Lee was still there when Connor snorted and sat up, haziness from the lavender oil still fogging his body. The stew wasn't steaming anymore but it was still dark outside. It could not have been more than a few hours that he was unconscious for.

"Haytham," murmured Lee, attention immediately on Connor's movements, like a snake ready to strike.

"Haytham is dead," snapped Connor. "I killed him."

And he winced at the hoarseness of his voice.

"No, you killed the assassin, sir," said Lee.

Taking the stein, he offered it to Connor, trying to tip it down his throat. It was tempting - Connor's throat felt like someone had slice into it with a knife, peeling away the skin - but he did not trust Lee.

"It is only water."

To demonstrate, he took a sip himself, then held it to Connor's lips once more. Hesitantly, Connor drank a mouthful of the water. He tried to pull away but Lee tipped the stein up and pinched Connor's nose shut so he was forced to drink the rest or suffocate. Right at the very bottom a sweet globule of honey fell into Connor's mouth, and he swallowed it in surprise. Lee refilled the stein from a pitcher that hadn't been on the desk before.

"Are you still thirsty?"

"No," said Connor.

"You need to be washed, from the inside out. Doctor's orders."

The mug came forth again, but Connor flung an unbound foot at Lee, knocking him, but not disabling him. If the stein dropped, then he wouldn't have to drink. Connor lunged again, foot ramming into Lee's thigh, other leg coming around to smack into the Templar's hip. He was successful this time, and it clattered to the ground, breaking the handle from the body and tearing a gaping hole in one side. Lee's face crumpled for a moment, a high flush of red on his cheeks.

Good. This was the Charles Lee that Connor knew well. He braced himself to be hit, a backhand or a punch, or even a well placed jab to the ribs, but Lee only bent down to pick up the wet, broken pieces, and placed them on the tray.

"There was no need for that. You need your fluids."

Lee took up the gallon pitcher, thoughtfully turning it around in his hands. There was still a great deal of water left, sloshing about. He seemed to decide upon something, for he took the few steps across the room and roughly shoved Connor against the bed-head and straddled hus legs, pinning them. While Connor was still distracted, he pushed the lip of the pitcher into Connor's mouth and started to pour.

The water assaulted the younger man, filling his throat, and he gulped it down as best he could, excess splashing his shirt, making it stick to his skin in little droplets. He thrashed about, struggling to breathe and had to give that up when Charles grabbed his nose again. He smacked his bound fists against Lee trying to push him away, but it was a desperate, useless action, for that flush of red only darkened, Connor's nose released momentarily as Lee grabbed the chain attaching Connor to the wall and dragged the end of it to hook over a steel bolt in the wall, shortening it.

"Why are you hurting me, sir? I only want to do what is best for your continuing health. Now drink," said Lee.

Connor couldn't take much more of the water, but he needed to breathe. It sprayed from his mouth as he swallowed and failed to keep it down, but still Lee kept tipping the damned thing. Finally, after what felt like far too long with blackness blurring his vision, the pitcher was taken away, and he coughed on the air, sucking it into his lungs.

"Nearly half a gallon. Very good."

"You are mad!" screamed Connor, bucking Lee from his lap.

But Lee leaned back and pressed on Connor's lower abdomen, knowing precisely where Connor's swelling bladder was.

"I cannot understand what you are saying," said Charles, idly.

"You can understand me perfectly, Boiling Water," Connor growled in Kanien'kehá:ka.

"Well of course I do now," replied Lee in the same manner. "I did not realise that the mother of your son taught you their language."

Connor paused. Mulled this confirmed suspicion over. Then Lee pressed down a little harder and Connor clenched his thighs. The water hadn't helped relieve what was already contained.

"Is there something wrong?" asked Lee innocently, not butchering a single syllable of Kanien'kehá:ka.

"Remove your hand," said Connor, switching back to English, refusing to allow Lee to taint the tribe by speaking their language further.

Lee's face crumpled into a quizzical expression. He leaned his head towards Connor, as if trying to hear better. The thick moustache that perched on his lip twitched and bristled.

"And there is that damnable accent again. You are slurring your words. Perhaps you should sleep again," said Lee.

The fullness was getting worse. This game, whatever it was, appeared to be going around in circles. Connor wished Lee would just get to the point, and stop calling him by his father's title. It was frustrating enough to have been caught, but for Lee to not do anything, well, that seemed odd. The Templar's objective wasn't clear. At least Haytham would have given Connor a good spar after a heated exchange of words. That made things interesting.

What did Lee want? Wasn't he supposed to be the Grand Master, now that Haytham was dead. He was supposed to be running the Order, not taking in spare assassins from funerals.

"I was not slurring," spat Connor, pronouncing each world slowly. "I wish to relieve myself."

A cry of angry tore from him as Lee jabbed him.

"Again."

"I wish to relieve myself, Lee," said Connor.

 "Lee? Have I done something to earn your displeasure, sir. Again."

It was getting too much - he didn't know how long he'd be in these clothes and he didn't particularly like smelling of piss if he could help it. But Connor didn't know what Lee wanted from this. Presumably it was some mad reasoning behind it.

"Again."

Connor snarled in frustration and had the underside of his chin tapped lightly for his troubles.

"I wish to relieve myself."

There was nothing wrong with his voice! The chains rattled as Connor grunted and tried to unbalance his captor. Lee was steady though, and lifted his hand to relieve a margin of the pressure before reapplying it.

"Again."

Yeah, he really needed to piss. It had been half an hour.

"I wish to relieve myself."

"Wrong, wrong!"

Connor moaned in frustration. What had his father called Lee? As much as Connor was loathe to indulge in Lee's sick fantasy, this was the only way to guarantee  wouldn't soil himself and risk further punishment.

"Do it again."

"I wish to relieve myself," and here Connor paused in contemplation, one last chance to turn back. "Charles."

He closed his eyes so he didn't have to see those beggar-eyes light up in delight.

"Again, Haytham."

Realisation hit Connor like a eight pound cannonball to the chest. He wasn't here to be physically tortured, but to be groomed into his father's image. Lee wanted him to retrain his voice into Haytham's. A ball of contempt and disgust, cold, small, spiked, sat in his stomach.

No. He might be of Haytham's blood, but he wasn't Haytham. They only resembled each other in passing. It wasn't obvious that he was Haytham's child. No, no, no. Ratonhnhaké:ton cringed; Haytham wasn't his father, he was not spoken of. Ratonhnhaké:ton didn't have a father.

But surely obligating this unspoken request wouldn't hurt. Connor was stronger than that. He could lure Lee in. One lapse wasn't all that much.

"Charles, please," said Connor, wrapping his mouth around the words in the best imitation of his father's voice. "I need to relieve myself."

"Yes," sighed Charles, a smile appearing under his twitchy moustache. "Of course."