Do I get the title of slowest updater on the meme yet? 8(
I know I already apologized for the late update with the last chapter, but I just wanted to say sorry again. This past week has been really rough on me, and it probably didn't help that I struggled with writing this chapter as well, ahahah. Anyway, thank you for your continued patience with me, and as always, you have all my love for reading and commenting! Here's to hoping that the next chapter is less of a headache to write and that I can update sooner. ♥;;
PS - This story is now officially the longest thing I've ever written. We have passed the 30k words mark. \8D/
***
Day One Hundred and Thirty-Nine Dawn’s first light found Haytham with another person in his bed. It was a practice that, in all truth and honesty, did not happen all that often, as he was the sort of individual who often had his partners leave immediately after the act, if he himself was not the one departing the scene. Staying the night suggested intimacy and closeness--two items that Haytham had often shied away from.
They suggested a certain degree of willingness to open up to others, to trust--something Haytham found most difficult to do.
He wondered now, though, whether he had lost out on a great many opportunities in the past, as he could not help but think Connor a beautiful sight in the morning--so very at ease and without a single hint of tension in his body. The boy slept on his belly with his arms tucked beneath his pillow, long hair spilling over his shoulders; his skin was peppered with the signs of their reunion the night before: bruises, scratches, bite marks. Haytham allowed himself a faint smile before reaching over, trailing his fingertips over a particularly savage red streak down the boy’s side.
His son roused easily, cracking open one dark eye, before pushing himself up onto his elbows with a slow and sleepy exhale. He regarded his father with a drowsy look, and even after he scrubbed his face with his hand, Connor appeared no more awake than before. “Good morning, father.”
“You awaken later than I remember. Gotten lazy in my absence, have you?”
A frown pulled at the boy’s lips, like he was displeased with being chided like a child. “I have not,” he replied, twisting into a seated position. Try as he might to avoid it, Haytham couldn’t stop himself from sweeping his eyes down Connor’s front; his son didn’t seem to notice. “It is not as if you woke much earlier than I. Why must you be so disagreeable?”
“Were you expecting some sort of special treatment because of what happened last night? Come now, Connor. Surely you know me better than that,” Haytham answered as he shifted to crawl out of bed. Truth be told, the idea of lingering a while longer was very tempting (as was the thought of showing the boy just what sort of special treatment he was willing to put out), but there were Templar matters to be handled--namely, the rebuilding of his own influence as Grand Master; the longer he waited, the less influence he would retain. While his son now appeared to be an ally, Haytham rather doubted that this extended to matters of the Order.
In this regard, the burden was still his to bear.
Before his feet could even touch the floor, though, a hand closed around his forearm, yanking him back against the mattress with a huff, and then Connor was hovering above him, every last trace of sleepiness gone from his expression, the set of his body. Haytham arched a brow at him, unsure of whether this was going to lead to something very pleasant or very unpleasant. “Yes?”
“Why must you leave so quickly?” he asked, not releasing his hold on Haytham’s arm; his expression was surprisingly soft--wanting. “We did not have time to converse yesterday.”
“We exchanged a few words, if I remember correctly, or are you dissatisfied with what we did? You seemed more than a little eager last night.”
“I--” His face flushed, but Connor shook his head. “That is not what I meant,” the boy continued, his grip tightening. The look on his face shifted into one of concern, and it was at that moment that Haytham knew that this conversation was not going to go where he wanted it to. “Where have you been? What have you been doing? Have you not thought of the worry you caused us? Your servants? Myself? We thought you hurt--dead.”
“You forget who I am, boy,” Haytham replied flippantly, even if he could sense Connor’s growing agitation. He tried to feign indifference, the tilt of his chin arrogant. Maybe he had been foolish to think that he could avoid talking about this, but the previous night had given him hope. After all, Connor hadn’t asked about his travels yesterday. That said, Haytham didn’t exactly give him the opportunity... “I’ve survived this long. I won’t be taken down so easily.”
“Then what of these bandages?” His son grabbed his injured shoulder with his free hand and squeezed, forcing a grimace onto Haytham’s face and a hiss past his lips. “Did your conversations with Lee result in this? Has your relationship with me caused your brethren to turn their backs on you?” Connor let go, planting his hand beside his father’s head instead. “I have done all that you bid of me,” he said, and then there was a break in his voice--a certain desperation that made Haytham’s heart clench. “Why do you not trust me? What more must I do?
“How much more must I give so that you will be open with me?”
“Connor, I...” The words died on his lips, and Haytham sighed. It was as if the boy was actively trying to ruin the mood. He would have been more than willing to kill a few more hours in the privacy of his bedchambers given the proper incentive, but as it stood, Haytham wanted to leave all the more. It didn’t help that with his son confronting him now, it was becoming more difficult to discern whether or not Connor had obliged him last night because of mutual desire or if it was simply an effort to appease him.
“Are you sure you wish to know?” he finally asked, his tone thoroughly reflecting his souring mood. It would have been all too easy to lie, but now that he had been cornered like this, he had a feeling that no good would come from him not telling the truth. This was a risk he had to take, much as it pained him; Haytham merely hoped that his choice would not cause him greater regret in the future.
“Tell me.” His son’s voice still carried a touch of hurt, like he knew all too well what he was asking, but beneath that, there was no threat, no real aggression. When Haytham remained silent, Connor gently pressed a kiss to his father’s lips--an action he didn’t fight. “Please.”
And so, Haytham started to talk.
At first, he spoke haltingly, clearly harassed, but when Connor did nothing save for listen quietly, his words came more easily. He related the news of Zenger’s capture and his interrogation. Haytham discussed how he’d spotted an Assassin one day and of the raid that followed; he commented on the consequences--on how only two of Connor’s allies remained free and able-bodied. He touched on his own recovery and how it’d delayed his return. Haytham made no mention of his damaged relationship with Charles or the worry and anxiety he’d felt when he had thought that Connor had rejoined his brothers.
Once or twice, his son stopped him for clarification, his voice quiet, and Haytham obliged. He was keenly aware of every little twitch of muscle in the boy’s face, realized that a single word that spilled past his lips could result in a fist to his face or fingers curled tight around his throat, but as the minutes ticked by, nothing changed--an uncomfortable peace continued to reign.
The decided lack of violence by the end of his monologue was so stunning that his finish felt, admittedly, quite lame. Haytham’s mind had been filling with arguments and counter-arguments to justify his actions, but not once did he have to use them; Connor simply rolled off to the side and stared at the ceiling, apparently lost in his own thoughts.
Haytham wondered if the boy was devising plans on how to best rescue his allies.
Not sure whether to be pleased or disgruntled that their one-sided conversation had ended this way, Haytham curled into a sitting position, legs dangling off the side of the bed. Behind him, he could feel the mattress dip, and his body tensed; this was it--this was the inevitable result of his actions. Haytham twisted to confront his son, his voice sharp and his tone unrepentantly bitter. “Do not expect me to apologize for what I have done.”
“You should have let me come with you,” was the only answer he got; Connor’s expression remained calm--almost infuriatingly so. There was no heat, no anger in his gaze, and this only fueled his own irritation all the more; he much preferred it when the situation was reversed. Frowning, Haytham narrowed his eyes at the boy.
That statement didn’t make any sense. What good could Connor have done him in New York City? They had already discussed this before his departure. In fact, the boy had uttered those exact words the night before he had left, hadn’t he? He counted his son an ally now--still did despite the words that had just transpired between them--but to strike down his own brethren? Haytham scoffed at the idea, a scathing look of reproach crossing his features. “And what would you have done, Connor? Stayed our blades? Called for peace? A truce between our opposing factions?”
Haytham seemed to be all too talented at ruining his own plans. He was going to lose his son all over again; he could tell by the way the boy’s gaze dropped toward his hands, by the way he kept silent. First, it had been the incident with Washington, and now? Now there was this. He was provoking Connor, goading him, reminding him all too cruelly of how fragile their relationship was--how easily it could be broken.
“Your idealism is heartwarming, but it will not work on the battlefield,” he continued. “Such emotions will not stop a blade or shield an individual from a blow.”
“You misunderstand me.” Those three words were said quickly, as if Connor was in a hurry to correct Haytham’s mistake. Even with the rush, thought, there was a surprising amount of emotion, of warmth, behind those words, and Haytham cocked his head, momentarily puzzled by such a response. With the way he spoke now, it would almost seem as if his son understood his distress and sought to relieve him of his troubles.
“Is it so unreasonable for me to care for you as I care for my brothers? While I do not approve of what you have done to them, it is not only their well-being that I worry about.” A strong hand settled on his bad shoulder, but this time, the touch was gentle. “You may be a Templar, but you are my father as well.”
Connor was meeting his gaze again, and this time, it was he who faltered and had to look away; Haytham couldn’t handle the brutal honesty he found in the boy’s eyes. The expression he found there spoke of gratitude, of thanks. Had his openness been something so desired to warrant such a look? “I thought my worry was evident to you already.”
At that, the boy looked a touch embarrassed, his gaze drifting sidewards as a faint flush crossed his cheeks. Stunned, Haytham could not quite believe his good fortune at how well this conversation resolved itself, and at last, he allowed a faint smile to pull at his lips. His son still spoke of the Assassins, still worried about them, but that he would be thought of as highly as them after all that had happened... Well, this was pleasant news indeed.
Haytham proceeded to reach over and fist Connor’s hair, dragging him over for a brief kiss--one that had his son’s eyes fluttering in surprise; it would be the first time he had initiated such an action after all. The boy parted his lips immediately, reciprocating the kiss with enthusiasm, and before long, he was leaning against his father, their fingers locking against the sheets.
“I could’ve done with a dozen or more letters,” he murmured against soft lips, his teasing tone returning now that the perceived threat had passed. “Considering your poor compositional skills, I found it difficult to discern the message behind your correspondences.
“It would seem my work with you is not yet complete.”
“Your poor teaching is to blame,” Connor replied, and Haytham scoffed at the thought.
“Nonsense. I have no doubts that your education has completely and utterly stalled in my absence.”
The boy’s lips twisted into a smile, and it would not be until later that Haytham would discover why Connor seemed to think his comment so amusing.
Fill: The Re-Education of Connor (Kenway) [ 11 / ? ]
I know I already apologized for the late update with the last chapter, but I just wanted to say sorry again. This past week has been really rough on me, and it probably didn't help that I struggled with writing this chapter as well, ahahah. Anyway, thank you for your continued patience with me, and as always, you have all my love for reading and commenting! Here's to hoping that the next chapter is less of a headache to write and that I can update sooner. ♥;;
PS - This story is now officially the longest thing I've ever written. We have passed the 30k words mark. \8D/
***
Day One Hundred and Thirty-Nine
Dawn’s first light found Haytham with another person in his bed. It was a practice that, in all truth and honesty, did not happen all that often, as he was the sort of individual who often had his partners leave immediately after the act, if he himself was not the one departing the scene. Staying the night suggested intimacy and closeness--two items that Haytham had often shied away from.
They suggested a certain degree of willingness to open up to others, to trust--something Haytham found most difficult to do.
He wondered now, though, whether he had lost out on a great many opportunities in the past, as he could not help but think Connor a beautiful sight in the morning--so very at ease and without a single hint of tension in his body. The boy slept on his belly with his arms tucked beneath his pillow, long hair spilling over his shoulders; his skin was peppered with the signs of their reunion the night before: bruises, scratches, bite marks. Haytham allowed himself a faint smile before reaching over, trailing his fingertips over a particularly savage red streak down the boy’s side.
His son roused easily, cracking open one dark eye, before pushing himself up onto his elbows with a slow and sleepy exhale. He regarded his father with a drowsy look, and even after he scrubbed his face with his hand, Connor appeared no more awake than before. “Good morning, father.”
“You awaken later than I remember. Gotten lazy in my absence, have you?”
A frown pulled at the boy’s lips, like he was displeased with being chided like a child. “I have not,” he replied, twisting into a seated position. Try as he might to avoid it, Haytham couldn’t stop himself from sweeping his eyes down Connor’s front; his son didn’t seem to notice. “It is not as if you woke much earlier than I. Why must you be so disagreeable?”
“Were you expecting some sort of special treatment because of what happened last night? Come now, Connor. Surely you know me better than that,” Haytham answered as he shifted to crawl out of bed. Truth be told, the idea of lingering a while longer was very tempting (as was the thought of showing the boy just what sort of special treatment he was willing to put out), but there were Templar matters to be handled--namely, the rebuilding of his own influence as Grand Master; the longer he waited, the less influence he would retain. While his son now appeared to be an ally, Haytham rather doubted that this extended to matters of the Order.
In this regard, the burden was still his to bear.
Before his feet could even touch the floor, though, a hand closed around his forearm, yanking him back against the mattress with a huff, and then Connor was hovering above him, every last trace of sleepiness gone from his expression, the set of his body. Haytham arched a brow at him, unsure of whether this was going to lead to something very pleasant or very unpleasant. “Yes?”
“Why must you leave so quickly?” he asked, not releasing his hold on Haytham’s arm; his expression was surprisingly soft--wanting. “We did not have time to converse yesterday.”
“We exchanged a few words, if I remember correctly, or are you dissatisfied with what we did? You seemed more than a little eager last night.”
“I--” His face flushed, but Connor shook his head. “That is not what I meant,” the boy continued, his grip tightening. The look on his face shifted into one of concern, and it was at that moment that Haytham knew that this conversation was not going to go where he wanted it to. “Where have you been? What have you been doing? Have you not thought of the worry you caused us? Your servants? Myself? We thought you hurt--dead.”
“You forget who I am, boy,” Haytham replied flippantly, even if he could sense Connor’s growing agitation. He tried to feign indifference, the tilt of his chin arrogant. Maybe he had been foolish to think that he could avoid talking about this, but the previous night had given him hope. After all, Connor hadn’t asked about his travels yesterday. That said, Haytham didn’t exactly give him the opportunity... “I’ve survived this long. I won’t be taken down so easily.”
“Then what of these bandages?” His son grabbed his injured shoulder with his free hand and squeezed, forcing a grimace onto Haytham’s face and a hiss past his lips. “Did your conversations with Lee result in this? Has your relationship with me caused your brethren to turn their backs on you?” Connor let go, planting his hand beside his father’s head instead. “I have done all that you bid of me,” he said, and then there was a break in his voice--a certain desperation that made Haytham’s heart clench. “Why do you not trust me? What more must I do?
“How much more must I give so that you will be open with me?”
“Connor, I...” The words died on his lips, and Haytham sighed. It was as if the boy was actively trying to ruin the mood. He would have been more than willing to kill a few more hours in the privacy of his bedchambers given the proper incentive, but as it stood, Haytham wanted to leave all the more. It didn’t help that with his son confronting him now, it was becoming more difficult to discern whether or not Connor had obliged him last night because of mutual desire or if it was simply an effort to appease him.
“Are you sure you wish to know?” he finally asked, his tone thoroughly reflecting his souring mood. It would have been all too easy to lie, but now that he had been cornered like this, he had a feeling that no good would come from him not telling the truth. This was a risk he had to take, much as it pained him; Haytham merely hoped that his choice would not cause him greater regret in the future.
“Tell me.” His son’s voice still carried a touch of hurt, like he knew all too well what he was asking, but beneath that, there was no threat, no real aggression. When Haytham remained silent, Connor gently pressed a kiss to his father’s lips--an action he didn’t fight. “Please.”
And so, Haytham started to talk.
At first, he spoke haltingly, clearly harassed, but when Connor did nothing save for listen quietly, his words came more easily. He related the news of Zenger’s capture and his interrogation. Haytham discussed how he’d spotted an Assassin one day and of the raid that followed; he commented on the consequences--on how only two of Connor’s allies remained free and able-bodied. He touched on his own recovery and how it’d delayed his return. Haytham made no mention of his damaged relationship with Charles or the worry and anxiety he’d felt when he had thought that Connor had rejoined his brothers.
Once or twice, his son stopped him for clarification, his voice quiet, and Haytham obliged. He was keenly aware of every little twitch of muscle in the boy’s face, realized that a single word that spilled past his lips could result in a fist to his face or fingers curled tight around his throat, but as the minutes ticked by, nothing changed--an uncomfortable peace continued to reign.
The decided lack of violence by the end of his monologue was so stunning that his finish felt, admittedly, quite lame. Haytham’s mind had been filling with arguments and counter-arguments to justify his actions, but not once did he have to use them; Connor simply rolled off to the side and stared at the ceiling, apparently lost in his own thoughts.
Haytham wondered if the boy was devising plans on how to best rescue his allies.
Not sure whether to be pleased or disgruntled that their one-sided conversation had ended this way, Haytham curled into a sitting position, legs dangling off the side of the bed. Behind him, he could feel the mattress dip, and his body tensed; this was it--this was the inevitable result of his actions. Haytham twisted to confront his son, his voice sharp and his tone unrepentantly bitter. “Do not expect me to apologize for what I have done.”
“You should have let me come with you,” was the only answer he got; Connor’s expression remained calm--almost infuriatingly so. There was no heat, no anger in his gaze, and this only fueled his own irritation all the more; he much preferred it when the situation was reversed. Frowning, Haytham narrowed his eyes at the boy.
That statement didn’t make any sense. What good could Connor have done him in New York City? They had already discussed this before his departure. In fact, the boy had uttered those exact words the night before he had left, hadn’t he? He counted his son an ally now--still did despite the words that had just transpired between them--but to strike down his own brethren? Haytham scoffed at the idea, a scathing look of reproach crossing his features. “And what would you have done, Connor? Stayed our blades? Called for peace? A truce between our opposing factions?”
Haytham seemed to be all too talented at ruining his own plans. He was going to lose his son all over again; he could tell by the way the boy’s gaze dropped toward his hands, by the way he kept silent. First, it had been the incident with Washington, and now? Now there was this. He was provoking Connor, goading him, reminding him all too cruelly of how fragile their relationship was--how easily it could be broken.
“Your idealism is heartwarming, but it will not work on the battlefield,” he continued. “Such emotions will not stop a blade or shield an individual from a blow.”
“You misunderstand me.” Those three words were said quickly, as if Connor was in a hurry to correct Haytham’s mistake. Even with the rush, thought, there was a surprising amount of emotion, of warmth, behind those words, and Haytham cocked his head, momentarily puzzled by such a response. With the way he spoke now, it would almost seem as if his son understood his distress and sought to relieve him of his troubles.
“Is it so unreasonable for me to care for you as I care for my brothers? While I do not approve of what you have done to them, it is not only their well-being that I worry about.” A strong hand settled on his bad shoulder, but this time, the touch was gentle. “You may be a Templar, but you are my father as well.”
Connor was meeting his gaze again, and this time, it was he who faltered and had to look away; Haytham couldn’t handle the brutal honesty he found in the boy’s eyes. The expression he found there spoke of gratitude, of thanks. Had his openness been something so desired to warrant such a look? “I thought my worry was evident to you already.”
At that, the boy looked a touch embarrassed, his gaze drifting sidewards as a faint flush crossed his cheeks. Stunned, Haytham could not quite believe his good fortune at how well this conversation resolved itself, and at last, he allowed a faint smile to pull at his lips. His son still spoke of the Assassins, still worried about them, but that he would be thought of as highly as them after all that had happened... Well, this was pleasant news indeed.
Haytham proceeded to reach over and fist Connor’s hair, dragging him over for a brief kiss--one that had his son’s eyes fluttering in surprise; it would be the first time he had initiated such an action after all. The boy parted his lips immediately, reciprocating the kiss with enthusiasm, and before long, he was leaning against his father, their fingers locking against the sheets.
“I could’ve done with a dozen or more letters,” he murmured against soft lips, his teasing tone returning now that the perceived threat had passed. “Considering your poor compositional skills, I found it difficult to discern the message behind your correspondences.
“It would seem my work with you is not yet complete.”
“Your poor teaching is to blame,” Connor replied, and Haytham scoffed at the thought.
“Nonsense. I have no doubts that your education has completely and utterly stalled in my absence.”
The boy’s lips twisted into a smile, and it would not be until later that Haytham would discover why Connor seemed to think his comment so amusing.