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Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 5

Assassin's Creed Kink Meme pt.5
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Your writer!anon is a terrible person (you'll... see why), but thank you so very, very, very much for your continued support! :D It has been an absolute joy to write this story. Also! To the anon!reader who asked why Haytham hadn't just checked Connor out with his Eagle Vision before leaving... Well, haha, I address it a bit here. |Db;; Anyway, enjoy! Thanks again for reading and reviewing. You all are lovely people. ♥

***

Day Eighty-Four
Nothing happened.

Nothing happened on the trip back to the safe house, and nothing happened as they escorted their prisoner inside. Once, Haytham thought that he had seen a flicker of red out of the corner of his eye, but when he went over to investigate, he found nothing--no footprints, no disturbances to the snow. It was not necessarily a bad thing to be hypervigilant, but he’d be paying for it further down the line.

Since Zenger’s arrival at the Templar headquarters, Haytham had taken to the rooftops at night, keeping a wary eye out for that red pinprick to reappear. When asked, he simply told his subordinates that he saw better at night than any of the others, which was not a lie, but he kept mum about the nature of his unique seeing abilities.

Holding an Assassin with at least one other member of the Brotherhood out on the streets was dangerous, and they’d need the most advance warning they could get. Most men accepted his explanation without a second thought, for in their eyes, he was still their Grand Master. The only one who questioned him was Charles. Charles knew better, and he could not ignore the way the general looked at him with narrowed eyes and a frown.

They spoke in private a few days after Zenger’s move. Charles again brought up his apparent obsession with his son, and they’d argued--argued about what to do with the boy, what was best for the Order. It was easily the worst argument Haytham had gotten into with the man since their first meeting so many years ago, but he’d stood his ground; Charles had, at last, acquiesced, but only just. The general agreed to continue interrogating Zenger in his place and had, grudgingly, promised to avoid using physical force unless absolutely necessary.

It was some weight off his shoulders, but it provided little relief, what with all these other troubles that loomed over him.

Truth be told, it was his worry that drove him to take over the night watch. Haytham dreaded to think that Connor would betray him, but that fear had sunk its claws in deep. Night after night, he waited in the bitter cold, regardless of the sleet, snow, or ice that fell from the heavens; he waited to see the blazing red silhouette of his son storming across the rooftops, out for his blood.

In hindsight, this entire problem could have been resolved if he’d just looked at his son with Eagle Vision prior to his departure, but Haytham had come to a realization since arriving here in New York City: he was not sure he wanted to know the truth. If the boy was the cool blue of an ally, then he would have rejoiced, but what if he was not? What if he remained white or worse, red or gold?

Haytham had been a coward. It would be easier for him to accept the fact that Connor had fled in his absence than to swallow the giant lie that would have made up their curious relationship the past few months. Such softness in personality was unbecoming of him, and he turned his fear into an uncompromising devotion to watching over the safe house.

On more than a few occasions, his brothers had asked that he remain indoors, especially when the weather was unusually brutal, but time and time again, Haytham would refuse; he would keep his vigil no matter the circumstances. The only problem with this was that the morning would always find him chilled to the core, and despite spending the daylight hours sleeping in front of a roaring fire, Haytham could not shake the cold that sank deep into his bones.

And how his head ached!

Hour after hour, he would keep Eagle Vision activated, peering into the darkness in hopes of spotting a flash of red, but not once did he see anything. Never before in his life had he used the ability to such an extent, and it was starting to give him quite the headache. Then again, Haytham had to grudgingly admit that he’d also developed a bit of a cough along with a few other symptoms that pointed toward the development of a cold, but he refused to admit to being ill --not when there was such an important task at hand.

That said, tonight proved quite a challenge for Haytham: the aches in his body were worse, he felt cold no matter how much he wore, and his head pounded with a vengeance. To be resuming his watch in such a condition was reckless (too much like the boy, he thought sardonically), but all the same, Haytham still climbed onto the roof and began his rounds, despite his complete and utter lack of energy.

The first few hours passed without incident, as per the norm. The streets were quiet, and down below, the two men posted at the front door could be heard whispering and stamping their feet; on occasion, the yowl of a cat or the sound of a dog barking would break the silence. The skies were overcast, but, to Haytham’s relief, the night was still dry--he was shivering enough without any additional help from the environment.

He had pressed his fingertips to his temples and closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, Haytham saw it: a red spot bobbing up and down in the distance. However, one pinprick of red turned into two, three, four--five, and he cursed quietly. Haytham whistled low, and the mumbling of the guards immediately ceased; their silence was quickly followed by the urgent rap of knuckles against the door.

Pulling out his spyglass, he studied the on-coming figures: only one wore the white cowl of an Assassin, but while the frame of that individual was too small to be that of his son, the knowledge provided Haytham with little comfort. Desperation and a growing feeling of dread filled him as he stuffed his spyglass into a pocket and took off toward the Assassins. The cold air burned his lungs, and his muscles protested; his limbs felt leaden as he ran and leapt.

The five silhouettes split, each heading in a slightly different direction, but their breakneck speed didn’t not slow. Haytham wondered if they did not know if they had been spotted or if they did not care for stealth now; he hoped that his men would be ready by the time they hit the safe house. He could not think to chase them all--not when the world wavered in front of his eyes and his body protested every move that he made.

Pausing to hide behind a chimney, Haytham slumped against the bricks, pressing a hand to his forehead as he tried to catch his breath; his skin burned beneath his fingertips. With a low growl, he forced himself to focus--to forget the throbbing in his skull, the ache that made him feel weak, the tiredness that plagued him body and soul. This was a battlefield, one that he had voluntarily forced himself onto, and Haytham would not allow himself to fall here--not when Connor’s allegiances remained a mystery to him.

Peering around his hiding spot, he saw the angry glow of a man dressed in a priest’s robes fast approaching his location. As the footfalls drew ever closer, Haytham tensed, and just as the man passed to his left, he made a grab at the Assassin, hoping for a clean kill. His arm was deflected, though, and the man twisted away, Haytham’s fingers losing their grip on his clothes.

Well, so much for getting the job done the easy way.

“You--!” The Assassin never bothered to finish his sentence, instead drawing his blade. Haytham thought he heard a note of surprise and something else in that voice, but he would not have time to think about that now, not when the clash of steel was ringing in his ears. Deflecting the blow with his hidden blade, Haytham took a step back before drawing out his own sword, feeling its heavy weight in his hand.

He lunged, and when he saw his opponent move to block his blow, Haytham changed the angle of his strike, sweeping it to the side and shifting his target from the man’s chest to his arm. He was rewarded with a cry of pain, but his triumph was short lived, as the Assassin retaliated with several savage blows that had him stumbling backwards. Slipping and sliding over to the other side of the roof, he tried to put more distance between them as he panted; his blood pounded in his ears, and Haytham was sure that his heart was going to hammer its way right out of his chest.

Again, he tried to take the offensive, darting in with the aim to strike at the Assassin’s sides, but the man was ready for him this time, deflecting the blow and replying in turn. Cold steel bit into flesh, and Haytham whirled away with a poorly muffled shout, his free hand moving to press into his upper arm. His opponent circled him, the tip of his saber completely and utterly steady.

Haytham wondered whether or not conviction alone would be enough to get him through this.

The Assassin made a lunge at him, but he blocked the blow, albeit barely. Coupling his illness with his fresh wound, he did not have the strength to withstand the ferocity of the strike, and his blade was knocked out of his hands, vanishing somewhere over the edge of the roof and clattering to the ground below. Haytham frowned at this development, but perhaps it was for the best. He’d be quicker with the hidden blade, and the weight of it would be easier for him to manage with the remaining strength that he had. The only problem, of course, was now the Assassin had a rather significant distance advantage, and the only way to resolve that was to move in close.

Springing forward, Haytham feinted to the right before slipping over to the left. He was quick, yes, but not quick enough as he felt his opponent’s sword graze the flesh of his side through the thick layers of clothing that he wore, but he was rewarded with a groan as he rotated and slammed his fist into the man’s stomach, the blade digging into flesh. It was the Assassin’s turn to stumble; Haytham followed up his attack with a swift kick that sent the man sprawling.

His aim with the blade was off, though, and he cursed himself; he’d struck too far to the left, missing the liver as he’d originally intended. The Assassin pushed himself back onto his feet, and this time, his grip on his sword wavered. Even so, he still seemed to be faring better than Haytham, who was breathing hard, feeling too cold and too hot at the same time, and battling the lightheadedness that only grew worse as his wounds continued to bleed.

Haytham shook his head lightly as if to clear his thoughts, but his vision only became worse, dimming around the edges. In the distance, he could hear the shouts of men, gunshots, and the clang of metal striking metal; the feeble flicker of candlelight was beginning to reappear in windows across the city as the commotion continued, but hopefully, no one would be foolish enough to come out to investigate.

Though, an interruption would likely be a good reprieve for him at this point.

With a roar, the Assassin ran at him, a fearsome sight to behold--covered in blood and sweat, eyes burning with a fire he recognized as the unbanked desire for revenge. Haytham caught the edge of the blade with his own, but step by step, he was forced backwards until the heel of one foot stood on nothing but air. They were too far up for him to survive this fall, and there were no opportunities for a soft landing in sight; Haytham fought back with the desperation of a man on the verge of death, but he couldn’t push the Assassin away, couldn’t stir up the strength necessary despite the adrenaline rushing through his veins.

If he thought about it, this was a rather suiting way for him to die: in the defense of his ideals, on the battlefield, and at the hands of an Assassin. He would have preferred to have put up a better fight, but there was still the chance to take his opponent with him; it would only take a well-timed grab, and they’d both be tumbling over the edge. His life was not the best, filled with bloodshed and grief as it was, but there was nothing he was ashamed of, nothing he regretted--well, almost.

There was still the matter of his son. It was always his son.

Haytham grunted, muscles screaming in agony, and he leaned as much of his weight toward his aggressor as he could before closing a fist around the man’s collar. His right arm buckled without the support of the left, but Haytham held on, breaths coming in harsh pants. A grim smile curled his lips, and he dared the Assassin to do his worst, testing the man. How badly did he want him dead? “Go on then,” he hissed. “Push.”

There was a moment of hesitation, and that’s all Haytham needed. He twisted and retracted his hidden blade, yelling in pain as the Assassin’s sword finally connected with flesh, cutting deep into his shoulder. His nerves were on fire, his body on the verge of collapse, but he shoved the man with his good shoulder, putting all of his weight and what remained of his strength behind the movement. Surprised by this course of action, the Assassin stumbled back, and Haytham engaged his other hidden blade, the dagger sliding out into his palm. He lashed out blindly, his vision obscuring from pain and blood loss, but when his blade met nothing but air, Haytham crumpled, body giving out at last.

As his vision faded, the final thing he saw was a blue blur engaging the Assassin. Haytham did not wonder who that individual was, though, did not give him a second thought. No, his mind was focused on something else entirely, something far from the battlefield: on the boy, the brat, the thorn in his side.

--On his son.

SORRY. I'll stop with the cliffhanger endings soon, I promise. orz /terrible person oh yes

Another cliffhanger??? Really??? Sigh... oh how your torment us, anon. Despite what he did to Jacob, I hope Haytham is all right (eagerly anticipates the 'master' and 'slave' that is to come). I love how in the first part of this story, Haytham was going on about how his son's recklessness, and here he is fighting while he's ill and fatigued.

I kind of wonder who the Assassin he is fighting was... Duncan possibly? I imagine Connor took the time to train his recruits alongside Achilles (who has passed away already, right?) at the Homestead and they have all seen the Templar portraits at the manor, but it's obvious that Duncan was scarred for life when Haytham had killed his uncle right in front of him.

Anyway, I hope you update soon because these cliffhangers are killing me!

I kind of wonder who the Assassin he is fighting was... Duncan possibly?

^^; I really need to pay more attention... totally missed the part about the priest robes

Literally foaming at the mouth because of your cliffhangers you terrible good person you<3

Two cliffhangers in a row! You are a cruel, cruel mistress (or master), WriterAnon. (I love you anyway though, you're ammmmaaaaazzzziiiiinnngggg~)

I must say, the Charles Lee angle is getting really interesting here. It sounds like dear old Charles is starting to distrust Haytham more and more. Enough to stage a coup, perhaps...? Or to try and kill Haytham? Or more likely he'd try to kill Connor, since Connor is the source of Haytham's change in behavior. And what of Connor? Did Connor plan this, or was it all the recruits and Achilles? Did Connor rally the assassins to stop his father and free Jacob? SO. MANY. QUESTIONS.

And OH that fight scene! What a wonderfully glorious fight scene! I'm not lying here when I say that this may have been the best fight scene I've read in any fandom EVER. I could see it all so clearly in my head...Haytham weakening, Duncan's saber cutting into his shoulder, the two of them dangling over the edge of a roof. Your skill at this amazes me, my dear!

Please update again soon!

alskdfjfsafjl this story will be the death of me!

This is frigging amazing -- period. PLEASE CONTINUE!! :D

This was originally going to be longer and have a second part with Haytham going home, but sadly, I am currently getting punched in the face with a project deadline for work. XD; So! This is a bit shorter than my earlier offerings, but I promise Connor will return with the next update. (And you all know what that means. ;D )

Also, OP, I'm glad you enjoyed the fight scene! XD I feel like I rarely get the opportunity to write them out, so I was especially happy that I got to do so! And to all the other reader!anons, thank you, as always, for your lovely, lovely comments. I know I'm starting to sound like a broken record here, but I genuinely do appreciate them. ♥!!

***

Day One Hundred and Six
Haytham had been told that the worst was over, and while his body still ached from the injuries inflicted upon him and the ravages of the disease--pneumonia, the doctor had said--still plagued him, he felt a new sense of invigoration having challenged death and winning. This was not the first time (and likely not the last) that he would be faced with his own mortality, and now, Haytham sought to make it so that he would have no regrets when his end finally came.

Still, he remained bedridden at this time, and while his mind had already decided what to do next, his body was not quite up to the challenge. It left Haytham feeling a touch disgruntled, but perhaps it was for the best. This way, he’d have time to digest the happenings of that night, the repercussions it held for the Order, and to formulate the best plan to accomplish his goals.

Zenger had been freed during the raid, which had left the safe house ablaze, but now all the Assassins would think that their beloved leader was dead. The Brotherhood of old would not have suffered so greatly from such a loss, as Achilles, while a key figure, had made sure to instill a certain sort of independence in his men. Connor, on the other hand, was an effective leader, but beyond the little group he had personally collected, they had not grown--a sign that they still relied all too heavily on the one individual. The thought that Davenport might still try to raise the Brotherhood did cross his mind, but what could a crippled old man like him do? Haytham wouldn’t be surprised if he was on his deathbed, if not gone from this world already...

Really, it was just Connor’s presence as a leader that was important. And with him effectively gone? Well, it was only a matter of time before they collapsed in on themselves. All he had to do was nudge them in the right direction.

To add to his satisfaction, Haytham had received reports that Duncan Little, the man whom he could blame for the stinging pain in his shoulder, had also been badly wounded, even if he’d managed to flee the scene. Two others, Colley and Chapheau, had been thrown into Bridewell Prison for arson, and if he remembered correctly, that meant the Assassins were down to two able-bodied members now.

With their numbers dwindling, Haytham wondered what acts of desperation would they resort to, if any at all. Achilles had surrendered quietly enough, and while he did occasionally wonder if his benevolence had hurt the Order in the long run, allowing the old Assassin to live had never particularly troubled him. Perhaps this new generation would follow in the man’s footsteps; there wasn’t an actual need for more bloodshed, even if others would argue differently.

Others being Charles for the most part.

It was Charles who had saved him that night; it was Charles who had personally seen to transporting him from the ruins of the safe house to their new quarters; it was Charles who watched over him when the doctor was away. For all the things that he had done and continued to do, though, Haytham could no longer say that he felt that he was sitting in the presence of a friend.

The atmosphere that surrounded them had taken on a most frigid nature, and for all intensive purposes, the general felt like a prison warden to him, keeping an eye on his prisoner so that he would not escape--not that Haytham would even be capable of it at this point. It was unpleasant, and any chances he took to strike up a conversation were ended with curt answers and a cold look.

He could barely take solace in the fact that Charles’ aura remained a calm and quiet blue.

Strangely, though, the general had also been the one to deliver him his letters, even if he looked as if he’d rather be shoveling manure than handling the pieces of paper. Haytham could only assume that because Charles was still, technically speaking, his right-hand man that people assumed his mail should be delivered through him, but such a practice only strained their relationship further. It took no imagination at all to figure out whom these letters were from, and by this point, it was all too easy to tell that Charles loathed to think of his son being on anything remotely close to on good terms with his father.

Delivery issues aside, though, Haytham liked the fact that he’d been written to. Delayed though the missives were now, Mrs. Langley had replied to his correspondence some time ago, but it was quite a bit longer before Haytham had been in any state to read the blasted things. She had talked about such inane items like the weather and gossip between the staff, and, of course, she’d also mentioned how the boy was quite keen on writing him in return.

--Which had been the start of a series of notes (they were too short to really be counted as proper letters) from Connor. The first lambasted his apparent inability to write to him, instead of through the maid. The second? There was but a single line demanding to know when he would be back. The third, fourth, and fifth were of the same ilk, though they did grow increasingly agitated as time wore on.

Haytham thought it was endearing--cute, almost--that the boy was becoming upset because of him and made it a clear point to not write back, even now that he physically could. After all, he certainly didn’t want Connor to stop writing these notes to him; the desperation in them was all too appealing.

Amusement factor aside, it really was a shame that these letters had not reached him sooner, for it was in the dates scribbled in the corners that Haytham found a great source of comfort. It didn’t matter if Connor’s scrawl was as hideous as they came, not when his notes told him that he’d still been at home when the raid on the safe house had occurred; Connor was not one of the instigators--he had not been one of the red silhouettes on the roofs that night.

It would be Charles, of course, to challenge him on this though.

The general came in to his quarters bright and early this morning and took a seat in his usual spot by the window, eyes scanning the street outside, as if he were waiting for something to happen. Charles had become increasingly worried--paranoid--since the attack, and it showed even now: his shoulders hunched a little, his gaze darted back and forth, his hands drummed against the armrest, and he worried his bottom lip between his teeth.

“That boy of yours is a liar,” he finally said when Haytham had tried for the millionth time to stop him from fretting. The general gestured at the small stack of letters on the bedside table, eyes narrowing at them as if they were dangerous. “It was he who plotted this. That Assassin may not have been here, but I know it was him.”

“Such distrust, Charles. I assure you, Connor is not behind all of this--”

“How do you know? How do you know that he has not pulled the wool over your eyes?”

“Now see here, Charles. That is an insult to me and--”

Again, Charles cut him off; he stood in his agitation and approached the bed. Unable to help himself, Haytham tensed. “You are besotted with him. Can you not see that? You allow yourself to be blinded by this new found family of yours, and he does as he pleases.

“I cannot stand for that, Haytham. I will not allow it.”

Haytham fell silent then, lips pressed into a thin, hard line. Even if Charles did not know the true nature of the relationship that he had with his son, the words that the man was spewing right now were completely and utterly inappropriate to be said to him, the Grand Master. When he spoke next, his voice was cold. “Charles, are you threatening me?”

“I am merely reminding you of your duties.”

“Then allow me to remind you that speaking to me in such a manner will not bode well for your future in the Order.”

The general’s expression did not change; such threats, apparently, had no effect on the man. “Do not think your title gives you protection from retribution.”

“Duly noted,” he bit out. Haytham felt thoroughly rankled now, but he had no intention of letting this individual push him around. Charles would have to do better than this to intimidate him--much better. And to think that this man once had been his most fervent and loyal supporter! “Now is there anything else you need from me, or do you intend to loom over me for the remainder of the day?”

“I’ve another letter for you. Nothing else.” The general produced a folded piece of paper from inside his coat, and Haytham took it, snatching it out of Charles’ hand.

“You have my thanks.”

“Of course.”

All sincerity was gone from their speech, and today, Charles would not stay with him. Indeed, today would mark the last day that the general would visit him here in New York City, but Haytham felt no sorrow for this loss. His top priority now was to become well enough to leave this place.

A storm was coming, and he needed to be ready.

I am sitting here rolling around in anticipation for the next update Ohmy go ddddd I love you writer!anon you portray Haytham and Lee so perfectly<3

Please never stop writing Haytham fics... you capture him so well! Oh and the strain between Haytham and Charles was painful considering how close they had been. Charles is losing Haytham over to Connor - and I bet he felt intimidated with the idea of Connor replacing him as Haytham's second in command one day (as Haytham has claimed, Connor is an effective leader).

I hope Haytham is up for the trip back home... and his reunion with Connor ...btw, how do the servants (are they also Templars?) not know what's really going on? I mean don't they live there? And have to do the laundry and wonder about those stains... /blush/

Did I forget to mention how anxious I am for that reunion? PLEASE UPDATE SOON!

OMG! What if Charles is right and Connor somehow knew and planned Jacob's rescue from the Kenway house? What will Haytham do if he finds out? What about Jamie and Stephane, no way is Connor going to let them rot in Bridewall. Is Achilles even still alive? So many questions... please update soon fill-anon!

ahh this fic is so perfect!!<3 im secretly hoping that next time haytham sees connor he's red ehehe

Goodness, the tension between these two is heated! We saw it simmering a bit in previous chapters, and with Lee taking his leave...well, it almost seems like a reversal for Haytham. He originally tried to isolate Connor to 're-educate' him, but is drifting further and further away from his own Templar brothers as a result. Crazy!

Definitely waiting with baited breath for the next update, and maybe also stalking your Ao3 <3

Oh Writer!Anon, that was a wonderful update! Every time I see an update for this fic, I literally squee with joy. You make OP very, very happy with your wonderful writing! <3 <3 <3

Oh my, it seems like relations between Haytham and Charles have reached a boiling point. O.o Love how you've built the strain up between them all this time, it certainly gives one a sense of anticipation. I wonder what Charles is going to do? He still seems loyal for the moment, but will that change? It does seem like Connor is replacing Charles as Haytham's right hand man, and I bet Charles won't take that sitting down...

Connor's notes are absolutely adorable! I'm eagerly anticipating Haytham's return home and the...reunion between the two. *suggestive eyebrows*

Know that you always have OP's undying love and devotion, Writer!Anon. *HUGS*

You guys. YOU GUYS. ♥♥♥ You know how to put a smile on a writer!anon's face so very well. Thank you all again for your lovely comments. And thank you for letting me run off with this prompt this way haha. To think, I had once considered just writing up a PWP fill for this thing and moving on. |D

Also, just a heads-up, but the next update will likely be a bit delayed as I've got a hideous week of work coming up. I'll probably be too tired to come up with anything more coherent than keysmash, so I apologize ahead of time.

ANYWAY, without further delay, enjoy their reunion. \8D/

***

Day One Hundred and Thirty-Eight
The doctor had demanded that he relax and remain in a stress-free environment to speed his recovery, but Haytham found the remainder of his stay in New York City to largely be the opposite. Since that conversation with Charles, he questioned the loyalty of every single individual who entered his room, and to his dismay, his worry was not unfounded. Following the argument, the number of people who had shifted from a blue aura to a white one grew, even if their outward demeanor had not changed significantly.

Perhaps he should have expected this, given how almost all of the men stationed in the city had been recruited by the general, but Haytham still found all of this very disturbing. Sadly, he did not really have anyone to blame but himself: his own absences, either spent bedridden or preoccupied with Connor’s education, meant that Charles had become the de facto leader of the Order. This shift in power had Haytham itching to increase his own influence, but stuck here, ill as he was, made it difficult.

By the time he was finally ready to depart, he’d largely been shuffled off to the side, and all news about the Order seemed to come to him as an afterthought. Indeed, the only individual who seemed to truly remember and care that he was still stuck here was the lad who continued to deliver his letters--Haytham could not help but feel a bit pathetic that his only retainer was a boy younger than his own son though.

He could not understand how such an individual had come to join the Order to begin with. His assistant was scrawny and always seemed to have his head in the clouds; he had no ambition whatsoever--even Hickey had aspired to greater goals than this boy, perverse they might have been. Still, beggars could not be choosers, so Haytham received his help with grudging gratefulness.

A dozen more letters found their way to his hands by the time the doctor deemed him fit to travel, and another five arrived prior to his actual departure. Haytham had no doubt that more would eventually find their way here, so as he took leave of this city, he instructed the lad to bring the letters to the Kenway home in several weeks’ time instead of simply disposing of them.

He refused to acknowledge his own sentimentality or the reason why he wanted to keep the things.

No, Haytham instead opted to focus on how to best bolster his support amongst his Templar brothers. Over and over again, his thoughts would, sardonically, turn to his son, and by the time his journey home had neared its end, Haytham had no doubts that his continued success as Grand Master relied on the boy’s conversion. He still hoped that his partnership with Charles could be repaired, but his outlook was grim.

And if that were the case, well, he’d need a new right-hand man, and who else could be better than Connor?

Of course, he needed to confirm the boy’s allegiances first. Haytham had felt such a keen sense of regret over the matter during the fight with Little, and he endeavored to not make the same mistake twice. If Connor still remained a stubborn red, gold, or white, it simply meant that he would have to try harder. Killing the boy was no longer a real option--Haytham needed him, alive and by his side.

With this thought in mind, he sighed and rapped his knuckles against the door, lifting his gaze to meet the sight of a weeping Mrs. Langley standing in the doorway. “Master Kenway! Oh, Master Kenway! We had not received any word from you for so long and were so worried!” Mrs. Langley cried as she threw her arms around him, and Haytham stared at her, shocked, before gently patting her shoulders. When she at last took a step back, she dabbed at her eyes with a corner of her apron and put on a teary smile. “Oh, sir, welcome home! Please. Please, do come inside.”

Two steps into the foyer, and the sound of thundering footsteps could be heard--three more saw Connor standing, stunned, at the bottom of the stairs. They simply stared at each other for a moment, and then the boy’s expression twisted into something that was half anger and half relief. Haytham wasn’t really quite sure if his son wanted to hit him (inadvisable in front of Mrs. Langley) or pull him into an embrace (also inadvisable).

“Father.” It came out as a rather unbecoming croak, and Haytham smirked, crossing what distance remained between them and pressing a hand to the boy’s shoulder. Perhaps it had been a touch too cruel to leave those in his household in the dark like he had, but he soaked up his homecoming and relished the looks of relief on their faces.

“Mrs. Langley, Connor and I have some catching up to do,” he said, his gaze never leaving his son’s.

The maid laughed, her voice still a note or two higher than usual from her tears. “Shall I bring some tea up?”

There was a moment’s pause, and his fingers curled a little tighter. “No, I don’t think that’ll be necessary.” Haytham looked over his shoulder at her. “We’ll take care of food and drink ourselves tonight.”

Mrs. Langley gave him a bit of a confused look but curtsied and excused herself, mumbling something about putting away books as she disappeared around a corner. Alone now in the foyer, Haytham returned his attention to his son. “Such a dour expression on your face. Missed me, have you?”

“You lied. You never wrote.”

“Preposterous. I wrote to Mrs. Langley.”

“To me.” Strong hands fisted themselves in the lapels of his jacket, and Haytham lifted his eyebrows; Connor let go, arms falling lamely to his sides and chin dipping toward the ground. “I am sorry, father.”

He’d missed this--missed this dearly; the quiet obedience the boy demonstrated toward him, the deference he paid him, warmed and empowered him all over again. The events in New York City had left him feeling so very out of sorts, had left him feeling strangely powerless, but now that he was home, everything fell right back into place. All was well with the world again, and it renewed his spirits, renewed his hopes that he could mold the world into what he wanted, what he desired.

“Let’s discuss this in private, shall we? My bedchambers perhaps?” he asked, hand slipping from Connor’s shoulder to his elbow. Brown eyes lifted to meet his own, almost disbelieving, but there was the slightest nod; Haytham smiled. “Excellent.”

His room, as it turned out, remained much the same as he had left it. He could tell that Mrs. Langley had been here, what with the complete and utter lack of any dust, but beyond that, nothing was out of place and nothing was amiss. His personal journals remained on the shelf, his letters from various Templar agents were still neatly stacked in their box, and his small collections of quills had not moved from where he’d placed them on his desk.

“Did you do as I asked while I was away?” Haytham glanced over at the boy as he removed his hat and cloak, his bracers and coat; a warm fire roared in the fireplace, and the light it threw across the room highlighted the faint pink dusting across the boy’s cheeks.

“I did, and I--”

“That’s all I asked, Connor.” The boy clamped his mouth shut. “If you’ve lied to me, know that I will find out, but I trust that you will not cause me any more problems than you have.”

A look of indignation swept across his son’s features, and this time, he did protest. “I have done nothing to earn your ire. It is you who should be apologizing for causing me such worry.”

“I should have killed you by now--at least, that is what Charles has been telling me from the start,” he replied, stepping closer to the boy and smoothing his hands over his shoulders; Connor’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment--beautiful. “I’ve granted you clemency, and I’ve received nothing but flack in return.”

“That is a matter between you and the Templars. I take no part in your quarrels.”

“Oh?” The boy still did not align with him then, but perhaps he should not have been surprised. Connor had been left to his own devices for so long; Haytham should be more than delighted that the boy was even still here. It was at that moment, that moment of silent gratitude, that he looked at the boy with his second sight, looked at the boy with anxiety clenching at his chest.

Connor was a vibrant blue in his eyes, and Haytham could feel the weight simply slide off his shoulders. Relief swelled within him; he wondered if this was how Mrs. Langley and his son had felt when he’d just shown up on the doorstep, all but coming back from the dead. Haytham savored the feeling of satisfaction for a moment before allowing a small smile to pull at his lips, his voice teasing now.

“You’ve been a handful to work with as well.”

“I am nothing but appreciative of all your efforts.”

Appreciative? Haytham tugged at the neckpiece the boy wore, noted the way Connor’s hands closed and opened at his sides, as if they wanted nothing better than to touch. Given all the separation that they had gone through, all the worry he’d suffered, he would have liked nothing better, but alas, he had to make a point here, as he did with all their meetings. Perhaps it was wrong that even now, in their most intimate moments, there was a second meaning to every touch, every word he said.

He had trust, but now he had to apply control--dominance. Never again did he want to worry about Connor running off; once was enough.

Haytham leaned in, his breath hot against his son’s skin. “Then put that mouth of yours to better use and prove it to me.”

Beneath his fingertips, he could feel the shiver that ran through his son’s body, and then the boy responded with a low, “Yes, father.”

Connor sank to his knees, hands braced against his hips, and Haytham narrowed his eyes as he nuzzled his groin, making soft, appreciative sounds as he did so. The boy dragged his tongue over the front of his breeches, moaned as he placed an open-mouthed kiss against the wet streak. Haytham wet his lips with his tongue as he watched, and already, he could feel his pulse quicken, could feel his cock stirring to attention.

The boy’s hand came to cup his balls, giving them a rough squeeze that made his breath hitch, and Connor’s mouth continued to lavish attention on the hardening line of his erection, nosing it in turn. Haytham tangled a hand in his son’s hair and hissed, low, as the boy turned his attention toward the tip, thoroughly wetting his breeches with his mouth as he did so.

He allowed his son to do as he pleased, but when Connor made no attempts to take this any further, Haytham took this into his own hands and tugged on the boy’s hair; they’d never get to the point at the rate Connor was going at. “Up. Up,” he rasped. Haytham regretted losing that heat against his groin, but such a loss was inevitable and for the best; after all, it’d only get better from here. “Strip. Quickly now.”

Connor dragged the back of his hand over his lips and complied silently, his movements rough but efficient. He peeled off of his coat and his waistcoat; Connor tugged his shirt out of his pants and then over his head, and Haytham could not stop himself from reaching out to touch warm skin, powerful muscles. He felt them flex beneath his fingertips as the boy continued to undress, undoing the ties of his breeches, but at last, Haytham was forced to cease his explorations when Connor bent to remove the remainder of his clothing; his hand rested on the curve of his shoulder, nails digging faint half-crescent shapes into his skin.

It was hardly the first time he’d ever seen his son in the nude, but perhaps in his absence, Haytham had forgotten what a marvelous specimen of humanity he was. Connor had always been a bit more heavily built than him--broader shoulders, a thicker body, but he carried himself with such grace that one could almost forget the power to be found coiled within its core.

And to think, he would be making the boy’s body his own--in more ways than one, he hoped.

Haytham took a small step back and then made a sweeping gesture down his body. “Go on,” he said, voice dark with lust. “Appreciate me.”

A flush crept across Connor’s cheeks, and Haytham could not help but allow his eyes to slide shut at the first press of lips against his neck. Deft fingers worked open his waistcoat before slipping it off his shoulders; he tutted quietly as it fell to the floor, but there was no heat in his complaint--indeed, Haytham did not fuss at all as Connor proceeded to drop his shirt on the floor.

This might have been because the boy decided to apply his mouth to his chest, though, dragging his tongue over his collar bones, around his nipples; one hand ghosted over the bandages still wrapped tightly around his shoulder, the touch almost apologetic. Connor sank to his knees once more, pressing kisses to his abdomen, and at last--at last, he worked his breeches down, exposing his cock. A shiver ran down his spine, and Haytham could not contain the low growl that slipped past his lips as Connor took him in his mouth.

His son had not, it seemed, forgotten how to pleasure him in his absence.

Mouth and hands worked in concert. Connor took him deep, pleasured him with long fingers when he didn’t; his tongue dragged a path from root to tip, teased his slit. He lapped at his balls, toyed with them with calloused fingertips. By the time the boy had worked his clothing down to his knees, his cock was spit-slick, and Connor gave it one final lick before turning his attention to his boots.

Haytham took himself in hand then, and his son moaned at the sight of it; he chuckled and ran his fingertips over Connor’s brow. “So desperate,” he muttered, smirking all the while. “Best hurry then, lest I decide that you aren’t worth my attentions any more.”

This was a complete and utter lie, of course, but it did make the boy finish undressing him with great haste. Task completed, Connor remained on his knees and turned his gaze upwards toward his father, face flushed and pupils blown. Haytham cupped his cheek and then jerked his head toward the bed. “On your knees, if you would be so kind.”

He watched his son rise in silence, and for a moment, it looked as if Connor was going to try for a kiss. He lingered, but before Haytham could reprimand him, he’d turned away, bare feet padding across the floor. Haytham nodded his approval and then went over to his desk, quickly removing a vial of oil.

“If we are to make this a more common practice, I may have to invest in some other oils,” he said, joining the boy on the bed. Connor had his hands braced on the headboard, and he looked over his shoulder, puzzled.

“Is there something wrong with the one you have in your hands?”

Haytham smiled, running his hand over the curve of Connor’s arse, before shaking his head; goosebumps formed beneath his fingertips. “I’m not going to poison you, boy. Such... subtle methods of delivering death are not my forte. I thought you would have figured that out by now.”

“That... That was not what I was implying,” Connor replied, a slight note of hurt entering his tone; his expression was apologetic. It was almost as if his son was worried that if he didn’t keep him pleased that he would disappear again, slipping away like sand between his fingers. Haytham obviously had no intention of doing so, but he certainly wouldn’t say no to this sort of obedience, to this sort of docile behavior.

“Of course not.” He uncorked the bottle and allowed the fluid to flow down the cleft of Connor’s arse, over his balls; Haytham smeared his fingers in it, pleased with how quickly it warmed. “There are simply better scents to be enjoyed, and I’d rather save this oil for my blades.

“Now, relax.”

Whatever Connor intended to say next died on his lips as he whined at the sensation of Haytham slipping a single finger into him. Every muscle in that powerful body was drawn taut, and the boy shifted, trying to get over the odd feeling of intrusion. Haytham waited as patiently as he could, but to his surprise, it would be the boy who demanded more and threw caution to the wind.

“Another,” his son said, a low growl that resonated from deep within his chest. Haytham lifted his eyebrows, a touch amused, and did as he was told, withdrawing his finger, only to add another. Connor’s hands tightened around the headboard all over again, but Haytham pressed onwards this time, scissoring his fingers and thrusting into the tight clench of muscle.

“Another!”

“So soon? Being a touchy hasty, aren’t we?” he asked, but again, Haytham conceded with a smile when the boy started cursing him in his native tongue. Three digits forced a moan from Connor’s lips, and he bowed his head, body dropping towards the bed as he spread his knees wider. Sweat sheened his skin; precum dripped onto the sheets, mingling with the oil already there.

Connor’s breath would catch whenever Haytham brushed against that special spot within him, and before long, he had his son making the prettiest sounds he’d ever heard, sounds that made his own cock ache and twitch with need. With the way the boy was fucking himself on his fingers, Haytham had no doubt in his mind that Connor could climax this way, and while there was something terribly erotic about that idea, he’d waited far too long for this, waited far too long to finally claim the boy as his, to let him go down that path.

He removed his fingers, and Connor snarled at the loss, throwing a look over his shoulder--a look reminiscent of a wild beast lashing out at its captor. Haytham settled his weight over the boy, biting none too gently at his shoulder; it earned him a low growl and more bared teeth. “Is it only my fingers that you wanted?” he asked, rocking his hips against Connor so that his cock slipped against the cleft of his arse. “I seem to recall you complaining that I only ever used my hands...”

Beneath him, the boy trembled, as if the very idea of being taken would send him over the edge, and Haytham was quick to get a hand around the base of Connor’s cock. He nipped sharply at his son’s neck, laved at abused skin with his tongue, and then ground his hips against the boy’s backside once more. “So what is it you want? Are you satisfied with my hand, or do you want more?”

Connor pushed back against him, his voice raw with need. “More. Please.”

“Good boy,” Haytham purred before righting himself, fingernails scoring his son’s skin as he dragged his hands back to settle on his hips. This moment was the results of months of work, and he could not help but consider this a triumph on his part. Connor wanted this, wanted him, and as twisted as their relationship had become--how very taboo it was--the boy was here for him, an eager and willing participant.

--A participant who was growing more impatient with every second that ticked by, if that growl was anything to go by.

Haytham slapped Connor’s arse in response and grabbed the bottle of oil, slicking his cock, before lining himself up at the boy’s hole. Bracing one hand against his hip, Haytham pressed forward, earning himself a stuttering moan from his son, whose knuckles were now bone-white as he clenched at the headboard. Connor shifted restlessly beneath him, and Haytham had to grit his teeth--heavens, the boy was tight.

“Relax!” he hissed, and his son keened beneath him before forcing himself to take several deep breaths. Haytham panted and ran a trembling hand down Connor’s side, muttering incoherent words of encouragement as he slowly but surely sank deeper into the boy. For all his hopes of dragging this out, he was not entirely sure he’d be able to last, not when Connor clenched so wonderfully around him, not when his son was making sounds that sent shivers of pleasure straight to his groin.

When he was fully seated within the boy, Haytham paused and reached around Connor’s waist to take his flagging erection in hand. He pressed kisses to his son’s back, shoulders, and neck as he waited, and sure enough, under his careful attention and ministrations, the boy’s interest returned, resulting in a ginger roll of the hips.

Haytham hummed appreciatively and lapped at the shell of Connor’s ear, returning the favor by grinding against his son. Beneath him, the boy moaned, and when he finally spoke, his voice could only be described as desperate--an unashamed plea for more, more, more. With that sort of request, how could Haytham even think of refusing? He nipped the boy’s shoulder once more and began to thrust in earnest, each move of the hips forcing a gasp, a groan, or a hiss past his son’s lips.

Their pace quickened, driven by a mutual need to find completion--something both of them had been starved of for so long. The air was thick with the smell of sex; the sheets beneath them were rumpled and dirtied. Haytham’s hands had returned to their place on the boy’s hips, fingers digging into sweat-slicked skin, and his grip only grew rougher as he felt that all-too-familiar pressure low in his belly.

“Roll over,” he commanded as he withdrew suddenly, and Connor howled in frustration. He looked over his shoulder, about to demand an answer as to why and why now, but Haytham already had a hand closed around his arm and was tugging, pulling, yanking. It was, to be honest, a completely and utterly inappropriate use of his grappling skills, and yet, he couldn’t bring himself to give a damn as he forced Connor onto his back and slid back home in one easy movement.

The action caused the boy to throw his head back against the pillows with a moan, and his hips jerked to meet the press of Haytham’s. Hands free, he took his son’s legs and hooked them over his shoulders before pressing forward, all but bending him in half; Connor’s toes curled as he sank even deeper than before, breath exiting his lungs with a hiss.

With one hand clutching at the sheets, the boy snaked the other down his body to close around his cock, but Haytham slapped it away with a growl. Connor stared at his father, momentarily dumbfounded, and then Haytham’s lips cracked into an arrogant smile. “Mine,” he said quietly, his tone dark and possessive. “Is that understood?”

The confused expression melted away into another of pleasure as Haytham thrusted once more, and Connor groaned before wetting his lips with his tongue. He managed a slight nod and then a strangled, “Yes!”--and that’s what it took to send Haytham toppling over the precipice, to send him reeling as his release took him and stole his senses for one long, blissful moment.

What eventually called him back was the soft, needy voice of his son and two hands clutching at his shoulders. Haytham opened eyes he had not realized he’d closed and lazily rocked against the boy, eliciting a most delectable whimper from him. He all but purred in contentment and then touched a hand to Connor’s erection, skating his fingertips across heated skin.

“Your... cooperation today is much appreciated,” he murmured, voice still rough around the edges, but some of his usual eloquence was returning. Haytham circled his fingers around the shaft and began to stroke; it took but a few harsh tugs, and Connor climaxed at last, body crumpling in an exhausted heap against the bed as he finished. When he finally withdrew, Haytham dipped a finger inside his hole and watched his son twitch weakly against the sheets.

For a brief moment, he wondered if he’d been too rough on the boy, given that it was his first time, but when Connor’s hand came to join his own, smearing semen over his skin, Haytham decided that his worries were unfounded. He allowed himself a little smile, pleased at how so much of the tension from his body was gone now--how at peace he was, and it warmed him, heart and soul, to see a slight quirk of the lips upon his son’s face as well.

Haytham had found his center, and the world of opportunity had opened up to him once more.

OMG so worth the wait! And finally Haytham sees Connor as blue but I do feel for him as all the Templars recruited by Charles are white. Oh well, he and Connor can rebuild the order (and maybe get rid of Charles)

*comes in great arcs*

Oh my goodness WriterAnon! That was the most wonderful porn I've read on the meme! Absolutely delightful! I've re-read it three times now, and will be reading it again (for the rest of my life) ALL DAY TOMORROW! :D You are an absolute gift to this meme, madam, and OP is humbled by the skill and dedication you have shown to this fill. :3

Terribly curious about what's going on with Charles, too. ;) You're doing so well at keeping me in suspense with that part of the plot, dear. I wonder what nefarious schemes he's planning with the new Templar recruits he's (seducing) turning away from Haytham. Oh dear...

Please, by all means take this plot and run with it in whatever direction your heart pleases! This has quickly become my favorite fill on the meme. I'm so glad you decided to do a longer fill for it.

If you'll excuse me, I need to re-read Haytham and Connor's reunion again now. :)

Hnnggh. I just...really, really love you, writer!anon. Coherency gone.

/Melts into a puddle of goo/

It seems all of Haytham's hard work and patience over the months has finally paid off and he now has a submissive Connor, well, in bed at least. I'm sure if Connor might actually warm up to being a Templar if Haytham ditches Lee as his second in command for him. Haytham would actually be trading up, Connor may not have been a general but he is the Captain of his ship and has close connections to the leaders of the Continental Army... ties that Charles has severed already.

I'm soooo addicted to the pr0n in this story, and hope to read more bottom!Connor scenes in the future chapters.

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.

/MELTS/ Haytham's fear of losing his son again was really touching, glad he was honest about Jacob and the fight with the Assassins, and surprise - Connor did not threaten to kill him. I wonder what's going to happen now, especially Connor knows two of his friends are in prison.

gosh, i love this fill so much!! i was so happy to find it compiled on ao3 as well, for i most certainly will download the finished piece for keeps. this has honestly become one of my top fics ever. the way you write the characters just seems so true to their personalities and mannerisms and just aughjkfdseftvch. i will continue to look forward to updates! :)

This

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(Anonymous) - 2013-02-14 18:09 (UTC) - Expand

Eeee, thank you all again for your wonderful comments! I am, as always, very flattered to have you all reading this beastly thing. Please allow me to scoop you all up into a monster hug. :3 Also, haha, I'm afraid that this chapter is not especially exciting (to me at least), but alas, plot's gotta do what plot's gotta do! Still, I hope you all enjoy it! ♥

***

Day One Hundred and Forty-Two
Following his return, Haytham had thought the next few days would be busy, but even he had underestimated the amount of work that had piled up in his absence. With New York City (and even Boston, to his dismay) in Charles’ pocket, there was little business to attend to in regards to those two locations, but he was relieved that the rest of the Americas still largely considered him their rightful leader.

Mere hours after he’d finally left the comfort of his quarters on the morning following his return, he had a wealth of visitors inquiring about his well-being, his travels, and, of course, the state of the Order. Information started to flow all around him again, and Haytham relished it, evident in the enthusiasm of his conversation and simple desire to get back to business. Thirty minute meetings with his brothers turned into sessions that stretched late into the night.

And through it all, Connor remained a quiet and pleasant shadow in the background.

At first, it had been a little strange, a little unsettling, to have an Assassin in attendance to these Templar meetings, and there had been whispers among his men and worried looks. With each passing hour, however, it became clear that Connor was not there to cause trouble; he remained a comfortable blue in Haytham’s second sight, and once or twice, he even thought he caught the faintest of smiles on the boy’s lips.

The days continued to pass this way until, at long last, the initial flurry of activity settled. Haytham still felt the keen sting of losing the support of both New York City and Boston, but now that he knew he still had faithful men, some of his anxiety started to ebb; his worries had been a touch overblown. Even so, it would take some work to unify the Templars as they had been before--one cohesive and powerful unit, especially if there was still bickering amongst their highest ranked members.

With continued silence from Charles, Haytham sent out several messengers to locate the man, and as he waited for a (hopefully favorable) response, he turned his attention again to his son. Over the course of the last few days, he’d seen the boy with a book in his hands as he sat in on these meetings, and that, he figured, was what Connor had hinted at when he’d sneered at his educational comment the night of his return.

“One or two books does not amount to a very thorough lesson, you know,” he commented idly, as he quickly penned a letter to the Templars in Charleston; his visitors might be gone, but his work remained. Connor glanced up, and again, there was that soft, knowing smile that only caused his father to frown.

“I agree.”

“So you agree that my statement still stands: your education has come to a complete and utter standstill in my absence.”

“If I had only read one or two books,” Connor answered, slipping a ribbon in between the pages before snapping the book shut. Haytham’s gaze lifted, a mildly curious expression crossing his features. “In your absence, I have gone through a good portion of your collection.”

At that, Haytham remembered a comment Mrs. Langley had made several days prior about putting up books.

“You decimated my library, didn’t you?” he asked flatly. When the boy said and did nothing, Haytham pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose. “You wasted my servant’s time and made her put up the reading material you removed? How many books did you take from the shelf at a time?”

Apparently, Connor had not expected his father to become upset about his books being in disarray, as a slightly troubled look appeared on his face. “I would have replaced them myself, but your organizational methods have no rhyme or reason to them,” he replied, frowning now, and well, Haytham couldn’t really fault him about the organization bit; few people could make sense of the way he liked to store his things (and yes, there was sense to it!), Mrs. Langley being one of them. “Besides, I took up other chores in her place.”

Haytham’s eyebrows lifted.

“I assisted in the kitchen--” Well, the boy’s knifeplay certainly was excellent; that didn’t seem to be that far-fetched of a place for him to help out. “--and I have taken over part of the laundry.” That, however, was rather odd.

“I had much time to kill,” Connor hurriedly continued, as his gaze rather purposefully drifted sidewards, and it was with a soft, “Ah,” that Haytham understood.

Well, that certainly explained why and how his bed linens disappeared so very suddenly the day after his return, as even Mrs. Langley was not so in-tune with him to know a quick bedding touch-up was needed. Still, Haytham had to applaud the boy for his forward thinking; despite the maid’s continued blindness toward his son’s deviant behavior, she would be hard-pressed to deny the evidence on the sheets if she ever caught sight of them.

“It is not as if I have never helped Mrs. Langley in the past,” the boy finished lamely.

“I’m... glad to hear that you are getting along with my staff,” he finally said, as smoothly as he could manage. Was this an awkward conversation? Yes, he liked to think that it was. Best to change topics before Connor clammed up entirely from embarrassment. “And what did you think of my book collection? I trust that you enjoyed it to some degree if you saw fit to leave in shambles.”

“It was extensive--informative, too.” Connor fondly ran his fingertips over the cover of the volume currently in his hands. “There is a heavy bias to your choice in works though.”

Haytham allowed a smile to curve his lips. “Go on.”

“I have come to understand why some would pursue the ideals of the Templars as you have,” the boy continued, brow furrowing slightly. “There is a certain degree of protection that comes from order, and peace can be attained through it.

“But I still believe that the methods the Templars use are wrong. It is too easy for those lulled by a sense of security to fall to tyranny.”

“You still prefer freedom then--or rather, the illusion of it.”

Briefly, Connor narrowed his eyes at him, and his words took on a slightly sharper edge. “Of course. Freedom for both body and mind.”

Haytham chuckled and rose from his seat, circling around the table to gently lay a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “When you have seen as much of the world as I have, son, you will come to realize that true freedom is but a dream.”

“That will not be the case here. The birth of a new nation will provide us with the opportunity we need.”

An almost pitying smile crossed Haytham’s features. “I’ve kept you inside too long,” he said, expression gentle and voice soft--bordering on condescension. “Let’s go on a walk, shall we? I believe you’ve a cloak and hat in your wardrobe.

“I will wait for you out front.”

Without another word, he swept off, leaving a mildly stunned Connor to collect his thoughts at this sudden development. To be quite honest, even Haytham was a touch surprised with himself; the decision had been a bit more spur of the moment than he would have cared to admit to. Like with his travels, though, he knew that this day would have to come eventually if the two of them were to stand on equal ground and view the world in the same light. Thankfully, Haytham felt a little less trepidation about this than he had about leaving for New York. After all, his son had not fled in his absence, and this time, Haytham would be here by his side.

The boy came to meet him in a flurry of half-donned outerwear a few minutes later, and Haytham could not help but notice the boyish excitement his son displayed at being able to step outdoors again. He watched the boy inhale deep and close his eyes for a moment, simply enjoying the moment. It was a shame, really, that Haytham couldn’t exactly let him remain this way--carefree and joyous--because there was something infectious about the smile that spread across his face.

“There will be plenty of time to enjoy what Mother Nature has to offer later,” he said, beckoning for Connor to hurry after him as he stepped past the gates. “I’d like to welcome you to Philadelphia first.”

Like a dog coming to heel, the boy tailed after him as he started down the street. While this was yet another test of their relationship, Haytham hoped for their little trip to be instructional as well. Age and experience had taught him in no kind way that the world, for all that the Assassin’s fought for it, would never take easily to their Creed; while the Templars merely had to win once, their enemies would have a never-ending battle upon their hands.

“Freedom only exists for those in power,” he started as they walked through the marketplace. Though it was a cold day, the sun was shining, and people thronged the stalls as shopkeepers shouted about their wares. Connor made a noncommittal sound as he looked at the products on display, and Haytham gently led him away. “Listen to me,” was what he said, quietly getting his to focus again; his son merely gave him a smile. “This is important.

“It is their definition of freedom that suits their needs. You have seen it with the slaves--” Haytham gestured at the empty platform on the other side of the square where humans were often bought and sold, and the boy’s gaze flicked over, the joy in his expression at last faltering. “--and your people have suffered at the hands of such privilege as well.”

“We need only a leader who would stand for the rights of all--” Ah, the boy didn’t bring up Washington. Good. That bastard wasn’t worth mentioning here.

“And what is a leader?” Haytham asked, continuing his slow amble. Connor frowned.

“An individual who would guide us--”

“But isn’t that infringing upon one’s free thought? If we are truly to be free, no one should be dictating what we think or do.”

“You are trying to twist my words,” the boy said, now looking a little cross. Haytham merely turned to regard his son and shook his head.

“I merely show you the reality of them.” As they continued down the street, he gestured at the church nearby and the militia stationed up and down the street. “We talk about morals and demand justice for those wronged. Why? To create order for a civilized world--to maintain peace.

“Don’t misunderstand me: I do not mean to say that the Assassins are wrong and that we are right, but the ultimate goal of your organization simply cannot exist in the real world.” Haytham again touched a hand to the boy’s shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze, as if trying to impart understanding upon Connor. “It’s simply not practical for a truly free world to exist, so why not allow for a benevolent leader to guide humanity along a better path?”

“I will not resign myself to such a bleak outlook as you have,” his son finally answered, still walking in step with his father, but he looked a touch crestfallen now. “I fight because I must and because no one else will.”

“An answer fit for a man true to the Creed,” Haytham responded with a shadow of a smile. By no means did he expect the boy to leave his precious Brotherhood with a few words and some real world examples, but he wanted him to think about it--for it to fester in his mind and thoughts. And if the troubled expression upon his face was anything to go by? Connor had listened and taken the words to heart.

They continued on in silence now, footsteps falling in time with each other, and the remainder of Haytham’s tour of Philadelphia was a rather quiet one. He continued to point out famous landmarks, noted good spots to survey the area from, and on several occasions, even made mention of a few of his favorite locations in the city--a theater, a tavern, a bakery.

The hour was late by the time they at last returned to the Kenway home, but as he opened the gate, Haytham turned to regard his son before letting his gaze flick upwards toward the trees. “If you would like to explore for a while longer, you are free to do so.

“You will not find your allies in Philadelphia, but the Templars here are faithful to me and you are too quick for the militia to catch; you’ll have free reign over the rooftops. Go on, stretch your legs.”

“What?” The tone of Connor’s voice clearly suggested that his thoughts had been elsewhere, as Haytham had suspected they had been since their tour had turned into a one-sided conversation. Over and over again, he’d caught the boy staring at the rooftops and trees instead of the more terrestrial offerings he’d been pointing out. He sighed and gave Connor a gentle push back toward the gate.

“Enjoy the city as you will, seeing as you clearly didn’t enjoy my rendition of it. Be back before dawn unless you wish to be thoroughly punished in the morning.”

“And what if I leave and never come back?”

Haytham smiled, confident. “You care for me too much.” Like one of his brothers, like an Assassin. “You won’t do it.”

Connor merely stared at him for a moment and then disappeared, scrambling up a tree and vanishing into the foliage. Haytham didn’t bother to watch him go, instead heading straight into the house. Their unexpectedly long trip outside had put him quite behind in his paperwork, and if he was going to be getting any sleep tonight, he needed to get back to it straightaway; Haytham could worry about the boy in the morning.

After all, it was time to see if the hawk he was training would return to the falconer’s glove after hunting. A songbird in a gilded cage was of no use to him.

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