Ugh plot why must you be so difficult to advance? I'm sorry. UwU
Captcha: If a person is called Charles, what is their name? CHARLES LEE!
He had the fastest courier in New York take the letter with Haytham's address to the Brotherhood. That was almost a week ago. Now, it is early morning and Connor is hanging some clothes to dry in front of the kitchen stove. Haytham is still asleep, in the study. Connor got up at dawn to wash the ink off his body, and tried (and failed) to get the ink out of their clothing as well. In truth, most of the reason he's awake so early is that he knows some well-meaning ally is going to pry where they shouldn't and everything is going to fall apart.
There is a knocking at the front door, and Connor hopes that it's one of the Order. When Connor opens the door, he feels his stomach drop. No such luck.
"Hello," he says, out of politeness. He is careful not to let any trace of anxiety leak into his voice. "What are you doing here?"
Dobby smiles, also being carefully polite. She is dressed far more femininely than usual, her dress like those the wealthier Colonist ladies have taken to wearing recently, all lace and ruffles. This is the first time he's ever seen her wearing makeup.
"We miss you," she says. Connor feels his brow start to furrow. We? She looks to be alone. She notices his confusion, and continues. "I'm in New York on business, the truce, I mean. I thought I'd stop by, on the off-chance you were here and not… well, wherever you're camping."
Her eyes flicker over him- he is clearly freshly-washed, face recently shaven, wearing clean, pressed clothes. He can see the doubt in her eyes.
"You are lucky," he says. "I stopped here for a few days. I was actually going to go back to my village tomorrow."
It's only half a lie. His plan was to go back for a few weeks, perhaps months, after Washington's assassination. When the village is truly safe. Not just yet. He has a horrible feeling he is going to have to make good on the bluff.
"Oh?" Dobby says. "That sounds interesting. Tell you what, how about you and I sit down and have a drink and catch up?"
He can't exactly refuse her, so he grabs a plain cloak and one of the hats hanging near the door, and lets her lead him to her favourite coffee house.
…
"That was a rather nice house," Dobby says, sipping a coffee that is black as night. "Who does it belong to?"
Connor pours himself half a cup more of the house special tea, something with lavender.
"It does not matter," he replies, not meeting her gaze. He can tell his face is flushed from shame he ought not be feeling. After all, he isn't an assassin. They are not blood relations. Nobody needs to know that they are more than friends.
"Clipper told us about your lover," Dobby says, quietly. "Back when I was a courier, I had a few clients that were like you. Outcast for it, too. They were nice, and they were honest, and it wasn't fair. I don't know what happened to most of them. Some married and tried to be normal, I think. A few got jailed for it. I think one was hanged by vigilantes."
Connor does not particularly want to hear about the dangerous line he and Haytham are treading.
"What is your point?" he asks, and his voice sounds surprisingly tired.
"I'm happy you've found somebody," she says, and there is a hint of a sincere smile at the edges of her lips. "I actually… I quite liked you for a while. And I'm glad to see you're happy."
"Thank you," he says.
"Achilles was devastated by the first letter you sent. The one about leaving the Brotherhood. But he was more devastated at the fact you couldn't tell him yourself. That you felt you couldn't talk to him face-to-face. Like he wouldn't understand, after everything that happened to you. Did you forget what he did after his family died? After the Brotherhood was destroyed?"
Connor can feel the heat rising in his cheeks.
"What do you want from me?" he asks.
"You need to talk to Achilles. He loves you. You're the closest thing he has to a son and we can't stand by and watch your relationship break down because you're too scared to hold a proper conversation with him." He rolls his eyes, and Dobby's voice takes on a desperate edge. "What happened to you, Connor? You're not acting like yourself. You used to be straightforward and honest and unafraid. And now you're just a shadow of that."
Suddenly, Connor is angry. Angrier than he has every felt, angrier than he has any right to be, than he has any reason to be. After all she is right, and she is not being cruel but is clearly worried for him. Later, he will tremble, wondering what is wrong with him. He will feel sick, wondering if he, too, is becoming a monster.
He stands up, and plucks his cloak from the chair. He takes a long two steps towards the door- behind Dobby- and towers over her, suddenly irate. He puts a hand on her shoulder and squeezes, hard. Later, he will feel terrible about using his size and shape to intimidate her- an ally, for God's sake- in such a way.
"You know exactly what happened. Do not presume to tell me how I ought or ought not behave. Do not attempt to contact me again."
He walks out quickly, and takes the long way back home, in case he's being followed. He needs to do something to work some of this anger out of his system, even if it is only striding through the backstreets, as fast as his legs can go. Haytham's eyes are understanding when he explains why he is going to his village for a few days.
"I will be back the night before the assassination. No later than sunset. I promise."
...
He finds his way easily enough, and thanks the spirits that nobody else knows (well, none of the Brotherhood know) where his village is. He brings the deeds and there are celebrations that last for several wonderful days.
"Your mother would be so proud of you," the Clan Mother says. "We, too, are proud. You have grown into a strong, kind and clever young man; and you have kept your promise to us."
"It is not quite over," he replies, head bowed modestly. "There are a few loose ends to tie up. By Tuesday, everything will be over. You will be safe. Forever."
"'You'?" the Clan Mother asks, though her tone is not harsh. Rather, she is asking for clarification, for the words to come out of his mouth. Her eyes, as always, are kind and motherly.
"I will be staying in New York," he says. "I have built myself a life among the colonists, and I have found myself a partner to share that life with. I will come and visit, far more often than I have these past few years. You are still my kin, my family. I simply…"
He sighs and hangs his head. His words are pitiful, not accurately describing what he is feeling. The Clan Mother pats his head affectionately, as she and his mother used to do when he was a child.
"I understand," she says. "I will tell the others. We are all happy for you. You have lived such a troubled life, sacrificed so much… it is only right you have peace at the end of it all."
He squeezes his eyes shut, though the tears that threaten to fall are those of quiet but overwhelming joy.
…
Haytham is quiet, jumpy, even, when he returns. He caresses Haytham's hands in the way he has learnt his love finds soothing, but Haytham pulls them away, fidgeting with his cuffs in anxiety. He paces the dining room, clearly agitated.
"What is the matter?" he asks. It is a long moment before Haytham replies.
"The assassination," the reply comes, and Haytham's voice is strained. "Hickey is injured. He was going to be the assassin."
"Do you not have a backup plan?" Connor asks. It is not like Haytham to make such a huge oversight.
"We did," Haytham slumps into one of the chairs, and buries his head in his arms. "They're all otherwise occupied. Hickey's accident also incapacitated a number of other agents. The ones that are left are either untrained or are off on other missions that simply cannot be abandoned. The Inner Circle are all off doing whatever it is they have to do to keep up pretences. Lee is going to be there, but he can't assassinate the Commander, he's going to be Commander. I'm not welcome in the building. Your recruits are all either not skilled enough or away helping my agents."
Haytham looks up at him with desperate eyes.
"We'll have to call the whole thing off. This is a disaster."
Connor returns his gaze, and pats his arm affectionately.
"I can do it," he offers. "You told me the plan before. I know several of the men in the meeting. Samuel Adams, at least, owes me a favour. I am sure he and Revere can smuggle me into the building."
Haytham shakes his head, sadly.
"You've saved your people. You've done what you promised. You've done more than enough for us already. I can't ask this of you, too."
"Anything for you," he replies. "Besides, my people will never be safe as long as Washington walks the earth."
Haytham looks torn for a moment, before nodding reluctantly.
FILL 34/?
Captcha: If a person is called Charles, what is their name? CHARLES LEE!
He had the fastest courier in New York take the letter with Haytham's address to the Brotherhood. That was almost a week ago. Now, it is early morning and Connor is hanging some clothes to dry in front of the kitchen stove. Haytham is still asleep, in the study. Connor got up at dawn to wash the ink off his body, and tried (and failed) to get the ink out of their clothing as well. In truth, most of the reason he's awake so early is that he knows some well-meaning ally is going to pry where they shouldn't and everything is going to fall apart.
There is a knocking at the front door, and Connor hopes that it's one of the Order. When Connor opens the door, he feels his stomach drop. No such luck.
"Hello," he says, out of politeness. He is careful not to let any trace of anxiety leak into his voice. "What are you doing here?"
Dobby smiles, also being carefully polite. She is dressed far more femininely than usual, her dress like those the wealthier Colonist ladies have taken to wearing recently, all lace and ruffles. This is the first time he's ever seen her wearing makeup.
"We miss you," she says. Connor feels his brow start to furrow. We? She looks to be alone. She notices his confusion, and continues. "I'm in New York on business, the truce, I mean. I thought I'd stop by, on the off-chance you were here and not… well, wherever you're camping."
Her eyes flicker over him- he is clearly freshly-washed, face recently shaven, wearing clean, pressed clothes. He can see the doubt in her eyes.
"You are lucky," he says. "I stopped here for a few days. I was actually going to go back to my village tomorrow."
It's only half a lie. His plan was to go back for a few weeks, perhaps months, after Washington's assassination. When the village is truly safe. Not just yet. He has a horrible feeling he is going to have to make good on the bluff.
"Oh?" Dobby says. "That sounds interesting. Tell you what, how about you and I sit down and have a drink and catch up?"
He can't exactly refuse her, so he grabs a plain cloak and one of the hats hanging near the door, and lets her lead him to her favourite coffee house.
…
"That was a rather nice house," Dobby says, sipping a coffee that is black as night. "Who does it belong to?"
Connor pours himself half a cup more of the house special tea, something with lavender.
"It does not matter," he replies, not meeting her gaze. He can tell his face is flushed from shame he ought not be feeling. After all, he isn't an assassin. They are not blood relations. Nobody needs to know that they are more than friends.
"Clipper told us about your lover," Dobby says, quietly. "Back when I was a courier, I had a few clients that were like you. Outcast for it, too. They were nice, and they were honest, and it wasn't fair. I don't know what happened to most of them. Some married and tried to be normal, I think. A few got jailed for it. I think one was hanged by vigilantes."
Connor does not particularly want to hear about the dangerous line he and Haytham are treading.
"What is your point?" he asks, and his voice sounds surprisingly tired.
"I'm happy you've found somebody," she says, and there is a hint of a sincere smile at the edges of her lips. "I actually… I quite liked you for a while. And I'm glad to see you're happy."
"Thank you," he says.
"Achilles was devastated by the first letter you sent. The one about leaving the Brotherhood. But he was more devastated at the fact you couldn't tell him yourself. That you felt you couldn't talk to him face-to-face. Like he wouldn't understand, after everything that happened to you. Did you forget what he did after his family died? After the Brotherhood was destroyed?"
Connor can feel the heat rising in his cheeks.
"What do you want from me?" he asks.
"You need to talk to Achilles. He loves you. You're the closest thing he has to a son and we can't stand by and watch your relationship break down because you're too scared to hold a proper conversation with him." He rolls his eyes, and Dobby's voice takes on a desperate edge. "What happened to you, Connor? You're not acting like yourself. You used to be straightforward and honest and unafraid. And now you're just a shadow of that."
Suddenly, Connor is angry. Angrier than he has every felt, angrier than he has any right to be, than he has any reason to be. After all she is right, and she is not being cruel but is clearly worried for him. Later, he will tremble, wondering what is wrong with him. He will feel sick, wondering if he, too, is becoming a monster.
He stands up, and plucks his cloak from the chair. He takes a long two steps towards the door- behind Dobby- and towers over her, suddenly irate. He puts a hand on her shoulder and squeezes, hard. Later, he will feel terrible about using his size and shape to intimidate her- an ally, for God's sake- in such a way.
"You know exactly what happened. Do not presume to tell me how I ought or ought not behave. Do not attempt to contact me again."
He walks out quickly, and takes the long way back home, in case he's being followed. He needs to do something to work some of this anger out of his system, even if it is only striding through the backstreets, as fast as his legs can go. Haytham's eyes are understanding when he explains why he is going to his village for a few days.
"I will be back the night before the assassination. No later than sunset. I promise."
...
He finds his way easily enough, and thanks the spirits that nobody else knows (well, none of the Brotherhood know) where his village is. He brings the deeds and there are celebrations that last for several wonderful days.
"Your mother would be so proud of you," the Clan Mother says. "We, too, are proud. You have grown into a strong, kind and clever young man; and you have kept your promise to us."
"It is not quite over," he replies, head bowed modestly. "There are a few loose ends to tie up. By Tuesday, everything will be over. You will be safe. Forever."
"'You'?" the Clan Mother asks, though her tone is not harsh. Rather, she is asking for clarification, for the words to come out of his mouth. Her eyes, as always, are kind and motherly.
"I will be staying in New York," he says. "I have built myself a life among the colonists, and I have found myself a partner to share that life with. I will come and visit, far more often than I have these past few years. You are still my kin, my family. I simply…"
He sighs and hangs his head. His words are pitiful, not accurately describing what he is feeling. The Clan Mother pats his head affectionately, as she and his mother used to do when he was a child.
"I understand," she says. "I will tell the others. We are all happy for you. You have lived such a troubled life, sacrificed so much… it is only right you have peace at the end of it all."
He squeezes his eyes shut, though the tears that threaten to fall are those of quiet but overwhelming joy.
…
Haytham is quiet, jumpy, even, when he returns. He caresses Haytham's hands in the way he has learnt his love finds soothing, but Haytham pulls them away, fidgeting with his cuffs in anxiety. He paces the dining room, clearly agitated.
"What is the matter?" he asks. It is a long moment before Haytham replies.
"The assassination," the reply comes, and Haytham's voice is strained. "Hickey is injured. He was going to be the assassin."
"Do you not have a backup plan?" Connor asks. It is not like Haytham to make such a huge oversight.
"We did," Haytham slumps into one of the chairs, and buries his head in his arms. "They're all otherwise occupied. Hickey's accident also incapacitated a number of other agents. The ones that are left are either untrained or are off on other missions that simply cannot be abandoned. The Inner Circle are all off doing whatever it is they have to do to keep up pretences. Lee is going to be there, but he can't assassinate the Commander, he's going to be Commander. I'm not welcome in the building. Your recruits are all either not skilled enough or away helping my agents."
Haytham looks up at him with desperate eyes.
"We'll have to call the whole thing off. This is a disaster."
Connor returns his gaze, and pats his arm affectionately.
"I can do it," he offers. "You told me the plan before. I know several of the men in the meeting. Samuel Adams, at least, owes me a favour. I am sure he and Revere can smuggle me into the building."
Haytham shakes his head, sadly.
"You've saved your people. You've done what you promised. You've done more than enough for us already. I can't ask this of you, too."
"Anything for you," he replies. "Besides, my people will never be safe as long as Washington walks the earth."
Haytham looks torn for a moment, before nodding reluctantly.
"You," he says. "Are a lifesaver."
Connor chuckles and leans in for a kiss.