Chapter Text
-Day Two-
Connor was still asleep when they finally arrived at the cabin. The boy was, Haytham noted, spending an inordinate amount of this post-transformation time sleeping. Really, he was torn between being thankful for the peace, and being worried that the child had some sort of narcoleptic disorder. He honestly did not know how much sleep a toddler required – particularly when that toddler had been mysteriously de-aged from adulthood, and subjected to a series of increasingly stressful situations and near constant emotional turmoil – but this had to be somewhat excessive.
Still… at least when the boy was asleep, he wasn’t actively upending Haytham’s world and grasp of reality. Which was, if nothing else, a pleasant change.
Coming to a stop by the cabin door, Haytham gently dismounted, trying to disturb the sleeping child as little as possible. Thankfully, Connor’s only response to the sudden change was to let out a tiny groan and snuggle closer to his father, tiny fingers tightening where they gripped Haytham’s shirt.
Really, why couldn’t the boy be this not-infuriating when he was awake?
Readjusting his hold so that Connor rested securely against his chest, Haytham quickly fixed the reigns to a small hitching post and made his way inside the cabin.
The building’s interior was as he last left it, the only change being a notable layer of dust on every flat surface. That aside it was just as he liked his residences: orderly and functional with no unnecessary frills, but comfortable enough for a stay of any length. The small building stood at one and a half stories, with a wooden floor, thick walls, and a well-built roof. The main floor had a serviceable area for preparing meals, two sturdy tables – one for mealtime and the other for repairing weapons or human bodies – and several equally sturdy, though pointedly comfortable, chairs. A small stairwell led to the top of the cabin, where a sleeping area with two beds lay. Finally, several windows were placed throughout both levels, all settled to provide excellent vantage points and equipped with heavy shutters.
All in all, it was the perfect refuge: sturdy, defensible, and just comfortable enough that several Templars might be to share it for extended periods of time without murdering one another.
And, hopefully, it would afford the same benefit for a Templar and child Assassin.
That wish firmly in mind, Haytham set the boy gently into one of the most comfortable chairs – waving away the resulting cloud of dust before the boy suffocated – and went to start a fire in the furnace.
By the time he had a steady blaze going, Connor was beginning to stir. From his spot in the kitchen-area, Haytham kept the child in his peripheral gaze while he prepared two plates from his travel rations. Later, he reflected while sparing a quick glance down at the meal, he would have to attain some fresh ingredients for stew. Heavens knew the boy was currently much easier to feed on a semi-liquid diet.
A low, sleepy moan drew his attention back to Connor. The boy was slowly sitting upright, rubbing at his eyes with two tiny hands. After a moment he lowered his hands, only to freeze, staring at his surroundings in half-asleep bewilderment.
“Welcome back to the world of the living,” Haytham sniffed, picking up both plates and heading for the dining table, “I was beginning to wonder whether you had entered a state of hibernation.”
For once, Connor didn’t rise to the jibe, instead contenting himself with blinking sleepily at Haytham. Torn between feeling pleased and disappointed, the Templar set the plates down and gestured towards them, then pulled out a chair – the seat of which was occupied by several appropriated blankets – when the child slowly began his approach. Still muddled by sleep, Connor barely managed a look of annoyance when Haytham scooped him up, deposited him on the chair, and pushed over a plate. Likewise, the boy did little more than frown at Haytham when he looked at the plate, noting how the dried meat and fruit had been cut into tiny bite-sized morsels. But, merciful heavens be praised, Connor’s post-nap docility held long enough for a peaceful meal to be completed.
By the time they finished eating Connor seemed to be – finally – awake. Feet dangling from his chair – though, thankfully, not kicking anything this time – the boy quietly watched as he cleared the table. After several minutes, he heard a tiny sigh from the child, “Alright, what now?” Haytham glanced at the boy, meeting Connor’s expectant gaze, “You said it was always your intent to come here, and now we have arrived. So…” Connor sighed again, slumping wearily in his chair, “so what are we to do now? At least tell me you have some sort of plan.”
Haytham stared at Connor a while longer, processing what the boy had said. It was just… strange hearing words like that from such a young child’s mouth. Particularly, he reflected, when the child in question could not even pronounce two of the most common consonants in the English language.
Eventually he pulled his thoughts from this lesser issue and moved on to formulating a reply. Thinking over the boy’s words… Haytham found he did not particularly want to answer that question honestly.
Not even to himself.
At last though, fighting back a – fairly undignified – shrug and sigh of his own, Haytham swallowed his pride and replied, “At present? The plan is to keep you away from the world at large until I can think of an actual plan.”
All things considered, Connor’s toddler face managed to marshal his typical ‘you really are simple-minded, old man, and I cannot believe I have to put up with you’ look all too well.
Of course, it could just be that Haytham was so used to seeing that expression that he instinctively recognized any signs of it...
He bit back an annoyed growl at that thought. Disrespectful little brat. Pinching the bridge of his nose against yet another headache, Haytham stared down at the boy, “I’m ever so sorry to inconvenience you; really, I must be getting slow in my old age.” His stare intensified somewhat, “Normally, I would have half-a-dozen plans in mind immediately after coming across my miraculously de-aged child in the middle of the woods, with absolutely no indication of what caused his transformation or how to reverse it.” During this, he had made for the table, and now leaned against it to better look down upon Connor in annoyance, “Truly,” he waved a hand in a dramatic display of despair, “my mental faculties are abandoning me entirely.”
Connor held his gaze, utterly unimpressed. “You are still not funny.” The boy sniffed, glancing away in a sort of bored condescension, “And so much for Templar superiority.”
Haytham felt another growl building in his throat, and for a moment his hands twisted in the air, almost as though clutching a little neck. At length, he sighed firmly, took several deep breaths, and looked down at the boy, “And what,” he glared down at the boy, “exactly, would you have me do?”
A pair of large brown eyes stared up at him imploringly, “Fix this.”
He could only stare back, registering the perfectly expectant look, subtly undercut by a shadow of desperation. For a moment, something stirred in him, a bewildering joy that the child actually thought him capable of singlehandedly resolving the impossible. That even in the face of evidence to the contrary, Connor fully expected him to have answers or a solution. The blind faith was ridiculous, absurd, impossible, and in any other situation would have incensed him with its pathetic naivety. And yet, against all reason and against his very character, it made him want to sweep the boy into his arms. It made him want to be able to fix everything.
And it made it hurt all the worse that he couldn’t.
Swallowing against the strange knot in his throat, Haytham closed his eyes tightly, shook his head in an attempt to dispel his own irrationality, then looked back at the boy. “Connor, somehow it seems that you still do not fully grasp how impossible this situation is.” Haytham opened his hands towards the boy, almost imploringly, “So please, listen to me, and try to understand what I say. Connor,” he leaned down to the child’s eye-level, “men do not become children. It does not happen. It is impossible. I do not know what to do in this situation, because no one could know what to do in this situation, because this situation violates all laws of logic and reality.” He stopped for a moment, breathing deeply. “So please, Connor,” he reached out his hands, clasping the boy’s shoulders firmly, “Please, be reasonable. Have mercy. And give me time to, somehow, create a plan to fix the impossible.” He stared even more intently into the boy’s eyes, “Is that too much to ask?”
The boy stared up at him, and Haytham tried to ignore the stab of pain that came from the hurt expression on the child’s face. After a moment the boy looked down, worrying his lower lip slightly between his teeth, and nodded.
Haytham nodded in turn and, smothering the irrational feelings of guilt and helplessness, returned to cleaning up after their meal.
‘Maybe,’ he thought, ‘just maybe, the two of us can actually manage to get through this impossible experience alive.’
################
-Day Six-
He was going to kill the boy.
Though he wasn’t certain he could call himself a ‘good man,’ Haytham Kenway was a man with standards; one of those standards, in particular, being that he would not harm a child. But even a man with standards had his limits, and Connor seemed to have made it his mission in life to challenge, cross, trample, and maim every. Last. Blessed. One of them.
Not that Connor ever – even under the best of circumstances – conducted himself with anything that resembled manners or decorum. Indeed, Haytham would’ve cited Connor’s upbringing in the wilderness as a cause for his complete inability to interact with other human beings, but for the fact that he had met a fair number of Kanien'kehá:ka men and women who were perfectly capable of civility. As such, he was fully convinced that Connor was, quite simply, utterly inept in all things social and completely devoid of any respect for his elders. Such as his father.
Particularly his father.
And, again, that was Connor on a good day. Connor in his current state was worse. Much, much, much worse.
He had been lulled into a state of hopeful complacency on the second day of Connor’s impossible transformation. The boy had, once more, spent the bulk of the day asleep, and had at least been… something that vaguely resembled civil in his waking moments. It had been rather like their typical interactions; save, of course, for the fairly obvious change that Connor was in his logic-defying toddler state. It hadn’t been delightful by any stretch of the word, but it had been tolerable.
The third day had been much the same: the vaguest hint of civility, occasional awkward and stilted conversations, tense mealtimes, and much of the day spent in slumber.
The fourth and fifth days had not been so pleasant, being punctuated by simmering aggression, stubborn refusal to accept help, and the occasional fit of temper. However, none of these moments had escalated to outright conflict or tantrums, and so Haytham merely rationalized them as a result of Connor’s returning distaste for naps, and a pair of fairly restless nights. As such, he had decided while putting Connor to bed, everything would improve once the boy slept well.
Then the sixth day began, the sun rising in all its glory. And, with it, came the full force of Connor’s petulant fury and disrespect.
In all its glory.
The boy was surly when he woke, even more utterly thunderous of demeanor and venomous of tongue than usual. The boy instituted the Second Battle of the Wardrobe, which was far, far worse than the First. Squirming and fighting against Haytham every step of the way, the child spent over an hour claiming that the warmth and isolation of the cabin removed the necessity for being fully dressed, trying to get away with only wearing the knee-breeches and undershirt, and all but throwing a tantrum when Haytham – finally – wrestled him into all of his clothes. Even with the sudden lack of coordination and shortened limbs, it took all of Haytham’s skill to avoid being struck by tiny hands and feet, and he spent the rest of the day preventing the child from shedding articles of clothing.
By the time the boy was dressed, both sets of nerves were well past the point of being frayed. This, of course, did not make the purportedly simple task of consuming breakfast any less Herculean. For some reason, Connor chose that morning to develop an intense hatred for porridge – a dish that he had never had a problem with in the past. The boy had resolutely settled back in his chair, arms crossed, glowering at the bowl of porridge with such intensity that Haytham half expected to see the image of Charles Lee in the mush. He had maintained that position and expression throughout the entirety of Haytham’s meal, refusing to move an inch and – incidentally – unsettling his father’s digestion. Attempts at gentle persuasion and logical arguments had finally given way to frustration, and he informed the boy that he could sit there until the next day if he wanted, for he would not leave the table until he consumed some portion of his meal. That at least received some compliance, but even then the boy only deigned to swallow a few mouthfuls, leaving behind a nearly full bowl.
The awkward stress of breakfast over, an even more awkward atmosphere occupied the interval between meals. While Haytham set about executing some necessary household tasks, Connor deposited himself in one of cabin’s chairs and spent the next few hours doing his best impression of a thundercloud. In fact, the gloomy pout on the boy’s face only ever lifted when Haytham came into sight, at which point the little face transformed into a mask of sheer disdain and vague loathing. Several hours into this display, the Templar did have to admit that the sheer amount of dedication Connor could muster was impressive; he simply wished that dedication could be applied to more worthy – Templar approved – endeavors.
Dinner had been no better than breakfast. In the end it had taken the threat of force-feeding to get the petulant child fed – far less, Haytham noted with something that was not intense concern, than was healthy for a child of Connor’s present age.
By the time the afternoon was underway, Haytham’s nerves were so shot that his missives were thoroughly riddled with mistakes and stains that – for once – he couldn’t directly blame on Connor. The atmosphere was, by this point, so tense it could have suffocated a lesser man. Things became so painfully awkward that, after finishing a fairly shoddy reply to one of his subordinates, Haytham actually attempted to start up a conversation with the boy.
…
That hadn’t ended well.
…
Connor threw a shoe at his head. Haytham very nearly threw it back.
They lapsed back into painfully awkward silence after that ill-fated idea, and by a quarter past three Haytham felt as though he would snap if so much as a pin dropped.
And then, as the stars in their courses clearly hated Haytham Kenway, a pin dropped.
A pin named Connor Kenway.
Haytham was several lines into a letter to Charles when Connor – who had spent the last half hour or so trying not to nod off – fell from his chair and slammed into the floor with a sharp outcry of pain. Startled, Haytham leapt to his feet – his heart simultaneously leaping into his throat – and darted over to the boy, nearly upending the table and fully overturning the inkwell in his panicked haste.
“Connor?!”
A pair of unfocused brown eyes stared blankly up at him for a moment. Then, after a few unsteady blinks, clarity began to return; and, to Haytham’s rapidly growing horror, the clarity was accompanied by a sudden tremble of the boy’s lower lip and a veil of water over his eyes.
“Connor, what - !” at some point he had knelt by the child, running his hands over his scalp in search of bumps. “Did you hit your head, or…” The boy, who had been staring up at him in bewildered confusion, suddenly sprung to life again, squirming wildly and bating at his hands. “Connor, what are you - ?!” A tiny hand nearly connected with Haytham’s face, drawing a barely restrained growl of frustration, “For goodness sake boy, would you stop and let me – Connor!”
Somehow Connor managed to extricate himself from Haytham’s grasp, pressing himself against the chair and staring up with an expression of barely constrained rage. “Stop.”
“Connor...” He stared down in bewilderment for a moment, before heaving an explosive sigh and reaching out again, “Boy, what in the blazes - ?!”
”I said stop!”
Over the past few days, Haytham had – to some small degree – grown used to the boy’s new form, diminished coordination, and complete lack of physical power. Connor was a child; small, fragile, and helpless. And yet, somehow, the impact of Connor’s tiny fist glancing off his jaw rocked Haytham back on his heels.
A perfect silence fell over the room. And, as though to complement the silence, a sickly cold took root in Haytham’s chest.
“Alright then.” Slowly, he rose to his feet, staring down in quiet fury. “You must pardon me,” the words came out in a sardonic hiss, “but it appears I lost my head and forgot with whom I was dealing. I should have known better than to waste my time worrying about an ungrateful, self-righteous little brat who is too moronic to care for himself properly, too proud to accept the help he needs, and too bloody full of himself to realize just how lost and ignorant he is about the entire. Damned. World.” Haytham was shaking now, words surging forth that he had been restraining since he first met his maddening offspring. “I am sorry that I brought myself to overlook all this, time and again; that I’ve dealt with your constant ingratitude and pathetically naïve ideals, that I’ve lowered myself to help you, always in the futile hope that someday you’ll grow up enough to see sense and stop wasting your life! Damn it Connor!” He lashed out, kicking one of the other chairs and toppling it with a thunderous bang, “Just what in the hell do you want from me?!” His shaking grew worse, violent, and he fisted his hands in his hair, uncaring of how that disarrayed it, “I try to help you, again and again and again, and all you ever do is throw my kindness back in my face. Even now, even when you’re utterly helpless, incapable of even feeding yourself, dressing yourself, protecting yourself, doing anything for yourself… even now, even in this impossible state where you look like the lost and helpless little child you truly are, you still. Won’t. Listen to me! Won’t let me help you, won’t accept that just this once I might actually know what in the hell I’m doing!” At some point he had begun pacing, but here he stopped, shaking, staring down at the boy, “Just this once, why can’t you accept that you might need me?!”
Haytham broke off, trembling uncontrollably and, gasping for breath, stared at the boy. Nothing. Connor was perfectly still, head bowed towards the floor. A hysterical sound – somewhere between a laugh and a sob – escaped him, and he turned away, aimlessly walking until one of the tables blocked his path. For a moment he stood, perfectly still; then, suddenly, his hand lashed out of its own accord, fist slamming into the surface of the table. “Damn it.” He hunched over shuddering, hands fisted against the table and head hanging limply.
“I never asked.”
…
He could barely muster the strength to raise his head, glancing back at the boy from the corner of his eye. “What?”
Connor hadn’t moved from his spot at the foot of the chair, “I never asked you for help. I never asked to be ‘enlightened’ or ‘protected.’ I never asked for your ‘kindness.’ … Kindness?” The boy’s hands were curled into fists, now trembling furiously in his lap, and with a strangled growl he whipped his head towards Haytham, “When have you ever shown me ‘kindness’ that was not tainted by your mockery, your condescension, or your cruelty? When have you ever offered help that does not come with a price or serve your own goals? What advice or ‘education’ have you ever given me that is not merely an attack against me or my beliefs – against my life?!” Connor bolted to his feet, eyes blazing with rage, “Since the first day we met you have not once passed over an opportunity to insult me! No matter how hard I try to please you, nothing I do is ever good enough, I am never good enough to satisfy you, and you never hesitate to let me know how completely I have failed or how ‘idiotic’ I am!” The boy was trembling helplessly now, “Even if I have no way of knowing something, or am in a situation beyond my control, you do not care! You tell me that I am foolish and weak, you constantly belittle me, and when I fail to meet your impossible expectations you act as though I did it to spite you! And this…” he trailed off for a moment, shaking and gasping for breath, before his glare intensified, “this is the ‘kindness’ I am meant to thank you for?!”
Haytham stared down at the boy, mouth slack in his shock. “C… Connor…” His brow furrowed sharply, “Boy, I have already put up with more of your childish temper tantrums than I can stand, and if you think I will tolerate another than you must –”
“Stop!”
The cry cut Haytham off entirely, words catching in his throat as he stared in shock, trying to process the tears the sight of tears welling in Connor’s eyes.
“Just stop, please.” The boy was trembling violently, face twisting as he tried to hold back the tears, “Just stop. I cannot… I just… no more, Haytham, please.”
A sick sensation twisted Haytham’s stomach, “I… Connor, I didn’t-”
“Did not what?” Connor breathed a disbelieving laugh, “Did not mean to prove me right? Again?!” There was a touch of frustrated disbelief in his voice, “Do you even realize that you do it? Do you even care? Is cruelty so natural to you that you need not think to do it?! Or…” A strange expression – Haytham couldn’t except that it resembled understanding – crossed Connor’s face, “Or is it just me? Is that it? Are you so ashamed of me, do you hate me so much that saying such things mean nothing to you?! Is that why you have been tormenting me like this? Pretending to care for me one moment and then turning on me the next? Does my pain and humiliation bring you such joy?”
“What?! Connor, what are you -”
“This is not my fault!” The boy barely seemed aware of his continued presence. “I do not know how this,” he gestured sharply at his diminished form, “happened, and I do not want it! I am trapped in this body that I cannot control, that I cannot remember how to live in, and I…” he choked back a sob, “I just want to be myself again. I want things to make sense. I want to stop feeling ashamed and pathetic and afraid at all times. I just… I hate this. I am not a child.” Suddenly the rage returned to Connor’s eyes, refocusing on the astounded Templar, “And I want you to stop treating me like one! I want you to stop blaming me for things that are not my fault, that I cannot control! I want you to stop mocking me and treating me like I am worthless because of this stupid body!” He was all but wailing now, the last word punctuated by the stamp of a little foot. “I am not stupid! I am not worthless! I…” he fought back another sob, “I… I am not.” Connor shook his head violently, scrubbing a fist against his eyes before looking back at Haytham, expression caught between anguish and rage, “And since you think I am, why do you not just leave?!”
“Connor!” The Templar staggered forward with a jerk, reaching out to the boy, “Connor I don’t -”
The boy stumbled away from him, “Stop lying to me! Just stop!” In his retreat, Connor’s foot caught against a chair-leg, and he tumbled back to the ground. No sooner had Haytham reached his side than the boy’s fists were swinging again, “Do not touch me!” He pushed away, out of Haytham’s reach, “Stop pretending like you care when I know you do not! I…” he batted one of the Templar’s hands away, “I am glad Mother made you leave, I am glad I did not grow up with you as a father!”
“Connor -”
“I hate you!”
Silence fell over the room once more.
Haytham froze, kneeling over Connor, his mind blank. For a long moment neither moved, eyes locked on one another.
Then, slowly, Haytham rose to his feet, turned his back on Connor, and walked out of the cabin.
################
Haytham wasn’t certain how long he sat there, looking out over the small creek. Some hours maybe? The sun was beginning to set, so two hours at least. He had never before been prone to melodrama, but he couldn’t help but think it felt as though an eternity had passed.
He felt…
Breathing a sigh, Haytham cradled his face in his hands.
Damn the boy. Damn the contentious, pigheaded, infuriating, self-righteous, idiotic little –
– I am not stupid! I… I am not! –
He hissed sharply, digging his fingers into his scalp. No. No, he hadn’t meant that. No matter the boy’s faults, he… he didn’t think Connor was stupid. He didn’t. He was just frustrated, that was all. Frustrated, overtired, and strained. Heavens, anyone would be after the last days he’d had! Impossible circumstances, no respite, and constant proximity to an ungrateful little whelp who could scarcely function without constant support and guidance… anyone would have out of sorts. Honestly, that his own child could be so thoroughly ridiculous, so completely ill-behaved was mortifying beyond –
– Is cruelty so natural to you? Are you so ashamed of me? –
No. His fingers dug in further, twisting into his hair. No, it wasn’t true. He wasn’t… he didn’t…
And anyway, just because Connor was hopelessly naïve did not automatically mean Haytham was some sort of bloodthirsty, sadistic monster. He was not cruel. He did not enjoy the things he had to do – healthy satisfaction of a job well done aside – and he always, always did his utmost to avoid violent actions or unnecessary loss of life whenever possible.
– You did not have to kill him! –
It was just unavoidable sometimes! One couldn’t just leave enemy combatants in their wake, it wasn’t safe. That he understood such a simple fact while Connor didn’t was not his fault; no, if anything it was the boy’s. And just as naivety and an absurd lack of common sense did not make one a shining hero, neither did practicality and a realism make one a cruel villain. No. No, Connor was wrong about him. He just…didn’t understand. It was all due to a lack of understanding, pure and simple. It wasn’t that Haytham was a monster, and it was not that Connor was an imbecile; no, it was merely that Connor was naïve, and – though frustrating at times – that was no great mark against the boy. Naivety could be remedied. Connor was young still – even in his proper state – and once he realized how much his father had to offer, how the Templar simply knew better, and opened himself to be properly educated then –
– What advice or ‘education’ have you ever given me that is not merely an attack against me or my beliefs – against my life ?! –
Damn Davenport, the miserable old cripple. Was it any wonder Connor was so misguided, so confused from all the lies he was being force-fed? Oh yes, the cause and ideals of the Assassins sounded so grand and glorious with the sweet promise of freedom. Haytham knew all too well how many men and women had been drawn in by that lovely dream only to discover it was merely that – a dream: pretty, alluring, and impossible.
Haytham’s father had come to believe in that dream, and it had cost him his life. And, so long as any glimmer of hope existed, Haytham would do everything in his power to make sure that dream did not claim his son’s life as well.
No. No, Haytham would not let the Assassin’s Brotherhood claim another Kenway; no matter what pretty lies Davenport spun. And if that meant Connor thought him cruel, overbearing, insulting, or… or whatever else Connor thought of him, well then so be it. The boy would come to see the light someday, and would thank him. Even if he didn’t, at least Connor would be alive to think ill of him.
He nodded – somewhat shakily – to himself at that thought, slowly easing his hands from his hair and leaning against the tree at his back. Breathing deeply, the Templar forced himself to relax.
It wasn’t his fault. Connor just didn’t understand why he normally acted the way he did, the necessity of it. And all that… that foolishness about Haytham mistreating the boy since his transformation… well, Connor was simply overwrought. He had barely slept these past few days, which fully explained the boy’s hysterical delusions of persecution. The idea that Haytham had been ‘tormenting’ Connor – intentionally or otherwise – was beyond ridiculous, as was the thought that he took any joy from the boy’s state. Honestly, the very thought was laughable! It was Haytham who was most troubled by the change, who was most tormented; heavens, all Connor had to do was behave himself. Haytham was the one doing all the hard work – with absolutely no help or gratitude – and Connor thought he was having a difficult time?! He would laugh at the inanity of it all if everything wasn’t so blasted frustrating.
Honestly, how Connor could think he was intentionally trying to hurt him…
Haytham growled, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes to stave off the strengthening headache. Why? Why was he so suddenly plagued by all this doubt and guilt? For pity’s sake, he had never been so prone to doubting himself and he most certainly had nothing about which to feel guilty!
True he had found some amusement in the whole strange ordeal… every once in a while. But these situations were just so absurd that anyone would have found them amusing. The ways that Connor tried to carry out tasks as though he were still a man grown, and the ways he failed so utterly, would have made even a stone like Charles shake with laughter. If the boy would only put aside his overgrown pride he would have seen that.
Trying to cut his meat, falling into his stew, and the other day when he managed to literally sneeze himself off his feet – heavens, even now the recollection made him smile. The boy was just so… well, adorable. He could barely bring himself to think it – his inner Templar even cringed somewhat at the word – but it truly suited Connor now. More and more Haytham found himself laughing longer and harder, just to suppress the ridiculous urge to catch the boy up and squeeze him.
Though… Haytham’s hands stilled over his eyes. Though, he supposed it was entirely possible that such actions could be slightly misunderstood – by someone who wasn’t thinking clearly or paying attention – as an act of ridicule. Maybe... maybe Connor thought…
No. For pity’s sake no. Even at his most thick-headed Connor wasn’t that oblivious. Of course Connor wouldn’t see such a natural, innocent amusement as anything malicious.
Right?
Haytham growled yet again, head falling back against the tree with an undignified thud. This was getting ridiculous. A bit longer and he would be so wracked with doubt that he would no longer be able to function. Clearly the sleep deprivation was affecting him more seriously than he thought.
Oh of course, that must be it. It couldn’t possibly be that Connor was right about him
‘No it isn’t possible. Connor doesn’t know me, and he has no idea what he was talking about.’
Well, you’re right about that at least. After all, how exactly is he meant to know anything about you? You were never there for him
‘I didn’t have that chance. Ziio pushed me away, never even tried to tell me about him. If I had known… if I had known about him then nothing would have stopped me from being in his life.’
And once you were in his life? What then? Have you once acted like a proper father? Have you done anything to truly connect with Connor, to get to know him, to let him know you?
‘Of course I have! I have tried again and again and again. Since we met I’ve done nothing but reach out to that boy; is it my fault if he keeps rejecting me?’
Oh yes, you’ve tried so hard to be his father. One can easily see your Herculean effort in the fact that your son thinks you hate him
‘And how is that my fault?! No matter how many times I tell him that I want to help, that I want what is best for him, he consistently refuses to believe anything but the worst of me! I…’ Haytham bit back a whimper, nails biting into his scalp, “I want what’s best for the boy. I do, its only…
Do you love him?
‘What?’
For pity’s sake, it’s not a complicated question. Do. You. Love. Your. Son?
Haytham stared off into the distance, eyes unfocused and mind racing. Yes, yes it was such a simple question, and yet… and yet it was such a very dangerous one all the same. Far too dangerous for the Grand Master of the Templars to risk thinking about, especially given the very real probability that he and Connor would one day find themselves at a lethal impasse. It was hard enough to look at the boy and accept that the current leader of the enemy order was his own son. But this? No. No, he didn’t dare think about such things. Because if he did…
Because if he did, Haytham honestly wasn’t sure he’d be able to do what was necessary, should the time come.
So no. No, it was better not to think of it at all. It was safer. Just go through the motions, and if circumstances allowed them to be allies for just a bit longer then he would damn well do everything in his power to sway the boy to his side, but never ever think about it longer or deeper than necessary. He just couldn’t risk it. It had been hard enough accepting his love for Ziio and then losing her, and he hadn’t even had a hand in that particular heartbreak, not really, not like he dreaded would be the case with their son. And really, it was that dread that kept the thought from his mind, that strangled the treacherous voice in his mind whenever it tried to raise the issue, that forced his thoughts to other concerns.
And yet…
It was this thrice-damned, forever accursed, utterly impossible transformation. It was so easy to silence that treacherous voice when Connor was an adult, when he loomed and glared and threatened at every turn, when the possibility of lethal conflict was constantly real and imminent. So much easier to be the Templar he had to be when faced with an Assassin. Not so now. Not when his boy was just that – a boy. A tiny, helpless, precious child, who looked so much like the beloved son he had always dreamed of having that it hurt Haytham to be near Connor knowing that – in every way that truly mattered – the boy simply wasn’t his. He was steadily losing any control he once had over himself, losing the ability to distance himself from the boy who so clearly needed him, and every damned time the boy drifted further away he just wanted to scream to the heavens his rage at the unfairness of it all. Because Connor – infuriating, heroic, brilliant, wonderful little Connor – should have been his from the start. It shouldn’t have taken nearly two decades for Haytham to learn he was a father, it shouldn’t have been another man who shepherded Connor towards adulthood, and he shouldn’t have to spend every damned day fighting with himself because he ‘couldn’t afford’ to love his own son!
It was driving him mad. Completely, utterly, uncontrollably mad, and the longer the transformation lasted the worse it became. His self-control and priorities alike were slipping from his grasp and now, when faced with that dreaded question from which he should turn away, all he wanted to say was…
‘Yes.’ Haytham sat a moment in perfect silence, barely breathing, before choking out a shaky laugh, ‘Yes, I do. God forgive me, for it’s the last thing on this Earth I can afford, but I do.’ Shaking his head wryly, he leaned against the tree again, ‘He’s naïve, idealistic, too damn heroic for his own good, and worst of all an Assassin… but yes, I love him.’ He smiled helplessly, ignoring the threat of tears in his eyes, ‘How could I not?’
Then tell him, fix things
‘It’s not that simple.’
Oh, of course it isn’t
‘Its not. I can’t just…’ He growled, the sound almost feral, ‘I am a Grand Master of the Templar Order and, my son or no, Connor is an Assassin. He is the enemy. I cannot simply betray everything my order stands for, everything I stand for, just because of blood ties. No matter how much I love him, unless Connor can be brought to see the Truth of things…’ he trailed off, the line of thought suddenly unbearable.
So that’s it? It’s too hard to even look for another solution, so you’re just going to spare yourself a bit of pain and let Connor continue thinking you hate him. You’re pathetic
Snarling, Haytham slammed his fist down against the rock beneath him, ‘And just what would you have me do? I cannot simply pretend that the ideals of my order are meaningless, and Connor has proven time and again that he would never compromise with me, so what does that leave?!’ He scoffed sharply, ‘I suppose I could try to force the issue, try to make him see reason, but I somehow doubt that Connor would respond well to be held hostage in one of my residences while I forcibly conscript him into my order.’ The sudden rush of passion died down again, leaving dull cold in its wake, ‘No. It’s… it’s better this way. If Connor thinks that I ha-” the word wouldn’t come out, ‘if he doesn’t know I love him… it won’t… hurt as much, when the time comes that we find ourselves…’ he gave another tired laugh, ‘at an impasse.’
…
He bit back a growl at the sudden silence, ‘What? Nothing clever to say? No brilliant arguments, no cutting rebukes? You’ve been so quick to attack me at every turn, don’t tell me you’re giving up the assault now.’ More silence followed, and he scoffed in disgust, ‘Come now, surely you’re not beaten so easily. I know you must have some other sanctimonious line of reasoning, so let’s have it!’
…
‘That’s what I thoug-’
Father would have never given you any reason to doubt his love
Haytham’s eyes flew open in pained shock, breath catching in his throat.
Even had he lived long enough to see you turn your back on everything he believed, even if he found himself facing you across the line of battle, he would have never put this stupid war between Templars and Assassins above his love for you, he would have never stopped looking for another way. And you damn well know it
…
What? Nothing clever to say? No brilliant denials, no defensive excuses? Why, you’ve always been so quick to justify yourself, don’t tell me you’re stopping now
‘Sh-shut up.’
Maybe it’s that you’ve finally realized the truth: you’re not just pathetic, you’re disgusting
‘Shut up.’
It’s not enough that you’re too much of a coward to tell your own son the truth, you’re cruel enough to intentionally hurt him
‘Shut up!’
Father would be ashamed of you
“Shut up!”
There was an explosion of movement at his outburst, birds erupting from trees and bushes and small creatures dashing away through the undergrowth, followed by a moment of pure silence. Distantly, Haytham realized he was on his feet, panting. Moments later a dull pain registered, slowly shifting into a sharp burn. Finally, the haze of rage cleared enough for Haytham to pull his hand away from the tree’s trunk, and then pull out a handkerchief to wrap his now bleeding knuckles.
Well, I suppose the truth can’t always be nice to hear
Haytham found himself fighting the urge to pound his other hand – or, better yet, his head – against the tree. ‘Do you ever shut up?’
Oh yes. Of course, it’s about as often as you do, so…
He tightened his makeshift bandage more sharply than intended, wincing as he did so, ‘You wish for me to tell the truth, yes? Very well then, here it is: I truly do not like you.’
…
‘What, was that “not nice to hear?”’
…Oh no, not particularly hurtful. I’m just wondering how long it will take for you to fully realize what you just said. But while we wait, back to the matter at hand. You need to grow up and fix things with Connor
Haytham tried to remember the last time he felt so much like simultaneously crying and screaming in helpless frustration. Then he remembered it was this morning, during the Second Battle of the Wardrobe – and damn all stockings to the fires of eternal torment for the suffering they caused – and promptly lost his excuse to not respond. ‘We have been over this already. I told you-’
A remarkable number of lies and excuses that were, in the end, either unimportant or just plain stupid. Not that it’s particularly surprising of course, after all, the truth has never come easily to you. Even when it comes to your own wants and needs, you’re so quick to spin and believe your own lies
He could nearly hear his teeth grinding together at that last bit, the subtle hint of something –sorrow, pity, or possibly both – that made him want to punch something again, ‘I do not lie to myself.’
Alright then. If that’s the case, admit it. Admit that you want to try and fix things with Connor, that you know its right to tell him the truth
He grasped at the sudden surge of warm lightness that sprung in his chest at that thought, trying to force it back down, ‘No, I can’t…’
Haytham. Haytham, for once in your life, please. Stop. Lying
The warm light surged again, fighting back. He could feel his control over himself slipping, and it terrified him. ‘I can’t.’
Yes, you can. Admittedly, it will be rather difficult, as you’re rather out of practice, but you can do it if you just try
‘I…’ He gasped, shuddered, and came to the horrifying realization that he was crying. ‘I want to.’ He was shuddering harder now, almost violently, ‘I want to, so much, but… but I don’t know if I
can.’
Haytham… you can at least try
The sudden gentleness, the sense of faith and support, nearly sent him over the edge. ‘I… I’m scared.’
Hiding out here won’t change that. Go back to the cabin, tell Connor the truth. You always tell him that you’re older, more experienced, and that you know better? Time to show it
For some minutes Haytham stood there, leaning against the tree, bandaged hand pressing into his side while the other cradled his head, mind racing. Then, finally, he slowly pushed himself off the tree, shaking his head. ‘Alright, alright. I’m going. And if all it earns me is a moments peace from you then…’ he froze after several steps, eyes wide in sudden shocked realization, ‘Wait. Am… did…’ He ran through the previous events in his mind, disbelief and horror growing, ‘Have I… actually been having an argument… with myself?’
At this point, it would be more accurate to say that you have just lost an argument with yourself – but yes
…
What? I said that sleep-deprivation wasn’t the reason you were doubting yourself, I never suggested that you weren’t horribly sleep-deprived. In fact, you probably should try and get a good rest tonight; this cannot be particularly healthy
…
And since that rest requires the cabin, it would be a good idea to get back there so you can make amends for your cruel idiocy towards your son and then rest. Go to, man
Stumbling the next few steps, Haytham fought against the all too familiar urge to simultaneously laugh and weep in hysterics. ‘I am going insane.’
Personally, I’d be less worried about the fact that you’ve been arguing with yourself, and more worried about your deep rooted self-loathing
‘I don’t-’
Because you ‘truly do not like’ me, remember?
He staggered heavily – remembering, wincing at, and mentally striking himself for that particular moment of pure madness – before regaining his footing and forging ahead. ‘Oh shut up.’
################
By the time Haytham returned to the cabin it was nearly night, cold enough that he was beginning to shiver. And yet he found himself frozen at the door, griping the handle so firmly that his knuckles whitened. Then, after a truly embarrassing number of false starts, he took a deep breath and – mustering his courage as best he could – made his way inside.
Without any internal light source the cabin was a backdrop of grays, the last light of day barely filtering through the windows. It was only slightly warmer than the outdoors, and Haytham felt yet another pang of guilt as recollection of Connor’s poor resilience to the cold struck him. Adding one more act of thoughtless cruelty to his list of crimes, he waited for his eyes to adjust to the gloom, nerves rising as his return failed to illicit any response from within the cabin. After a few moments his eyes focused sufficiently, and he made his way towards the cabin’s stove.
Even with the slight numbness from cold, Haytham made quick work of starting a fire, and soon the cabin was filled with growing light and warmth. Even so, he found himself fixated on the fire, prodding it, starting to close the door, opening it again, adding another block of wood, prodding that, starting to close the door...
He was concerned about temperature of the cabin, that was all. There was no other reason for why he had yet to turn around. He was certainly not… stalling. Because, clearly, that would be ridiculous.
A low groan and rustle of fabric came from behind him and – holding his breath and steeling himself – Haytham turned for his riveting task of tending the stove.
Connor had barely moved since Haytham left the cabin, shifting only slightly to curl himself into a tiny ball at the chair’s foot. At some point sleep had apparently overcome him, no doubt caused by exhaustion and the earlier conflict, likely explaining the lack of reaction to Haytham’s return. The various effects of the newly made fire, however, had pierced the veil of slumber. Connor pushed himself into a half-sitting position, rubbing slowly at his eyes and whimpering softly; for a moment he looked confused, until – in a split second that made Haytham’s stomach twist – his eyes focused on the Templar.
Their eyes locked together, Connor’s expression strangely amazed. After a short, awkward silence, Haytham cleared his throat, “Connor, I-”
Whatever else he was going to say trailed off in a startled cry as – in one astoundingly fluid motion – Connor leapt to his feet and flung himself across the distance. In a second the boy hurtled into Haytham’s legs with such force that he staggered, stumbled over a leg of the stove, and – narrowly avoiding cracking his skull or burning himself on the stove – crashed to the ground, Connor still clinging furiously to him.
He winced slightly at the impact, joy that he had not taken them into the stove and utter confusion at the situation overwhelming the outrage and annoyance he normally would have felt, and fixed his eyes back on the boy. “What…” He cut himself off immediately, fear replacing all other emotions as he realized how violently his son was trembling. “Co… Connor?”
The boy was clinging to him, fingers digging through his trousers and into his leg, face now buried into Haytham’s side. When he finally spoke, it was in a whisper so small and muffled that Haytham nearly missed it. “You left.”
He barely suppressed a flinch. The lack of anger or reproach in those two words shocked him and, against all logic, made him feel even worse than he had before. Because if there was one thing Haytham had – begrudgingly – grown used to from the boy, it was the vitriol. Connor had a gift for instantly shifting from any given state to one of righteous scorn, for imbuing a single glance with all the rage or disdain he possessed, and these gifts had only grown since his transformation. Scarcely an interaction over the past six days – and merciful heavens had it only been six? – had been free of ire, and astonishingly Haytham found its sudden absence more upsetting than a firestorm of rage.
“I…” he swallowed hard against the knot that had risen in his throat, “I know. It’s just… Connor?”
When the boy first latched on to him, he had been unsettlingly still. Since then he had begun to tremble, a barely noticeable quiver becoming a powerful shudder. Haytham’s mind raced, panic growing even further; had the boy fallen ill, had the earlier fall caused some previously unseen injury, or had he somehow harmed himself during Haytham’s absence?
Now trembling himself, Haytham reached down, resting his hands on Connor’s shoulders and trying – gently – to pull the boy away and look him over. “Connor, what is it?” A note of muted panic slipped out with the words, and – despite himself – Haytham found he didn’t give a damn. “What’s wrong, are… are you-”
Connor pulled back suddenly, cutting Haytham off abruptly. The trembling boy stared up at him, tears overflowing his eyes. ”I thought you were not coming back!”
A blade would not have cut so deeply. All at once Haytham felt as though he was plummeting into some abyss, stomach coiling sickly, heart twisting, disgust and shame overwhelming everything, and for a hysterical moment the Templar thought he might burst into tears as well. No one had ever accused Haytham of being a fool or of being shortsighted, and yet…
Of course. Of course he had been so damn focused on himself that he hadn’t even stopped to think about his boy, of how Connor would interpret his storming off like that. And why shouldn’t Connor think he was abandoned, when Haytham had actually done so in the past, when both were their proper ages and Connor’s Assassin doctrine grated on Haytham’s nerves just too long? And certainly it would be frustrating for the elder to simply depart, leaving Connor to handle any enemy or problem at hand on his own… but now? When Connor could not care for himself? That would have unsettled… frightened anyone.
No wonder Connor thought he hated him.
He was distantly aware that his hands – still clasped on Connor’s shoulders – were trembling and – pride be damned – he found he wanted nothing more than to pull his son into his lap, to cradle the boy against his chest, to rock him and whisper every last assurance and comfort that came to mind until the tears stopped and everything was fixed.
“Connor… Connor, I…” He started to pull the boy closer, stopped, and then – damning himself as a coward – simply lifted his hands to the boy’s face. “I know. Connor, I know and I am so… so sorry.” The bewildered shock in Connor’s eyes added another stab of guilt. Breathing deeply, Haytham forged ahead, “I shouldn’t have left you like that. I was just so… I needed to clear my head, and I didn’t even think of what…” he trailed off with a sigh and lifted one hand to brush tears from Connor’s face, a strange – increasingly familiar – warmth growing in his chest as the boy leaned into the touch. Then, finally giving into the impulse, pulled his son into his arms. “I’m sorry, Connor.”
The boy snuffled a bit, shifted and – after a strangely tense moment when it seemed he might pull away – settled himself against Haytham.
It was… awkward. Connor was curled up in Haytham’s lap, knees pulled to chest, head resting against Haytham’s collarbone, one hand pinned between knees and body while the other played with a button on Haytham’s coat. For his part, Haytham was precariously balanced between sitting and kneeling on the floor, arms holding the boy tightly enough that he wouldn’t fall but loosely enough that he could slip out in a moment. Both were tense, neither entirely certain that the embrace was a good idea but neither wanting to move.
Eventually, Haytham breathed a deep sigh, shifting to sit fully. “Connor? I think we should talk.”
Tiny fingers stilled, frozen around his button. When he responded, it was in a tiny whisper, “About what?”
“About… this.” He hesitantly rested a hand on Connor’s back. “And about us. I think it’s about time we called a truce,” shaking his head, he huffed a tired laugh, “if for no other reason than to keep us from each other’s throats.”
That won a tiny breath – that might have been a laugh – and, after a faint nod against Haytham’s chest, Connor resumed toying with the button.
Screwing his courage to the proverbial sticking place, Haytham forged ahead before he could get in his own way. Again. “I know that rational discourse isn’t typically a mainstay of our interactions, but I’d at least like to imagine that we both can conduct ourselves like reasonable adults, regardless of situation or… difference of opinion, shall we say. And I’ll be the first to point out how the current situation goes beyond the unbelievable, and everything we’ve gone through before has hardly helped matters, but that’s no excuse for…” he inhaled sharply, then hissed the breath out, shaking his head in weary frustration. “What I’m trying to say is… about… earlier… everything that was said-”
“Haytham, I-”
“You were right.”
He heard the boy’s shocked gasp and forced himself to look down, holding Connor’s gaze as he continued. “You were right, Connor, about everything. I haven’t been fair to you, not in the past and certainly not now. I’ve had no right to treat you as I have, and less right to expect anything but scorn and distrust. I…” he allowed himself the luxury of looking away, breathing deeply, “I can’t imagine how difficult, how frustrating this must be for you, and I shouldn’t be making things worse by teasing… by mocking you,” he amended as the boy sniffed, “for things that are out of your control. I know this isn’t your fault, I know you’re not really a child, and I know you’re not stupid.” Here he shrugged, “Idealistic, overly trusting, and infuriatingly naïve most days-”
This last was met with a palm to the chest, exasperated growl, and attempt to pull free.
Mentally kicking himself, Haytham shifted abruptly – nearly losing his balance and narrowly avoiding an embarrassing encounter with the floor – doing his best to keep hold of the boy. “What I’m trying to say, poorly, is that…” he sighed once again, “I’m sorry Connor. Truly.” He fought back a wince at the note of suspicion in the boy’s face and, bidding farewell to another mote of his self-respect, continued, “Yes, as apologies go that was rather pitiful; you may or may not have noticed in the past, but… but my social skills are somewhat limited to giving orders and insults, or simply lying through my teeth. Or, well,” he gave a slight shrug of admission, “killing people.”
Connor stared at him for a moment longer. Then, just slowly enough for Haytham to catch the flash of a smile, he ducked his head. “I have noticed that, on occasion.” The boy’s hands twisted for a bit in his lap as he added, “I suppose it is not usually a problem; after all, you are skilled in those areas.”
For a very strange moment, Haytham wondered whether the boy was still teasing him with that last bit. Then, realizing the tone was just awkward enough to be entirely sincere, spent an even stranger moment torn between the urge to burst out laughing at the absurdity of the compliment and the nearly overwhelming desire to cuddle the boy in genuine pleasure at the – still utterly absurd – compliment. In the end he decided that, however much ground he had just gained, either option would increase his chances of being stabbed. And – as he didn’t particularly feel like losing ground or being stabbed – he settled on chuckling softly and running his hand over his child’s back. “I’m flattered that you’ve noticed.” He felt a slight tremor of silent laughter vibrate through the boy, and smiled. “I suppose, what I mean by all this – aside from ‘I’m sorry,’ of course – is…” he swallowed against his pride, “be patient with me? I’m going to try to be less… well, less of a cruel, unthinking brute, I suppose; but,” he paused emphatically here, “I can tell you now that I will make mistakes. I will slip up and say things without thinking, and likely they won’t be kind things because, as we’ve determined, I am not the nicest of men.” At this the boy mumbled something that sounded vaguely like ‘understatement,’ prompting a raised eyebrow before Haytham continued, “I will readily acknowledge that I am very direct – one might say blunt – and fairly abrasive. I am used to pointing out failings in others and I don’t tolerate disrespect. I…” he took a deep breath and forced himself to continue, “I know you aren’t one of my subordinates, that you aren’t... mine. To command,” he amended quickly, shaking his head, “You are not mine to command, and you’ve proven yourself more than capable on numerous occasions. I know I’ve no right to point out faults I perceive, regardless of whether or not they’re even there. It’s just that I…”
It’s just that I want you to be safe. It’s just that I’m terrified you’ll be hurt or captured or worse, and I won’t be able to do a damned thing to help. If I had my way you’d go your entire life without having a blade in your hand or turned against you; but that’s not possible, so at least I can try to help, try to teach you and guide you so you won’t be in as much danger. I just want…
Haytham shook his head, “I can’t promise that I won’t point things out or make suggestions or critiques because, like it or not, I have the experience to see and know more than you might, and because I doubt I will be able to resist the urge to speak. But, I will try… try, you understand, to be… less of an ass about it.” He brushed a lock of hair from Connor’s face, “Now, and when things return to normal; if you’ll allow it.” He let that sink in for a moment, watching a fascinating range of emotions play over the boy’s face.
That covered the easy part of their prospective truce. Time for the hard part.
“But…” he held up a hand, cutting Connor off, and tried not to wince at the sudden resurgence of suspicion. “But if we’re going to have any peace, then we both need to make some concessions an— now hear me out!” And if looks could burn than Haytham’s face would be properly charred from the expression of betrayed indignation on the boy’s face. Haytham held eye contact for a few moments, waiting for the intensity of the glare to defuse slightly, before continuing. “I am being entirely sincere, Connor. I will do my damnedest to be less of a bastard, but there are a few things you have to accept and cope with, or nothing I do will matter and we’ll have nothing to look forward to but mutual homicide.”
For a moment, Connor’s glare flared up again, mistrust warring with indignation. Haytham simply continued to hold the gaze, keeping his eyes as soft as he could. At last, bit by painstaking bit, his strategy seemed to pay off, and the boy’s glare slowly lessened to a vaguely trembling pout that – in all likelihood – thought itself a stoic glower.
Taking the change as permission to continue, Haytham did so. “As I’ve said, I know you’re not a child… at least, not mentally. But, like it or not, you are a child physically. Through no fault of your own you won’t be able to carry about as you are used; you are going to need to make changes and allowance for this body’s needs, and in many things you are going to need help. Help that I can give… if you will let me.” Again he paused, letting Connor process his words before continuing, “I know this will be difficult, that you are used to doing things on your own, but… well, think of it like this: if you were injured, a broken limb or some such, you would see no issue with accepting help from someone else, yes? There’s nothing wrong with it, nothing shameful; it’s just a temporary necessity until you regain your full wellness and capability.”
Connor held still for a moment, fidgeted for a few more, then fell still again. Then, at long last, he peered up at Haytham, “It is like… like fighting a common enemy. We work together, supporting each other’s weaknesses, and things will be easier. Only now…” he trailed off awkwardly, and Haytham felt his lips twitch in amusement.
“Only now, I’ll actually try not to be a condescending ass, yes.” Slowly, he lifted his hand, “Truce?”
The boy’s eyes shifted from his own, down to the hand, then back up to hold his gaze. “I…” he breathed a tiny sigh, nodding in determination, “I will try, if you will.” He fidgeted again, a slight red flush coloring his face, “I am sorry as well, for my part in… in all this. You have been trying to help me – poorly, for the most part – but,” he added quickly, flushing brighter at Haytham’s raised brow, “but you have been trying and…” his expression flickered briefly between mild wonder and genuine pleasure, “you did not need to do anything. You could have simply left me where you found me, or left me in the care of the first person you encountered, or done anything you wished with me and… and I would not have been able to do anything about it. But, instead, you chose to put everything on hold and look after me, to take care of me.” His eyes fell briefly away from Haytham’s before being forced back, shame and embarrassment alike evident on his face, “I have been behaving childishly, I have been ungrateful, and I have contributed to making things more difficult than necessary. I am sorry for that and… and thank you… Haytham.” Connor placed his hand in Haytham’s, the size difference meaning it disappeared entirely when the elder clasped it fully, and nodded, “Truce.”
They stayed like that for a moment, hands clasped and sitting in a blessedly peaceful silence. Then, like a strike of thunder, Connor let out a titanic yawn.
Both went perfectly still. Haytham’s eyes were wide and mouth pencil thin, first in surprise and second as he desperately tried to keep from either laughing or saying something stupid and undoing everything they had just accomplished.
Connor was wide eyed himself, embarrassed flush returning with a fury. Then, after what seemed an eternity, he cleared his throat, “Perhaps I should… retire for the night? I… that is… it is no different from if I were ill?” He looked up tentatively, “I require more sleep like this and… and there is nothing wrong with that… yes?”
Sighing in relief, Haytham gave a smile and agreeable nod, “Nothing wrong with that in the slightest.” A thought struck him and, feeling awkward and strangely tentative, he added, “Though… considering how this day has played out, perhaps you should eat something first?”
The boy’s brow furrowed in thought for a moment. “I… am not hungry.”
Half a dozen thought raced through Haytham’s mind at once. It had been hours since Connor had last eaten, he had barely picked over that last meal, he had barely picked over the last several meals, it wasn’t healthy, he needed to eat more, Haytham should make him eat more, he was likely just being pointlessly stubborn and testing the waters and…
Breathing deeply, Haytham made himself nod. “Alright. Alright, if you’re sure. Though, if you change your mind at any point…”
Connor sighed, tension melting away from his entire body all at once, and looked up at Haytham with a genuine smile. “I shall let you know.” He ducked his head, a motion that – on anyone else – Haytham would have considered shy, “Thank you.”
For no reason he could truly fathom Haytham found himself smiling in turn, the strange thought that Connor’s gift for imbuing simple words and gestures with passion included positive emotions, as well as negative ones, flittering through his mind.
Debating his next move briefly, he slowly made to stand without putting Connor down, another irrational surge of happiness running through him when the boy curled into him instead of trying to pull free, and slowly made his way to the sleeping area upstairs. Setting the boy on one of the beds, Haytham assisted Connor in changing from his day clothes to his night shirt, rather than simply attempting to perform the transition alone and – though it took the two of them longer than it would have taken Haytham alone – completed the task without a single attempted blow or muttered insult. That completed, Haytham guided the yawning Connor into bed, slowly tucking the covers up and around his boy.
He sat motionlessly on the bed, looking down at Connor as the boy shifted and settled down. Once again he found himself nearly overwhelmed with the desire to lean close, to press a kiss against his son’s head and watch him drift off into slumber. Holding his breath he started to do just that, then stopped abruptly, and instead reached out to brush the boy’s hair back from his face before rising. “Goodnight Connor.”
“Haytham?”
He paused at the stairs, turning to look back at the boy, “Yes?”
Connor squirmed a little, looking exhausted, awkward, and more than a little ashamed. “I… I did not mean what I…” he trailed off into an abrupt yawn, eyes fighting to stay open. He squirmed a little more, and for a moment Haytham thought he saw a red flush sweep over the boys face, before he retreated almost entirely under the covers. Then, so quietly Haytham almost didn’t catch it, he whispered. “I did not mean what I said about you and mother. And… I do not hate you.”
For one overwhelming, hysterical moment Haytham actually thought he might burst into tears, and it took several deep breaths before he could trust himself to speak. “I… don’t hate you either, Connor.”
The boy looked up at him, blinked, then smiled and nodded sleepily before curling himself up and closing his eyes.
Haytham remained at the top of the stairs for longer than he would ever admit, simply watching as Connor’s breaths slowly deepened, nose wrinkling and fingers curling around the blankets as sleep carried him off. Even then he didn’t move, standing still for minute upon minute, watching the boy sleep.
Finally, with an absurd amount of difficulty, he forced his gaze away from the sleeping child and made his way downstairs. There was still work to do, he reminded himself, no matter his isolation or the strangeness that had overtaken his life. He was still a grandmaster of the Templar order and that meant there was work to do.
Several hours later Haytham found himself climbing the stairs again, this time to settle himself down for the night. Hours of sitting with his work before him, no distractions of any sort, and he hadn’t gotten a damn thing done. And yet for some incomprehensible reason, he thought with a bewildered smile as he gazed at the child in the other bed, he could remember the last time he felt so utterly at peace.