Chapter Text
Haytham Kenway had never considered himself to be an overly emotional man, nor could anyone claim he was a man of little self-control. In fact, he prided himself on his ability to approach even the most unexpected of circumstances with stoicism, dignity, and a firm command on himself and his surroundings.
And yet here he was, gaping like a drunken dockworker and torn between the urge to: A) burst into hysterical laughter, B) burst into hysterical weeping, or C) immediately head to the nearest tavern and drink himself into an alcoholic state of oblivion like Thomas Hickey after a windfall. At present, option A seemed the most likely, as short bursts of laughter were threatening to escape his lips and damage his well established and maintained image of perfect discipline.
Before him, the cause of his dilemma’s eyes narrowed sharply. “This is not funny Haytham.”
Normally, such a reaction from Connor would have been quite intimidating. Normally, the young man’s piercing stare and furrowed brow would have inspired a need for caution. Normally, the deep, growling voice would have been warning enough against further ridicule. (Mind you, none of this would apply to Haytham himself, of course, but would certainly do so to most people).
Normally, Connor Kenway did not attempt such an act of intimidation whilst in the body of a three year old child.
All in all, the attempted intimidation did not have quite the same effect when coupled with the tiny body, chubby cheeks, or the massive brown eyes that (at present) seemed more inclined to shed tears than anything else. Furthermore, the quivering lower lip, currently sticking out in a definite pout, spoiled the attempted threat. So too did the tiny, trembling fists covered in childish dimples, and the overall impression that the boy was on the verge of stamping a tiny foot. There was also the voice to be accounted for; high pitched, petulant, and paired with an undeveloped pallet determined to pronounce every ‘s’ as a ‘th’. And, of course, one simply could not overlook the fact that this child – this tiny, trembling child – was currently swimming in a man’s shirt, which had already abandoned one shoulder entirely and was constantly threatening to depart from the other as well.
Haytham Kenway had always been proud of his self-control. But some things are beyond the power of even the most controlled of individuals.
The force and intensity of his laughter nearly drove him to the ground.
Connor’s mouth dropped open, his little face contorting into outraged dismay. “Haytham!” The word – likely intended as a thunderous admonishment – came out in a squeaking whine as one tiny, bare foot finally gave in to its impulse and stomped against the ground.
There were tears actively flowing from Haytham’s eyes, and the simple act of breathing grew increasingly impossible. He struggled for control over himself, but Connor’s face and demeanor – which grew more upset and, accordingly, more childlike by the moment – made it impossible to do anything but laugh harder.
It actually took Haytham several minutes to calm down; by that point, Connor’s entire face was a brilliant scarlet, his eyes were brimming with unshed tears of frustration, and he looked quite ready to throw himself at the adult in a blind rage. Haytham took several deep, gasping breaths, feeling a degree of guilt crept in alongside his earlier embarrassment. Finally, his breathing steadied, control returning at last, and he met Connor’s tumultuous gaze. “Alright, what-” he paused to fight off another, traitorous, bubble of laughter, “What happened? How did you even manage…” he waved a hand to indicate Connor in his (miniscule) entirety.
The man-turned-child’s frown deepened, lower lip poking even further out than before, “I do not know.” Connor stamped his foot again at the look of skepticism on Haytham’s face, “I do not! Everything was normal last night, but then when I woke up I was like…” he threw his arms out in despair, “like this!”
The Templar sighed at the unsatisfying reply, feeling his earlier amusement at the whole situation begin to fade. “Surely something out of the ordinary must have occurred. Think boy, people do not simply revert to early childhood for no reason.”
Connor was now clearly on the verge of weeping, and when he spoke it was in a desperate wail, “There was not! I was just in the forest and there was nothing! No redcoats, or other people, or anything strange! I… I did not…” he was trembling helplessly now, fighting back sobs, “I did not do anything wrong!”
Haytham felt something twist inside his chest, a deep, unexplainable unpleasantness settling over him. Inexplicably, his mind randomly latched on to the way Connor was converting his ‘r’s to ‘w’s which, much like the ‘s’ to ‘th” confusion, prompted the improbable desire to coo over the child. Banishing that urge from his head, it suddenly occurred to Haytham that something was wrong with the picture before him (aside from the obvious fact that Connor was, of course, three years old).
The boy was trembling uncontrollably now, and not just from the distress over his situation. Haytham’s attention returned to the shirt which, he now fully realized, provided virtually no coverage against the world. Furthermore, it finally occurred to him that Connor’s tiny feet were utterly bare against the cold ground. And, while there had yet to be any sign of snow, the world around them whispered the promise of winter insistently enough to catch the notice of the warmly dressed Templar, let alone an almost naked toddler.
Connor was blue.
Haytham winced sharply, biting back a curse. He blamed whatever witchery had befallen the boy for his lapse in attention. He was a very perceptive man, and under any reasonable circumstances it would not have taken him so long to recognize a few obvious facts. Yes, he could, by no means, be blamed for missing the signs of impending hypothermia on the boy standing two feet in front of him.
That settled, Haytham crossed the miniscule distance, reached down, and caught his son up into his arms.
Shock held the boy for a few brief moments, long enough for Haytham to get a firm grip, before he came to life again. Suddenly it was like trying to hold on to a miniature dervish. “Put! Me! Down!”
He sighed again, adjusting his grip so that Connor was pinned against his chest. At that, tiny fist began to pummel at his chest with the ferocity and intensity of a light tap on the shoulder. After a minute of continued aggression, Haytham’s eyes narrowed sharply. “Connor!”
The boy froze at the unquestionable command in Haytham’s voice, large eyes slowly traveling upwards to meet the Templar’s firm gaze.
Haytham filled his voice with all the authority and weary disappointment of a man who regularly dealt with unruly children – or Thomas Hickey – and spoken again, “That is enough. If you simply released your ridiculous pride for one moment you would realize the necessity of this. Unless,” he arched one brow in a rhetorically sardonic gesture, “you would rather freeze to death.”
Understanding crept into the child’s face, followed almost immediately by a flush of embarrassment and a touch of frustration. All three emotions fought with one another for a moment, before Connor’s face settled into a sulky pout of resignation.
Satisfied that he was no longer being fought, Haytham readjusted his grip again, and began to make his way back to his horse. They would need shelter quickly; shelter, food, and decent clothing. Swinging himself and the boy up into the saddle, he took a moment to wrap his overcoat and cloak more securely around Connor’s tiny body. For a brief moment he found himself distracted by how perfectly his son fit into his arms. Then he took up the reigns and, Connor secure in his hold, spurred his horse away towards the nearest town.