I can't see where you comin' from, But I know just what you runnin' from: And what matters ain't the "who's baddest," but The ones who stop you fallin' from your ladder, baby.
--Short Change Hero, The Heavy
Mid-June, 1776
The last time someone held a blade to Thomas’ family jewels, it was through no fault of his own. The tasty little poppet smiling up at him from where she lay naked in bed had failed to disclose that she was married. Or that her husband was back in town and on leave from the local militia. No matter, as cold-cocking said cuckhold in the face gave him ample time to go crashing through the window and tear off out of the backyard. If he had to grade himself on the execution of his getaway, he’d determine it was a solid seven on a scale of one to ten. Yeah, it didn’t employ much in the way of finesse. Nevertheless, he had to give himself a couple of pats on the back for sheer style.
But that was few months ago. Just now, he tried the same trick with the Assassin. Because as far as he was concerned, it was pretty fucking rude to let the little git manhandle him up against the wall of the building they’d found themselves next to. Especially after such a bloody long chase through the streets of New York.
Apparently, me skills need a bit ‘o polishin’, he distantly mused, Or me age is catchin’ up with me. Having 37 years to you didn’t exactly make anyone a spring chicken. Not to mention, his pride had taken a bit of a bruising as well. The stupid blighter was wet behind the ears and likely still proverbially sucking on his mama’s teats. Yet he still managed to tackle him to the ground in the middle of the god-damned street. All despite his best efforts to distract the crowds by tossing out counterfeit money in his wake.
For fuck’s sake, didn’t Haytham swear up and down that the boy’s laughable ilk were all dead and gone?
“Be still. You will do no more harm.”
Thomas froze at the feel of cold steel against his inner thigh as he reeled back for the punch. Well, that and the fact that the self-righteous little voice proved on the high side. Then there was also the rather glaring detail that he could feel the fetching curve of her tits beneath her clothes. Mostly due to her being pressed all up against him as she securely balled her other fist into his collar.
Peering closer and really paying attention now, he arched a surprised brow. Well fancy that, it was apparently a woman beneath the white hood. She was on the tall side, the top of her head reaching above his shoulder. Her layers of clothes also hid most of her curve. Combined with her bristling with a menagerie of weapons, it was no surprise that he’d initially mistaken her for a smaller man. Yet she proved quite the comely bit ‘o fresh morsel. At least judging by the flash of her dark eyes and the charming spray of freckles across her button nose and chiseled cheeks. She bore a nice ‘lil mouth on her too, in spite of its current sneer. Her deeply tanned skin strikingly unusual, it didn’t detract from her lovely visage. Nope, not in the slightest.
Without warning, her countenance stirred some distant, uncanny recollection in him. As though he’d seen her before, though that had to be impossible. There’s no way he’d forget a face like that…unless he was utterly shit-faced at the time? He was admittedly distracted by the way her blade kept shifting upwards and way too fucking close to his balls. So his biggest concerns at present boiled down to two key things:
1.) Her knife threatening to castrate him. Really, it wasn’t fucking funny anymore, how close it was to his cock. Just, no. 2.) Getting her to shut the fuck up as she kept yammering on and on about that tosser, Washington. How could this little chit be so bloody naïve?
It certainly didn’t help when he spotted over her shoulders an approaching patrol of soldiers sizing them up. To add insult to injury, they looked to be carrying his bag of counterfeit money. Great, now that could be pretty fucking incriminating.
Trying to shove her away only earned him her even tighter grip on his collar. She was damn near about to choke him out if she pulled it any harder…and now, here were the soldiers. Bloody fucking hell.
Of course, the silly nitwit tried to talk them out arresting her. Jesus Christ, she should've just shut the hell up and let him grease their palms a bit. No harm, no foul and they could both be on their merry way. She, back to whatever rock she crawled out from under. He, off to lay low for a bit and let Haytham know that there was likely going to be a change in plans in sliding in Lee to command the Continentals.
They must have been just as fed up with her prattle as he was, for one of them knocked her out with the butt of their rifle. Though Hickey couldn’t bite back a wince as her eyes rolled to the back of her head and she collapsed to the cobblestones. That was certainly going to leave a mark. And one hell of a headache.
“Serves her right, yeah?” Hickey attempted to garner the soldiers' camaraderie. "Bloody lil tosser should know 'er place, eh?"
Regrettably, that didn't go over as well as he hoped, judging by their sneers. “You want some more of where that came from?” one of them snarled, smacking him across the back of head as he led them away. Thankfully, it was with his hand rather than the same treatment he’d doled out to the assassin. “No?” he jeered, “Then I suggest you shut it!” Gritting his teeth, Hickey shot the soldier a murderous glare. Left with no room for escape at the moment, he found himself being marched to Bridewell Prison.
Lee had better have a solution for this little muck-up, that was for damn sure.
-----00000-----
Hickey wasn’t particularly surprised when the key jangled in the lock of his cell. Lying in bed (a real bed with an actual stuffed mattress, a couple of pillows and a heavily knit blanket. It was a fuck ton better than the disgusting straw mattress that passed for one in the cell he they’d tossed him in before his little upgrade) and staring up at the boring array of stones in the ceiling for a moment, he leapt to his feet as the door creaked open.
However, the sight that met him caused his gleeful expression of victory to fall from his face.
“Good, you’re awake,” Charles sniffed, scurrying into the cell. “I’ve a gift for you, Hickey.”
“Unless it’s me walkin’ papers, I ain’t interested!” Hickey snapped. “Wot’s with all this funny business ‘bout gettin’ me out?! I been in here for damn near a fortnight!”
“Patience!” Charles chastised, “Haytham is employing all options at his disposal to release you. In the meantime, this should serve you well.” With little care, he tossed a blanket-covered, body-sized bundle onto the bed. “Do with the little bitch what you wish,” he dismissively waved.
"Wot's this 'en?" Hickey shot Charles a suspicious look. Lee only shrugged before inspecting his nails for a bit.
In one, fluid motion, Hickey yanked the blanket from around his apparent sacrifice, revealing the knocked out, dusky-skinned wildcat who led to his arrest. She was bound hand and foot, her hair loosened of its braid. In a thin, filthy tunic that did little to hide her bodice beneath and torn trousers, she appeared every inch the prisoner. The mottle of bruises along her forearms and her thinner figure added to the effect.
For some reason that he had no desire to address aloud, Hickey’s stomach lurched at the sight of her.
Sure, she was a bloody assassin who’d killed a shit-ton of his allies. And she was better off dead instead of constantly fucking up their plans. But this? This was bordering a bit on the side of ridiculous. Not to mention, a god-damned waste of time. Better for a clean kill then whatever revenge-driven madness Charles was plotting. Put the girl out of her misery once and for all is how he saw it. Then again, that’d always been Lee’s shortcoming; his plans were way too damn complicated, so it was inevitable that he constantly allowed the most minor of setbacks to affect him far too personally. In all honesty, his sheer arrogance was getting to be a problem.
Thomas was glad he didn’t have some knob-headed, blind allegiance to the Templars’ ridiculous creed. A nice tidy little fortune for his efforts was plenty enough to keep him going. Well, at least for now.
“What in the hell would I want to do with that?” he pointed accusingly at her on the bed.
Walking towards the door, Charles was stopped by Hickey’s heavy hand on his shoulder. Spinning about on his heel, he gave a dark chuckle at the other man’s confused expression. “What?” he sing-songed, “I can’t imagine how hard it is for you to think straight when you haven’t had your cock properly serviced in the last fortnight or so, eh?”
Thomas had never like Haytham’s creepy little lap dog. Especially not with the way the other man’s icy blue eyes lewdly trailed down to his crotch at the moment. Not that he wasn’t the equal opportunity sort when it came to his own bedmates. Before he went and got himself killed, Johnson had certainly enjoyed his attentions, to say the least. But Charles’ constant expressions of lustful adoration for the Grandmaster always left a nasty taste in his mouth. Perhaps like Kenway did in Charles’?
He snickered at that. His mind easily drummed up the image of the grandmaster sitting back in that big, comfy, leather chair of his in his office. Charles would gladly be on his knees, like one of his bloody Pomeranians, begging to suck him off. Of course, Haytham would last for a while, dismissive and bored, as always. Maybe he liked tying up the little lapdog and having him watch in frustration as he jerked himself off. Or fucked one of the tavern wenches from the Green Dragon, her buxom body bent over his office desk. Oh, Charles would be so deliciously frustrated. Likely whining and crying for release like the little lickspittle he was.
Thomas didn’t realize he was actually laughing out loud until Charles smacked him across the shoulder. “Shut-up, you imbecile!” he hissed, nodding towards the door. “I had to bribe the guards a hefty bit of coin to look the other way as I brought the savage to you. I shouldn’t even be here in the first place!”
“Well ‘en,” Thomas gave him a mocking bow with a flourish of his hand, “By you leave, m’lord?”
Rolling his eyes and gritting his teeth, Charles stomped out of the cell. As he closed it, pulling on the door to ensure it was locked, he snapped out, “Frankly, it’s a waste of perfectly good funds that we’re getting you released.”
“Apparently, the boss-man don’t think that,” Thomas smirked with a feral flash of his teeth.
“Ass!” Charles muttered, gesturing for the guard at the top of stairs to lead him out.
Hearing the retreating steps, Thomas crossed his cell and took a seat on his bed, next to his apparent target. She didn’t stir. Not even when he slapped her cheek a couple of times to wake her up. Shrugging, he picked her up and unceremoniously dropped her on the floor, next to the bed. She was lucky that there were fresh rushes spread across it. No doubt, it was miles cleaner than the shit hole they had her locked up in. Pulling the blanket up over himself, he soon drifted off to sleep.
Seriously, why in the fuck did Charles have to be such a god-damned inconvenience?
Re: FILL: Short Change Heroes, Part 3/?
Chapter 1: Bridewell Prison
I can't see where you comin' from,
But I know just what you runnin' from:
And what matters ain't the "who's baddest," but
The ones who stop you fallin' from your ladder, baby.
--Short Change Hero, The Heavy
Mid-June, 1776
The last time someone held a blade to Thomas’ family jewels, it was through no fault of his own. The tasty little poppet smiling up at him from where she lay naked in bed had failed to disclose that she was married. Or that her husband was back in town and on leave from the local militia. No matter, as cold-cocking said cuckhold in the face gave him ample time to go crashing through the window and tear off out of the backyard. If he had to grade himself on the execution of his getaway, he’d determine it was a solid seven on a scale of one to ten. Yeah, it didn’t employ much in the way of finesse. Nevertheless, he had to give himself a couple of pats on the back for sheer style.
But that was few months ago. Just now, he tried the same trick with the Assassin. Because as far as he was concerned, it was pretty fucking rude to let the little git manhandle him up against the wall of the building they’d found themselves next to. Especially after such a bloody long chase through the streets of New York.
Apparently, me skills need a bit ‘o polishin’, he distantly mused, Or me age is catchin’ up with me. Having 37 years to you didn’t exactly make anyone a spring chicken. Not to mention, his pride had taken a bit of a bruising as well. The stupid blighter was wet behind the ears and likely still proverbially sucking on his mama’s teats. Yet he still managed to tackle him to the ground in the middle of the god-damned street. All despite his best efforts to distract the crowds by tossing out counterfeit money in his wake.
For fuck’s sake, didn’t Haytham swear up and down that the boy’s laughable ilk were all dead and gone?
“Be still. You will do no more harm.”
Thomas froze at the feel of cold steel against his inner thigh as he reeled back for the punch. Well, that and the fact that the self-righteous little voice proved on the high side. Then there was also the rather glaring detail that he could feel the fetching curve of her tits beneath her clothes. Mostly due to her being pressed all up against him as she securely balled her other fist into his collar.
Peering closer and really paying attention now, he arched a surprised brow. Well fancy that, it was apparently a woman beneath the white hood. She was on the tall side, the top of her head reaching above his shoulder. Her layers of clothes also hid most of her curve. Combined with her bristling with a menagerie of weapons, it was no surprise that he’d initially mistaken her for a smaller man. Yet she proved quite the comely bit ‘o fresh morsel. At least judging by the flash of her dark eyes and the charming spray of freckles across her button nose and chiseled cheeks. She bore a nice ‘lil mouth on her too, in spite of its current sneer. Her deeply tanned skin strikingly unusual, it didn’t detract from her lovely visage. Nope, not in the slightest.
Without warning, her countenance stirred some distant, uncanny recollection in him. As though he’d seen her before, though that had to be impossible. There’s no way he’d forget a face like that…unless he was utterly shit-faced at the time? He was admittedly distracted by the way her blade kept shifting upwards and way too fucking close to his balls. So his biggest concerns at present boiled down to two key things:
1.) Her knife threatening to castrate him. Really, it wasn’t fucking funny anymore, how close it was to his cock. Just, no.
2.) Getting her to shut the fuck up as she kept yammering on and on about that tosser, Washington. How could this little chit be so bloody naïve?
It certainly didn’t help when he spotted over her shoulders an approaching patrol of soldiers sizing them up. To add insult to injury, they looked to be carrying his bag of counterfeit money. Great, now that could be pretty fucking incriminating.
Trying to shove her away only earned him her even tighter grip on his collar. She was damn near about to choke him out if she pulled it any harder…and now, here were the soldiers. Bloody fucking hell.
Of course, the silly nitwit tried to talk them out arresting her. Jesus Christ, she should've just shut the hell up and let him grease their palms a bit. No harm, no foul and they could both be on their merry way. She, back to whatever rock she crawled out from under. He, off to lay low for a bit and let Haytham know that there was likely going to be a change in plans in sliding in Lee to command the Continentals.
They must have been just as fed up with her prattle as he was, for one of them knocked her out with the butt of their rifle. Though Hickey couldn’t bite back a wince as her eyes rolled to the back of her head and she collapsed to the cobblestones. That was certainly going to leave a mark. And one hell of a headache.
“Serves her right, yeah?” Hickey attempted to garner the soldiers' camaraderie. "Bloody lil tosser should know 'er place, eh?"
Regrettably, that didn't go over as well as he hoped, judging by their sneers. “You want some more of where that came from?” one of them snarled, smacking him across the back of head as he led them away. Thankfully, it was with his hand rather than the same treatment he’d doled out to the assassin. “No?” he jeered, “Then I suggest you shut it!” Gritting his teeth, Hickey shot the soldier a murderous glare. Left with no room for escape at the moment, he found himself being marched to Bridewell Prison.
Lee had better have a solution for this little muck-up, that was for damn sure.
-----00000-----
Hickey wasn’t particularly surprised when the key jangled in the lock of his cell. Lying in bed (a real bed with an actual stuffed mattress, a couple of pillows and a heavily knit blanket. It was a fuck ton better than the disgusting straw mattress that passed for one in the cell he they’d tossed him in before his little upgrade) and staring up at the boring array of stones in the ceiling for a moment, he leapt to his feet as the door creaked open.
However, the sight that met him caused his gleeful expression of victory to fall from his face.
“Good, you’re awake,” Charles sniffed, scurrying into the cell. “I’ve a gift for you, Hickey.”
“Unless it’s me walkin’ papers, I ain’t interested!” Hickey snapped. “Wot’s with all this funny business ‘bout gettin’ me out?! I been in here for damn near a fortnight!”
“Patience!” Charles chastised, “Haytham is employing all options at his disposal to release you. In the meantime, this should serve you well.” With little care, he tossed a blanket-covered, body-sized bundle onto the bed. “Do with the little bitch what you wish,” he dismissively waved.
"Wot's this 'en?" Hickey shot Charles a suspicious look. Lee only shrugged before inspecting his nails for a bit.
In one, fluid motion, Hickey yanked the blanket from around his apparent sacrifice, revealing the knocked out, dusky-skinned wildcat who led to his arrest. She was bound hand and foot, her hair loosened of its braid. In a thin, filthy tunic that did little to hide her bodice beneath and torn trousers, she appeared every inch the prisoner. The mottle of bruises along her forearms and her thinner figure added to the effect.
For some reason that he had no desire to address aloud, Hickey’s stomach lurched at the sight of her.
Sure, she was a bloody assassin who’d killed a shit-ton of his allies. And she was better off dead instead of constantly fucking up their plans. But this? This was bordering a bit on the side of ridiculous. Not to mention, a god-damned waste of time. Better for a clean kill then whatever revenge-driven madness Charles was plotting. Put the girl out of her misery once and for all is how he saw it. Then again, that’d always been Lee’s shortcoming; his plans were way too damn complicated, so it was inevitable that he constantly allowed the most minor of setbacks to affect him far too personally. In all honesty, his sheer arrogance was getting to be a problem.
Thomas was glad he didn’t have some knob-headed, blind allegiance to the Templars’ ridiculous creed. A nice tidy little fortune for his efforts was plenty enough to keep him going. Well, at least for now.
“What in the hell would I want to do with that?” he pointed accusingly at her on the bed.
Walking towards the door, Charles was stopped by Hickey’s heavy hand on his shoulder. Spinning about on his heel, he gave a dark chuckle at the other man’s confused expression. “What?” he sing-songed, “I can’t imagine how hard it is for you to think straight when you haven’t had your cock properly serviced in the last fortnight or so, eh?”
Thomas had never like Haytham’s creepy little lap dog. Especially not with the way the other man’s icy blue eyes lewdly trailed down to his crotch at the moment. Not that he wasn’t the equal opportunity sort when it came to his own bedmates. Before he went and got himself killed, Johnson had certainly enjoyed his attentions, to say the least. But Charles’ constant expressions of lustful adoration for the Grandmaster always left a nasty taste in his mouth. Perhaps like Kenway did in Charles’?
He snickered at that. His mind easily drummed up the image of the grandmaster sitting back in that big, comfy, leather chair of his in his office. Charles would gladly be on his knees, like one of his bloody Pomeranians, begging to suck him off. Of course, Haytham would last for a while, dismissive and bored, as always. Maybe he liked tying up the little lapdog and having him watch in frustration as he jerked himself off. Or fucked one of the tavern wenches from the Green Dragon, her buxom body bent over his office desk. Oh, Charles would be so deliciously frustrated. Likely whining and crying for release like the little lickspittle he was.
Thomas didn’t realize he was actually laughing out loud until Charles smacked him across the shoulder. “Shut-up, you imbecile!” he hissed, nodding towards the door. “I had to bribe the guards a hefty bit of coin to look the other way as I brought the savage to you. I shouldn’t even be here in the first place!”
“Well ‘en,” Thomas gave him a mocking bow with a flourish of his hand, “By you leave, m’lord?”
Rolling his eyes and gritting his teeth, Charles stomped out of the cell. As he closed it, pulling on the door to ensure it was locked, he snapped out, “Frankly, it’s a waste of perfectly good funds that we’re getting you released.”
“Apparently, the boss-man don’t think that,” Thomas smirked with a feral flash of his teeth.
“Ass!” Charles muttered, gesturing for the guard at the top of stairs to lead him out.
Hearing the retreating steps, Thomas crossed his cell and took a seat on his bed, next to his apparent target. She didn’t stir. Not even when he slapped her cheek a couple of times to wake her up. Shrugging, he picked her up and unceremoniously dropped her on the floor, next to the bed. She was lucky that there were fresh rushes spread across it. No doubt, it was miles cleaner than the shit hole they had her locked up in. Pulling the blanket up over himself, he soon drifted off to sleep.
Seriously, why in the fuck did Charles have to be such a god-damned inconvenience?