It was one of the most unpleasant days Haytham had lived through in New York. Several inches of old snow had been washed away by at least an inch of cold rain, creating a sorbet of mud, horse shit, and blood-at least, wherever Haytham and Connor went. Late in the afternoon, he had noticed that his son looked rather gray around the lips, and his hands were shaking too much to stab properly. Little wonder, since everything from hood to moccasins was absolutely drenched in cold water.
Against his son's protests, Haytham insisted that Connor accompany him to his spartan quarters at Fort George. Once he was wearing Haytham's largest nightshirt and was bundled in several blankets, Connor began to get his color back. His father fetched him a bowl of hot stew, and made large mugs of very hot tea, then hung up all the wet clothes to dry. When Connor prepared to leave, Haytham insisted that, even though he wasn't the father Connor deserved, he was fatherly enough to put some blankets and pillows on the couch. And so, Connor went out like a light. Haytham puttered around for a little bit, unsure exactly what parents are supposed to do to mark the momentous occasion of a grown child sleeping under his father's roof for literally the first time ever, and decided to turn in, because he would need all the rest he could get to deal with his fractious son tomorrow.
As it turned out, he slept for only a few hours, because Connor woke him in the predawn gloom with an insistent whisper. "Father, pssst, wake up!"
Haytham groaned. "Whom did you kill?"
"I... am not sure."
That was enough to send Haytham rocketing out of bed. In his living room, a man had fallen slumped on the floor in a pool of blood.
A very portly man.
In red.
Haytham groaned. "Oh, Connor. Honestly."
Connor folded his arms defensively. "What? He was invading your house." He gestured towards the fireplace. "And he is wearing a red coat."
Haytham looked at where he had draped his socks, and Connor's moccasins, to dry. They were shoved full of candy, oranges, and small gifts. There were a couple of boxes, wrapped in colorful paper, neatly arranged at the foot of Haytham's hat tree. He clapped Connor on the shoulder. "Well, you made a big mess of my floor, and killed Father Christmas, but at least now I know I have a son who will protect me and my house. I suppose that's the best gift I deserve. Happy Christmas, Connor."
Connor looked at his father, confused, then his moccasins caught his eye. "Father, did you fill my shoes with things?" he asked suspiciously.
"You must have been a good boy this year, son. Despite all the dead bodies."