. Before Connor could answer, his father’s mouth was at his throat, kissing and nipping at his bare flesh.
Connor made to pull away in shock, but his father had a good grip on him and held him firm, using the weight of his body to press him more securely against the wall.
“Father, you should not-” Connor broke off as Haytham growled hungrily and silenced him, claiming his mouth with his own.
Feeling crowded, overwhelmed and outright invaded, Connor bit down savagely on his father’s bottom lip until he felt his teeth pierce the soft flesh and the blood flow.
Haytham swore viciously, touching a finger to his lip and glaring at Connor as it came away bloody. Connor remained silent, licking his lips free of his father’s blood.
“Now was that wise?” Haytham intoned, raising his hand to Connor’s throat. He had no intention of actually choking him, in fact he meant only to trace the marks he had left earlier, but Connor’s reaction was instantaneous. He practically folded in on himself, flinching away from the hand and shoulders hunching defensively.
Haytham removed the hand at once. “Easy boy, I wasn’t going to hurt you.”
Connor just stared at him, almost unseeing, his eyes glazed with remembered fear.
Haytham released him and backed off. “Are you alright, Connor?”
Connor muttered something under his breath.
“What was that?”
Connor straightened up again, feeling better now that he had his personal space back. He looked Haytham in the eye, his gaze sharp and accusing. “Charles Lee. When I was very young he hurt me.”
Haytham’s immediate thought was to deny such allegations, but he paused. Charles had always had a distinct air of disapproval surrounding him whenever talk of Ziio or her people arose. He assumed it was because the other man worried he was being distracted from the cause, but perhaps it was their race he took issue with. After all, many of the colonists held prejudices against the native people. For what reason, Haytham could not really fathom – they had been there first after all. But alas, the human race had always been more easily given to hate than love for itself.
“What did he do?” Haytham found himself asking.
Connor looked down. “He choked me and said things about my people. Terrible things.”
Well no wonder he was so touchy about his throat then. While not quite ready to believe the young Assassin’s words, he meant to have a word with Charles about it later. It would not do to have his brothers terrorising children after all.
“This is why you wish no one to touch you then,” Haytham commented, more as a statement than a question. Connor nodded anyway, jerkily.
“Well that is unfortunate,” Haytham sighed. More regretfully than he should have perhaps.
Fill: A Lesson in Respect 1/2
***
Haytham had heard Connor’s approach from a mile away, thanks to a loud skirmish with some redcoats along the snowy paths of the Frontier. One of the soldiers had yelled “Assass-” only to be silenced, the only clue to his fate a wet gurgle.
Haytham sneered to himself. So much for the Assassins’ legendary stealth. He had deduced that his son was after the traitor, Church, same as he was. In that case, he’d be coming this way. Haytham climbed up to the one of the overhanging wooden struts in the nearby church and waited for his estranged son to arrive.
Connor arrived in much the same fashion as Haytham expected, charging into the small dilapidated church with no thought for stealth or caution. Some Assassin Davenport’s trained Haytham smirked to himself, preparing for the ambush.
As Connor sauntered in through the narrow doorway, Haytham tensed his muscles and pounced, as a cat pounces on a mouse.
Connor was knocked down by the force of his weight and Haytham quickly pressed his advantage, pinning his son to the hard wooden floor and releasing his hidden blade. The assassin scowled up at him.
“Father,” he stated flatly.
Haytham smirked down at him. “Connor. Any last words?”
Connor seethed. “Wait.”
“A poor choice,” Haytham replied mockingly, left hand flashing forward with his hidden blade.
Connor shoved him backwards, kicking him away for good measure, before springing to his feet, accusing Haytham of conspiring with Church and the Loyalists.
Haytham rolled his eyes, frustrated with his son’s inability to see the true situation. His goals were more or less aligned with that of the Assassins after all, and he said so; freedom, justice and independence.
Connor retorted that his Templar brothers Johnson, Pitcairn and Hickey surely had no such aspirations, considering they “sought to steal land, sack towns and murder George Washington.”
Haytham sighed, annoyed at the other man’s naiveté. He explained they were not stealing the land so much as protecting it, and encouraging diplomacy – no thanks to Connor ruining his plans. As for Washington, well. They were better off without him and his miserable leadership skills.
It had been his criticism of Washington that had set Connor off. Before he could so much as draw his sword, Haytham found himself slammed against the church’s wooden wall, Connor’s own hidden blade pressed against his jugular.
“George Washington is a better leader than you could ever dream to be,” Connor hissed, dark eyes flashing with rage. It was at that moment that Haytham couldn’t help noticing his likeness to Ziio. Especially that dark look of fury. That was very Ziio. He pushed such thoughts aside in favour of slamming his knee into his son’s gut. As Connor doubled over in pain, Haytham sidestepped and suddenly Connor was the one who found himself with his back against the wall.
He winced in discomfort as the rough timber dug into his spine but forced himself to ignore it, still breathing heavily and clutching his stomach. Haytham crowded him, pressing closer so he had no room to manoeuvre. “You’re aware that I’ve killed for less,” he said softly.
“I’d expect no less from a Templar,” Connor spat, skin rankling unpleasantly from his father’s proximity.
Haytham laughed at that, a quiet, dark chuckle. “Hypocrite,” he breathed.
He regarded his son silently, sharp eyes taking in his discomfort. It almost verged on fear. He was even shivering. Surely Connor was not such a coward that he’d shake at the first sign of danger? After all, Haytham had no intention of actually killing his son – not yet, anyway.
“Are you afraid?” he asked curiously.
Connor glared at him and raised his chin defiantly. “No.”
“Then why do you shiver so?”
Connor had not even realised he was shaking until then. He held his large frame still, suppressing his discomfort, even as his father drew closer. “I dislike people touching me,” he informed him. Surely there was no harm in telling him that? It was not exactly a secret after all.
“Even when they mean you no harm?” Haytham found himself asking. It was not such an odd thing of course, but judging by Connor’s behaviour it was not so much a mere dislike as an abhorrence that spoke of a deeper trauma.
“Do you expect me to believe you mean me no harm?” Connor replied sceptically.
Haytham laughed shortly. “No! Never that! But in general, do you allow no one to touch you?”
Connor looked miffed. “Not that it’s any of your affair, father, but why should I? There’s no reason for people to touch me.”
The Father of Understanding damn him he looked disturbingly like his mother in that moment, all riled up and defensive.
“Never?” Haytham asked, tone dropping to a suggestive lilt before he could stop it. He cursed himself inwardly, what was he doing?
Connor simply looked puzzled, unsure at what his father was getting at. “Yes. Never,” he confirmed. He moved then, making to shove Haytham away, but Haytham grabbed his wrist firmly and pinned it against the wall above his head.
“What if you wished to pursue relations of a more... intimate nature,” Haytham asked, voice low. His body was pressed rather indecently against Connor now, but he found he was caring less and less.
It seemed the Assassin had finally caught on, a dark blush spreading across his features. He turned his head away from Haytham so he had more room to breathe, baring his throat in the process.
Haytham found himself wanting to mark that throat, displayed before him as it was. He inwardly recoiled from the thought and gave himself a good mental shake. This was his SON. Not to mention an Assassin!
However the seeds of such thoughts had already been sown. When Haytham Kenway wanted something, he took it, consequences be damned.
Connor could sense that the air of threat surrounding his father had passed, though he was still unsure as to his intentions. Nevertheless, he allowed himself to relax somewhat, forcibly ignoring the Templar’s proximity and his own rather compromising position. “I have yet to find someone I would wish to be with in... such a way,” he answered, hesitant but honest.
“Is that so?” Haytham replied. Before Connor could answer, his father’s mouth was at his throat, kissing and nipping at his bare flesh.
Connor made to pull away in shock, but his father had a good grip on him and held him firm, using the weight of his body to press him more securely against the wall.
“Father, you should not-” Connor broke off as Haytham growled hungrily and silenced him, claiming his mouth with his own.
Feeling crowded, overwhelmed and outright invaded, Connor bit down savagely on his father’s bottom lip until he felt his teeth pierce the soft flesh and the blood flow.
Haytham swore viciously, touching a finger to his lip and glaring at Connor as it came away bloody. Connor remained silent, licking his lips free of his father’s blood.
“Now was that wise?” Haytham intoned, raising his hand to Connor’s throat. He had no intention of actually choking him, in fact he meant only to trace the marks he had left earlier, but Connor’s reaction was instantaneous. He practically folded in on himself, flinching away from the hand and shoulders hunching defensively.
Haytham removed the hand at once. “Easy boy, I wasn’t going to hurt you.”
Connor just stared at him, almost unseeing, his eyes glazed with remembered fear.
Haytham released him and backed off. “Are you alright, Connor?”
Connor muttered something under his breath.
“What was that?”
Connor straightened up again, feeling better now that he had his personal space back. He looked Haytham in the eye, his gaze sharp and accusing. “Charles Lee. When I was very young he hurt me.”
Haytham’s immediate thought was to deny such allegations, but he paused. Charles had always had a distinct air of disapproval surrounding him whenever talk of Ziio or her people arose. He assumed it was because the other man worried he was being distracted from the cause, but perhaps it was their race he took issue with. After all, many of the colonists held prejudices against the native people. For what reason, Haytham could not really fathom – they had been there first after all. But alas, the human race had always been more easily given to hate than love for itself.
“What did he do?” Haytham found himself asking.
Connor looked down. “He choked me and said things about my people. Terrible things.”
Well no wonder he was so touchy about his throat then. While not quite ready to believe the young Assassin’s words, he meant to have a word with Charles about it later. It would not do to have his brothers terrorising children after all.
“This is why you wish no one to touch you then,” Haytham commented, more as a statement than a question. Connor nodded anyway, jerkily.
“Well that is unfortunate,” Haytham sighed. More regretfully than he should have perhaps.