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asscreedkinkmeme) wrote2013-05-13 07:24 pm
asscreedkinkmeme) wrote2013-05-13 07:24 pm
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Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 6
Assassin's Creed Kink Meme pt.6
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≈ Comment anonymously with a character/pairing and a kink/prompt.
≈ Comment is filled by another anonymous with fanfiction/art/or any other appropriate medium.
≈ One request per post, but fill the request as much as you want.
≈ The fill/request doesn't necessarily need to be smut.
≈ Don't flame, if you have nothing good to say, don't say anything.
≈ Have a question? Feel free to PM me.
≈ Last, but not least: HAVE FUN!
List of Kinks
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(Livejorunal) Archive
(Delicious.com) Archive
#2 (Livejournal) Archive
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(Dreamwidth) Archive
#3 (Delicious.com) Archive <-- Currently active
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Fills Only
Discussion
Re: FILL: Short Change Heroes, Part 28c/?
(Anonymous) 2015-08-11 12:45 am (UTC)(link)“I’m assumin’ ya didn’t go ‘n fuckin’ die on me, yeah?” he chuckled. Met by silence, he snorted, “Christ, you ain’t gotta get all pouty ‘bout it, she-wolf.” But there was no reply.
Swinging his legs over the lip of the chaise to sit up, Hickey froze at finding Connor was nowhere to be found. Harris no longer slept in the room either, the divan he previously occupied also empty. Before he could jump to his feet, there was a light knock on the door.
“Gimme a sec-”
Not waiting for him to finish, one of the maids pushed it open. An older woman this time, tufts of her salt and pepper hair curled around her ears and the nape of her neck beneath her starched, white bonnet. Like all the other servants, her clothes were dark blue and edged in white lace embroidered with gold thread. He hadn’t seen her before either. Pleasantly plump with a bright smile, she chirped, “Good morning, sir-!”
“Where do Connor be?" he stood and demanded.
“The young miss is safe, sir.” She barely spared him a glance, occupied with eagerly waving in two burly young men who each held a bucket of steaming water.
Pointing at the divan, he questioned, “And what ‘bout the boy? He got all sorts ‘o banged up, ya see-”
“Our Harris is recovering,” she jauntily proclaimed.
“But where’n seven hells do he-?!”
”You should wash up, sir,” she brightly interrupted, her jovial disposition unphased by his irritation.
"What?" he crossed his arms while leaning against one of the bedposts, "I don't get no privilege of Willie's valet helpin' me get all classed up this mornin' like usual?"
Without missing a beat, the maid lightly shook her head in disagreement and demurred, "I'm afraid he's indisposed, sir."
At a clap of her hands, the two men set their buckets on the floor. One of them left, only to quickly return carrying a porcelain basin. When he set it on the desk, Hickey made out a towel, some massively expensive soap that smelled of sandalwood and a scrub brush arranged inside it. Behind him, the maid announced that once he was done she’d lead him downstairs.
He couldn’t get in another word before the trio left and shut the door behind them. After it clicked closed, he attempted to yank it back open. Of course, it was locked from the outside. His movements restricted again, he had no choice but to do as asked.
Finishing his morning routine, his knock on the door was greeted by the same maid. Her continued cheery expression gave nothing away as she gestured for him to follow her. He also took note that the two who brought up the water tailed them as well. All in all, there was no chance for him to go exploring. Not especially with how she took a straight path downstairs to one of the smaller dining rooms on the ground floor. By now, it was no surprise to find William settled in across the table and halfway done with breakfast. Clothing neat and coordinated with fastidious precision, he appeared as foppish as ever.
“I’m afraid Connor’s been called away on other business,” the Frenchman announced. Thomas shot him a look of confusion as he yanked out a chair and took a seat. According to the clock sitting on the mantle behind him, it was around ten in the morning. Later than the familiar routine, but he wasn’t going to bitch about it.
Frowning for a few seconds, Hickey steeled a careless smile to his face and shrugged, “Apparently, the girl ain’t one for tearful goodbyes.”
“It has never been a strength of hers,” William cast him a knowing look over the edge of the newspaper he perused. “However, she sends her apologies.”
“Somehow,” Hickey filled his teacup and starting piling his plate high with food, “I be highly doubtin’ that.”
“Now why ever would you assume such?” William sing-songed before wetting a finger and flipping the paper to the next page.
“Tosser,” Thomas sniffed before digging into his food.
“In the meantime, I must go into town for errands,” William continued, pretending not to hear the insult. “Where shall I drop you, mon ami?”
Thomas nodded with supposed ease, “Don’t go troublin’ yourself. I got two feet ‘n can go findin’ me way back-”
“Oh, we cannot have that,” William casually replied in spite of his fleeting but narrowed gaze over the newspaper. “Besides, secrets must remain so. Though it was a worthy attempt in order to figure out exactly where you are at the moment.” Grimacing, Thomas silently continued eating as William declared, “In the meantime, enjoy your brunch. We leave within a half-hour.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
As promised, Saint-Prix dropped Thomas off back at the tavern they met at some days ago. Relieving him of the blindfold when the carriage stopped, the Assassin exited it behind him.
“Well now, Mousier Hickey,” William held out a hand, “I appreciate what you have done for me.”
“It wasn’t for ya,” Hickey shrugged, though he returned William’s firm shake, “Just a means to an end. And I ain’t guaranteeing I’ll be so accomodatin’ the next time we be seein’ each other.”
“What makes you think I shall be, Templar?” William flashed him a predatory smile. Hickey's other hand immediately flew to his belt for a weapon. “No need for that,” William breezily continued despite tightening his grip around the other man’s hand in warning. “Besides, it would be in particularly poor taste to take your life right here and now. In front of all of these lovely people? How gauche,” he carelessly waved around the bustling town square.
“And what makes ya think I be givin’ a damn ‘bout the proper time to go killin’ an Assassin?” Thomas sharply retorted, yanking out of the younger man’s grasp.
“I’ve never been under any such illusions,” William lightly shrugged as Thomas flexed his fingers. “Truly you cannot think me so remiss as to not always have other plans in place?” he jerked his head upwards.
Hastily glancing over his shoulder, Hickey examined the roofs. Though she was half-hidden by the shadows, he could just make out Dobby crouched above them. Not to mention, the tell-tale glint of her flintlock pointed square at him. He shook his head in disbelief as she gave him a languid salute from her temple.
“Always one step ahead,” Thomas muttered.
“As it should be,” William steadily replied. “Then again, you should know better, considering how much time you’ve spent with Connor.”
“Ya don’t say?” Hickey cocked his head to the side.
“Precisely,” the young noble agreed. Crossing his arms and rubbing his chin, he added, “It is such a pity that you’ve chosen the wrong side of our ancient conflict. We could use someone as, how shall I put this?” he smirked with a flutter of his hand in the air, “Ah, as spontaneously efficient as you.”
“Ya don’t say?” Thomas repeated in exasperation.
Laughing, William gracefully leapt back into the carriage. “While I shall not falter should it come to pass, it will be a true shame to have to kill you when I next have you in my sights.”
Lip curling upward, Thomas replied, “The feelin’ be mutual.”
“And so it shall be when we meet again,” William reached out and knocked on the door, causing the driver to pull forward. “Adieu,”he waved in goodbye. With that, Thomas was left to contemplate the strange twists and turns of his alliance with Assassins. As well as the glaring fact that he hadn’t spilled any of their blood. Nor had they done the same to him return.
Interesting, that.
Translations and Notes:
"Ma bichette" – “My little doe.” A French term of friendly endearment.
"Skennenko:wa" – “I am fine” in Mohawk
“bien sûr” – “Of course” in French
“Mais comment peut un côté confiance à l'autre quand compromis pourrait coûter leurs deux vies?” - “But how may one side trust the other when compromise could cost both their lives?
"Niá:wen ki’ wáh" – ‘”Thanks a lot” in Mohawk
“Ma louve féroce” - “My ferocious (female) wolf” in French
"O:nen ki' wahi'" – “Good bye then” in Mohawk
Per canon, Duncan hangs out around in the North End section of Boston. So I assume he lives there and frequents its taverns. My fanon is that he lives very close to the real, historical tavern called Light-House and Anchor, which was located near the Old North Meeting House. Unfortunately, during the Siege of Boston (April 19, 1775 – March 17, 1776), the meeting house was torn down by British soldiers to use its wood as firewood.
Re: FILL: Short Change Heroes, Part 28c/?
(Anonymous) 2015-08-14 06:26 am (UTC)(link)Re: FILL: Short Change Heroes, Part 29a/?
(Anonymous) 2015-11-10 03:13 am (UTC)(link)He wasn’t too keen on getting his throat ripped out for someone else’s shitty life choices. No fucking way.
As a result, Thomas sent an innocuous message to the General to meet him at The Green Dragon. He studiously left out that Haytham would be there as well. Playing it safe, he posted one of his spies within sight of Haytham’s townhome. Now, he was assured news of any visitors or couriers coming and going. None did over that 24-hour period, allowing him to breathe a small sigh of relief.
The next night, The Green Dragon was as crowded as ever. Its noise proved loud and boisterous when Thomas whipped open the front door. The drunks felt up the servers, the girls swatting their hands away. When they didn’t get the message, the barmaids viciously slapped them across the face to the other patrons’ hoots and hollers. The game sharks posted up at their tables, ripping off the usual lot at their bets on Morris, Fanorona, Faro and a host of other diversions. In another corner, the band’s fiddles, flutes and drum pounded out a stirring rendition of the Ballad of the Green Mountain Boys.
Despite the British siege, which only ended a few months ago, this section of town always remained free of redcoats. All due to the Templars requiring a secure area to undertake their dealings. Consequently, more than enough lobsterbacks returned to their barracks robbed, beaten blind or dead on a stretcher without a witness to be found. Hence their men refused to set foot in this part of the North End, save when on official business. Even then, they marched about as a group. Conspicuous enough to give everyone plenty of warning of their presence, the Patriots around here treated them with equal parts disdain and apathy until they won back the city.
Ambling up the stairs to the second floor, Thomas found Haytham in his usual place. The Grandmaster sat at the table with various papers stacked in tidy piles.. An inkpot and quills lay lined up neatly front of him. To his right, the fire crackled with freshly added logs in the brick hearth. Along with the iron-wrought chandelier hanging above, it leant their private space a cozy glow. It was miles better than the bitter wind frosting up the windows outside.
Haytham spared him a cursory glance and signaled for him to take a seat. Hickey obliged by unceremoniously plopping down into the chair across the table from him. He flirted with the old tavern owner, Catherine, before ordering a tankard of ale and food. “Keep ‘em comin’ sweetness,” he smacked her bottom before pulling her into his lap. His sloppy kisses along her neck finally sent her giggling away. As always, Haytham’s large amount of coin guaranteed no one would intrude on their meeting. The boarding rooms immediately adjacent to them were also empty and reserved in case they decided to work through the rest of the night.
Thomas drew the Hessian’s Templar ring from his inner pocket and boldly slammed it down on the table in between them. “It is done?” Haytham inquired, arching a brow. He briefly inspected it before rolling it along his palm.
“What, you want me go hackin’ off ‘is fuckin’ hand to bring back for a trophy?” Thomas snorted. Slouching down in his seat and crossing his legs, he balanced his ankle on a knee. A flick of his wrist unsheathed his dragger to cut into an apple he snatched from the bowl of fruit in the center of the table. “Last I went to checkin’,” he stuffed a piece into his mouth, “Carryin’ ‘round dead body parts goes lookin’ plenty suspicious, eh?” The opened letter he’d sent to Haytham via one of his smuggling couriers earlier that day sat in front of Haytham. Thomas emphatically tapped his finger to it, caused the Grandmaster to slightly tilt his head in inquiry. “The murderous bastard be dead,” he swallowed another apple slice, “The Kraut’s body be disposed of ‘n his ring be sittin’ right ‘ere in front of ya, plain as the days be long.”
Never mind that he had absolutely no idea of the location of the corpse. With Connor gone when he woke up, Saint-Prix insisted he took care of that little detail. At the same time, it wasn’t like the Frenchman could afford to get caught with a dead body either. Logically, it would be in his best interest to ensure it’d never be found.
Of course, Charles Lee picked exactly that moment to trudge up the stairs. Much like fleas constantly crawled out of the devil’s arshole, as far as Thomas was concerned. “So you claim the mercenary is no more, Hickey?” he sniffed from where he came to stop behind Thomas.
Craning his head to look back at him, Hickey gave him a patronizing once over. Judging by the dark, heavy circles under his eyes, Lee appeared harried and exhausted. His tan longcoat sloppily hung from his stiff shoulders. His frockcoat and waistcoat beneath were mismatched shades of blue despite being from a Continentals uniform. The mud caked on his russet colored dragoon boots signaled he was fresh from the field. The smell of horse lingered on him as well. Yet his obnoxious sneer appeared the most repellent part of him at the moment.
“Don’t believe I be talkin’ to you, Charlie boy,” Thomas drawled before turning his back to him.
Lee rolled his eyes in response. Nevertheless, he greeted Haytham with a simpering smile. At the Grandmaster’s preoccupied nod of acknowledgement, he silently balked. Hickey’s chuckle made the supposed slight even worse. So he marched over to the wall nearest the head of the table. Bracing himself up against it, he crossed his arms and pimpatiently tapped his foot on the floorboards. “Because you could ever begin to comprehend the civilized concept of ‘conversation,’” he hurled in Thomas’ direction.
“Oh, I’d say I be doin’ pretty well for meself,” Thomas shrugged.
Right on cue, Catherine returned with his drink and a steaming bowl of chicken stew. “Here ya go, hun,” she chirped.
“Much obliged, poppet,” Thomas winked. Looking over at Lee, he broadened his smile before grabbing her hand with a flourish as she passed him his bowl. While looking up at her through his lashes, he smoothly pressed his mouth to her palm. “Ya always be knowin’ best how to go takin’ care ‘o me needs, Kitty,” he grinned.it
Tittering, Catherine swiveled her hips and purred, “Perhaps if you ain’t too deep in your cups by the end ‘o the night, you can go ‘n attend to me like usual?”
Fuck me, lass, ya gonna be the death ‘o me!...ya be a hungry 'lil minx, ain't ya?
Startled, Thomas rapidly blinked at the inexplicable deluge of images clawing at his mind. The taste of Connor on his tongue as he explored every part of her. Those flowing words of her language breathlessly swirling around his ears. The eager arch of her hips into his. The feel of her cotton shift sliding along his calloused palms as he pulled it from her flushed skin. The Assassin naked and panting beneath him…
The color rising to his cheeks didn’t help things either. Thankfully, it wasn’t enough for anyone else to notice.
“Mayhaps, love,” he plastered on a distracted smile. Patting her hand, he avowed, “Keep your porchlight on for me and we’ll go seein’ what the evening gets to spinnin’, yeah?”
“Fair ‘nough,” Catherine smirked. Snatching up the healthy tip he left on the table, she stuffed it down her bosom. After Haytham ordered more wine, Lee waved her off with a withering reply that he had no intention of staying at the tavern for much longer. Catherine shook her head in annoyance but disappeared back down the stairs.
Lee curled his lip in disgust. He still refused to take the remaining seat at the table next to Thomas. “Do you ever think with the fat head on your shoulders versus the infinitesimally little one between your legs?” he scoffed.
“Jealous, boy-o?” Thomas lewdly jerked his groin in Lee’s direction. “I mean, I ain’t too picky ‘bout who I go takin’ to bed,” his gaze lingered up and down Lee, causing the other man to make a choked noise, “But you don’t be strikin’ me as a bag ‘o laughs, catch me drift?”
“Perhaps because I have standards,” Lee’s voice dripped with derision.
Thomas let out a loud guffaw while wiping at his eyes. “If that be code for havin’ a stick lodgin’ so far up your arse that you be tastin’ the wood at the back ‘o your throat, then may haps it be time to rethink them high falutin’ rules ‘o yours.”
Charles dug his nails into his arm, his other hand balling into a fist. Flushing nearly scarlet, he grit, “You are a vile miscreant of the highest order-”
“Christ almighty, I ain’t got no time for your bloody whinin’,” Thomas dismissively flicked his fingers at him. “I mean, c’mon mate, did you crawl up in here for shits ‘n giggles? Or we gonna get to discussin’ this?” he wildly gestured at Hessian’s ring now sitting in the center of the table.
“You should have brought him back to Haytham for questioning,” Charles berated him, “And to be handled by all of us.”
“That ain’t me mission,” Thomas cavalierly replied, downing another spoonful of stew. “‘Sides, if you wanted to go ‘n have this ‘ere situation end how you be wantin’, you should’ve sussed out the General’s betrayal months back. Ain’t you been in the field fightin’ against his troops for most ‘o the year?”
“Because an accursed traitor will just waltz into my camp tent and reveal himself as such, yes?” Charles flung back, gaze blazing with icy reproach. “Pity that most of us are not so obvious in our faults as you.”
“And yet the ‘old Grandmaster here went givin’ me this ‘ere top secret undertakin’,” Hickey snickered at Haytham. He actively ignored them, continuing to write as though he couldn’t hear their conversation. His only tell was a loud sigh as Thomas giggled, “Yep, looks like he still goes preferrin’ me with missions of this sort ‘o delicate nature. You ain’t questionin’ our fearless leader, is you?”
Slitting his eyes, Charles sarcastically said, “For it proved so Herculean a task-”
“What the fuck you mean Herc-lan?!’ Thomas rumbled, jabbing his spoon in his direction. Slapping the table so hard it caused the dishes to rattle, he didn’t miss how Charles’ gaze briefly widened as he growled, “You ain’t the one who up ‘n had a god-damned assassin attemptin’ to plunge her ‘lil tomahawk between ya ribs a near dozen times!”
Haytham’s head jerked up at the same time his quill scraped his paper so hard that it almost ripped right through it. Instead, its tip snapped. Bleeding black ink across the parchment, it rolled down the page in thin rivulets.
Hickey’s eyes slid to his superior. Curious, he didn’t predict that sort of reaction to mention of the Assassin. If not for Charles’ endless scorn, he would’ve waited a bit longer to reveal her involvement. Preferably after Lee left. Especially considering Lee's bizarre fixation on the woman. Sure, she’d been a pain all their arses for the last few years. But not enough to have the blighter go frothing at mouth like some rabid hound. Honestly, he was fuck-all done with Lee’s perpetual contempt.
“You came across an assassin woman during your mission?” Haytham tersely asked despite at the same time measuredly sprinkling blotting powder across his parchment. It was a vain attempt, the sheet ruined. “You say the tomahawk was her preferred weapon?” he folded up the stained parchment along precise lines, still not meeting Thomas’ deliberately blank expression. “I take it that she was a native, considering her ease with it?”
Clearing his throat and rolling his shoulders, Thomas cagily replied, “Yep, she be one, ‘n that ‘lil axe be her dodgy weapon ‘o choice. Per usual, boss-man, you be keepin’ all abreast ‘o everythin’.”
Haytham dropped the parchment into the fireplace. Watching its edges curl, blacken and then disentigrate into little embers of bloodied orange, he carefully pulled another one from the bottom of the stack of papers in front of him. An uneasy silence fell as he slowly ran his fingertips along its edges to flatten it to the table. Finally looking up, he intoned, “One cannot operate without field intelligence if one expects success.”
Re: FILL: Short Change Heroes, Part 29b/?
(Anonymous) 2015-11-10 03:16 am (UTC)(link)Emphatically pointing at his left shoulder, Thomas retorted, “Why inna hell do ev’rybody be forgettin’ she fuckin’ nailed me in me back with a long-arsed dagger, yeah? I nearly bled to ruttin’ death! And that shite be after she went and beat me arse to hell ‘n back up in Bridewell. All after you,” he poked a finger at Lee, “Tossed ‘er inna me cell, ya dipshit!”
“I did nothing of the sort!” Charles lied. This ‘ere two-faced piece ‘o horseshit! Thomas seethed to himself. “Haytham!” Lee continued with a certifiable whine, “How can you sit here and not question such odious accusations? I implore you-!”
“For now, the past is not the subject of the current discussion,” Haytham raised a hand, silencing them both. “Thomas,” he turned towards him, “You must relay everything that happened between you and that woman during your mission. Do not leave out any detail, no matter how minor it seems.”
“Wouldn’t dream ‘o doing no less,” Thomas resolutely declared.
Of course, he lied his arse off. In his many years of muscling his way to the top of the food chain, Thomas mastered various methods of spinning an elaborate charade. First off, it was imperative to fill the tale with plenty of verifiable truths. Particularly if they made sense within the context of the overall deception. He started with how the assassin tracked him to his battalion and their first confrontation. Except he claimed an initial victory in their fisticuffs. In fact, he was about to stab her clear through. That was until she blurted out that she was also after the monstrous Hessian. His hesitation at that surprising bit of information allowed her to regain the upper hand and escape.
Which led to the second lesson in verbal deceit. In order to make the lie sound legit, find ways to make yourself appear a little incompetent in order to warrant as little praise as possible. The less you stood out in the midst of the falsehood, the less likely anyone would remember the specifics of your story later. That’s why he had no idea how she knew the Templars were after the same target as her little group of scoundrels. It wasn’t as though he made deep conversation with the chit every time they stumbled into each other’s path after the first time. How could he? After all, wasn’t his duty to the Grandmaster to attempt to kill her at every turn? Whether it was at the tavern out in the wilderness. Or at an abandoned cabin in the woods a few days after that. Or along the icy roads of the frontier that led back into the city. Or when he made it into Boston proper.
“For god sake, get on with your blathering, Hickey,” Charles barked.
“Best go ‘n settle yerself down right proper, son,” Hickey flexed his fingers in aggravation, “Last I checked, I ain’t addressing you, ya pisspot.”
“I find I agree with that sentiment,” Haytham sent Charles a look of warning. “Please, go on,” he gestured to Thomas.
Now came the third and last part of weaving all the disparate pieces into a plausible tale; complete and absolute conviction driven by recounting numerous but trivial details. For example? The Hessian’s target was some wealthy, foppish git with a fancy accent. Where he came from, Thomas allegedly couldn’t recall. But judging by his skills with his fists and weapons when the Hessian caught up with him in the back alleys of Beacon Hill, the target was most likely an Assassin as well. Had to be, considering how he was able to fight off that fiend’s first strikes. But it took the efforts of him, Thomas and the Assassin woman to finally fell the Hessian.
“You…aided them?!” Charles stammered in angry disbelief. “Why in the bloody hell didn’t you kill the woman and Assassin target? Two birds with one stone, Hickey! Two birds-!”
Hickey snarled, wrenching off his cravat and yanking the collar of his tunic to the side. “The bastard Kraut tried to fuckin’ strangle me too, ya blighter!” he waved at the ring of ghastly, purple bruises circling his neck. “Woulda snapped me neck like a dry-arsed twig if the woman hadn’t jumped all up on ‘is back like some rabid wolf!”
“She assisted you in your mission?” Haytham quietly demanded, gaze locked on Thomas’ neck.
“See ‘ere now,” Thomas exhaled, “I ain’t gonna call it any sort ‘o charity.”
“No?” Haytham questioned.
“Not on your life, boss-man,” Thomas sighed, “More like the Hessian went tryin’ to kill us all. So it fell into ev’ry man bein' for his self.”
Charles ran an annoyed hand through his loosely tied back hair. “So afterwards, you somehow failed to either shoot her or the other apparent Assassin? You’re slipping, Hickey,” he mocked.
“To the contrary, Charles,” Haytham gave Thomas a long look of appraisal, “It is through his efforts that he has stopped one of our most dangerous foes. Before his treachery, the Hessian was only used for the most difficult of…eliminations.”
Hickey smirked and finished off his stew. Dropping his spoon into the bowl, he shoved it to the end of the table. “And that right there, Lee,” he waved, “Be the only opinion that’s goes to matterin’.”
The seemed to shut the greasy ‘lil arsehole right the fuck up for a bit.
“Soooo,” Thomas sluggishly said before taking a long sip of ale from his tankard. Normally, Haytham wouldn’t bother paying attention to how long he attempted to drown himself in drink. But a couple of minutes passed before Thomas stopped. Haytham paused his writing and looked up in question as the other man finished off the entire thing in one chug. Thomas then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Even went so far as sitting up straighter rather than lolling all over his seat. Leaning forward on his elbows, Thomas contemplatively steepled his fingers in front him. Silently staring into the flickering fire of the hearth, he remained still.
“Are you…ill?” Haytham eyes faintly widened in genuine confusion.
“Huh?” Thomas exhaled.
“You’re not nattering on and on, as per usual,” Lee taunted.
“Sod off!” Thomas retorted.
“You are far closer to sober than drunk,” Haytham’s eyes flit over him, “And you’ve been here for well over an hour. In addition, there isn’t some woman perched on your lap…come now, did someone poison you on the road?” he rapped his knuckles on the table for emphasis.
“Like I said ‘afore, I came ‘cross that bloody troublesome ‘lil assassin while out on me mission,” Thomas replied in calculated apathy, “Kinda threw off me some.”
Most people would be wholly oblivious to how Haytham’s fingers immediately tightened around his quill. Or the way the chest subtly heaved. None one would take note that his face went ashen for mere seconds before he calmly tucked a loose strand of hair behind his ear. However, Thomas worked with him for over two decades. There also lay the smuggler’s uncanny situational awareness. A necessary habit born of his youth in the murderous rookeries of London’s East End. It’d been put to excellent use in his current line of work.
Well’en, fancy that, Thomas mused. Filing away the reaction to think on later, he focused on the present.
Attention snapping back to his paperwork, Haytham stilled the hollow side of his quill on the parchment for so long that it leaked ink yet again. Rather than sprinkling blotting powder across it to soak up its spill, he flatly asked, “Am I to assume she is dead?”
“Oh, ho, trust me, boss-man, I went tryin’ to gut her eight different ways to Sunday,” Thomas insisted. His usual drunken smirk was absent from his rosy visage. Haytham could not see it, for he still stared down at his letter. “All I got for it be a busted nose, a mess ‘o slashes, punches, bruises ‘n me wounded pride.”
“And the woman?” Haytham nonchalantly replied.
“Yes, what of the little cur?” Lee spat, “She needs to be put down, ideally as soon as damn possible. A thorn in all of our sides,” he threw up his hands in exasperation. “For a mere savage to be so destructive in her delusions proves a stain of shame upon our entire Order.”
At Haytham’s head whipping around and his accompanying glower, Lee speedily shut his mouth. His immediately dropped his eyes to the floor. It would’ve cause Hickey to let out a loud guffaw any other time. “Please, continue recalling what you observed,” Haytham insisted.
Thomas quietly replied, “She be fuckin’ fast on the draw.”
“So I take it she made off with barely a scratch to her?” Haytham firmly asked.
“Not for lack ‘o me tryin’, but yeah,” Thomas twisted his mouth in alleged reproach. It wasn’t technically a lie. He hadn’t exactly been the one to shoot her in the leg or go knocking her into the fireplace.
“She is a liability,” Haytham’s adamant voice interrupted his thoughts, “One that we shall have to neutralize. Sooner rather than later.”
“I’d say her end should be the Order’s primary objection,” Lee growled, voice apparently back in his mouth. “Otherwise, as altogether fascinating as your dithering continues to be, Hickey,” Charles snit while checking his pocket watch, “What time is that lying turncoat General to show himself?”
“Nine o’clockish,” Thomas lazily replied.
“It is a quarter to,” Charles clasped his watch closed and stuck it in his fob pocket. “No doubt he will arrive early. I shall go fetch him,” he brusquely excused himself and clomped downstairs.
Tipping his chair to balance on its back two legs, Thomas locked his fingers behind his head. “Good luck with that ‘en.”
“Luck has nothing to do with skill, Thomas,” Haytham wearily said, haphazardly dropping his quill. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. For far too long, as far as Thomas was concerned. Upon opening them again, Thomas shirked back at their suddenly haunted stare at some spot behind him. The younger Templar realized he’d never seen his master look so obviously, well, aged. His hair bore far more grey than the rich dark brown he recalled. While noble in bearing, the refined, carved lines of his visage formed deepening grooves. His breaths long and tired, his shoulders were hunched. “Skill,” Haytham finally exhaled, “That is what wins wars. It seems the girl wishes one against us. So who are we to deny her?”
Swallowing, Thomas forced on what he hoped was a careless smile and raised his tankard. “No truer words be spoken, gov’ner.”
Haytham’s attention swiftly flicked back to him. Shadowed and inexplicably ominous, he never looked away while Thomas drank. In fact, he continued staring so fixated that Thomas gingerly set down his jug.
“Erhm, somethin’ got you all worried, mate?”
Haytham’s gaze narrowing, he raggedly whispered, “You never saw it within her, did you?”
Thomas halted at the sight of the older man’s left hand gripping the edge of the table. His other fingers dug so hard into the wood that their sharp scrape caused the hairs along the back of Thomas’ neck to prick up. Rocking his chair back down to the floor, he slowly began, “I, ehrm, don’t ‘xactly go gettin’ your meanin’-”
“My daughter may attempt deceive those who hunt for her by going by that ridiculous male name of ‘Connor…’”
Wait…what?
What??
WHAT?!
WAIT ONE GOD-DAMNED MINUTE-?!
“But make no mistake; she bears the Kenway cheeks, nose and turn of the chin,” Haytham morosely confirmed, “As well as the propensity for revealing all that she thinks within her expression. It obviously hasn’t rightfully been trained out of her.”
Owlishly blinking, Thomas clearly heard the revelation. But he could not comprehend it. Not with the horrific buzzing beginning to fill his ears.
Haytham’s words continued flying from his lips, stilted and hoarse. “She also wears her mother’s distinctive beads about her neck. For there was no mistaking them when I laid my eyes upon her in Bridewell.”
Silence. It was all Thomas could muster. Silence and balls to the mother-fucking wall raw, unadulterated terror.
He slept with Haytham’s daughter.
Whether a few seconds or an eternity passed before he realized the roaring in his ears was indeed the result of his frantic heartbeat, he’d never be able to say.
He slept with Haytham’s daughter.
He gleefully watched as she gambled, downed a bottle of whiskey and then deliberately kissed him.
He slept with Haytham’s daughter.
He eagerly allowed himself to be seduced and encouraged her to have her way with him.
He slept with Haytham’s daughter.
He reveled in the feel and taste her beneath him, his mouth tracing the curve of her dusky skin, her nails clawing down his back as…
HE.
FUCKED.
HAYTHAM’S.
DAUGHTER.
It took every ounce of Thomas’ strength to stay his trembling hands and drop his sweaty palms to rest on his knees. But it didn’t stop him from bobbing his head in stunned panic. His only relief lay in that Charles remained downstairs.
“W…w…why would you ev’er go sayin’ that sort ‘o madness?!” he hissed, “Who else be knowin’ ‘o her parentage?! I ain’t tellin’ a soul ‘bout it…fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck!” Wiping a hand over his face did nothing for his pallid, fraught complexion. His stomach roiled as his vision blurred far beyond simple drunkenness.
Without warning, everything he’d imbibed rushed back upwards. The only solace was the bucket of logs near the fireplace. Stumbling from his seat, Thomas snatched it up, dumped its contents and wretched into it. The stench curling up into his nose had nothing on the nightmarish images of Connor’s old man doling out dozens of ways to torture him before finally cutting out his heart with his god-damned hidden blade. With his increasingly shitty luck, Lee would be standing by and clapping his hands in perverse delight at the sight of it all.
“You appear wholly put out by this revelation,” Haytham deadpanned.
How in the fuck-all didn’t he see it?! No wonder his instincts constantly flared up at her little ticks and random mannerisms. Except they weren’t so fucking random. Not considering he’d seen them for god-damned decades in her father.
“Apparently you find this troublesome-”
“Maybe ‘cause I…cause I…near fuckin’ killed ‘er?!” Thomas strangled out. He despised how his rising hysteria dripped all over his words. As well as how he took a terrified step back when Haytham purposefully rose from his seat.
God damn the wall at his back. He should’ve angled himself closer to the stairs…
Re: FILL: Short Change Heroes, Part 29c/?
(Anonymous) 2015-11-10 03:17 am (UTC)(link)Thomas’ hyperventilating echoed in the air. He shakily wiped his mouth with the handkerchief followed by the back of his hand. Now, there was nothing to do but collapse into his chair.
“Do she…do she be, uh, knowin’ that you be her…” he jaggedly trailed off, making a weak flapping gesture in Haytham’s direction.
Haytham closed his eyes again and gave a barely perceptible nod of disagreement. “I do not know. You have my word on that,” he swiftly added at Thomas’ dumbfounded expression. “Did she relay such to you?”
Bloody Christ, the disappointed, downward turn of their mouths were identical.
“Not a cockin’ word,” Thomas ground his teeth. Shoving the handkerchief across the table, he barely stopped himself from dropping his head into his hands. Instead, he settled for slouching back and taking a wobbly, long sip of his ale. It tasted like ash on his tongue, scalding his throat on the way down.
Why in fuck’s sake would you go settin’ me up like some dumb monkey, lass? If you wanted me dead ‘n buried, you woulda done it. It be too fuckin’ easy for ya to go getting’ the drop on me.
Unless she be playin’ at the long con?
He gave the thought little credence as soon as it crossed his mind. While far from dense, Connor contained a vehement distaste for that sort of cunning. It was her biggest disadvantage, frankly. Her iron willed determination left little patience for it, firmly pushing her on the side of rash versus calculating. Why draw out anything when you could end the problem with a simple knife across the throat?
He abruptly recalled their conversation the morning after she saved him from freezing to death. At the end of their war of words, they both admitted they had one thing in common. “Like me, you’ve had to go splittin’ yer self in two to go movin’ about them that ‘as the power. And like me, I doubt you ever gonna forget where ya really came from.”
Either she had no knowledge of that side of her heritage or refused to reveal it outright. But whether or not it’d get him killed? Well, that was unfortunately yet to be seen.
Notes:
Ballad of the Green Mountain Boys – is a real Revolutionary War song celebrating the Green Mountain Boys militia. They were created in the late 1760s in the territory between the British provinces of New York and New Hampshire, which is now the state of Vermont. It can be heard here, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y4KcJTP8nW8
When the war started, Ethan Allen led them to capture Fort Ticonderoga for the Patriots on May 10, 1775. From there, they invaded present-day Canada. However, the Green Mountain Boys disbanded in 1776, their soldiers sent to other Patriot battalions since Vermont did not join in the independence movement until 1777. Upon Vermont’s official entry into the war, the Continental Congress reformed them into the Green Mountain Continental Rangers. They disbanded again in 1779, but were reformed to fight in the War of 1812. They also fought in the American Civil War and the Spanish-American War. In modern times, “Green Mountain Boys” is an informal name for the Vermont National Guard.
Rookeries –Plural of “rookery” which is a 18th and 19th century sang term for city slums. It was generally used to point out the similarity between the overcrowded, multiple-story tenant buildings of the slums and how rook birds nest in extended family groups of loud, messy nests in treetops. Additionally, “to rook” was also slang for stealing and cheating.