"Have you ever brought Sam on an assassination in the middle of a date?"
A reply to an ask on the ask blog connorfemway on tumblr.
Warning: This is getting into more of the Sam the third/Fem!Connor thing I've been slowly developing. If you want to find out more about who Sam is (which you will need to do if you want to understand this story at all) then read my other two stories To Swim in Winter and Among Dogs in that order.
If you follow me on Tumblr I will be creating a timeline for this series so that you can keep track of the order - some people have suggested making this into a chapter story, one big story, but because I develop the story through asks it might get messy filing people's replies into chapter stories.
I will also post a timeline on my profile here for those who don't bother with Tumblr.
Enjoy.
"I said drop it."
These words find a pair of tuned ears within the bustling Boston crowd. And she seems to be the only person among these many ears that hears them.
A pair of feet cometo a stop.
People move all around, every which way, a stream of bodies that flows in all directions. A pair of trained eyes skim the crowd. Where had the voice come from?
It was so familiar.
Finally her gaze rests upon a door that stands ajar across the street. People pass, women with large hats and men with big heads. There is no seeing past them.
"Connor?" Samuel Adams turns his head. He has walked several paces ahead without realizing his accomplice has stopped. "Is something the matter?"
The Assassin does not respond, only listens. The politician follows her gaze.
"Why, that is odd," he states, prompting Connor to turn her head to look at him. His wrinkled face is contorted in confusion.
"What is odd?" the two look at each other, then back at the house.
"That is my son's home," Sam narrows his eyes, "He practices his trade on the first floor. He is a doctor... but he never leaves the door open like that."
Without bothering to hear more of the story Samuel is sure to tell, Connor begins to weave her way through the crowd with graceful speed. The tomahawk she carries is pulled from her side.
"Connor? Connor! Where are you going-?" the surprised man pushes his way through the crowd after her, only to be shoved about and stopped many times. He hardly has the grace to maneuver past these people in the way the Assassin does. Boston is not a kind place, and already he's lost Connor as she darts up to the door left ajar.
A pistol's blast fills the air. People in the street stop in their fright, many ducking low on instinct. Even to this day, years later, the Massacre had left people wary and scared. It gives Samuel the opportunity to catch up - pushing carelessly past the people who stand in his way. A surge of panic races through him.
This was his son, his only son.
"Samuel! Son!" he calls as he races through the doorway. He nearly knocks into Connor who has stopped just inside. She replaces her tomahawk at her side.
The scene inside is certainly not pretty - medical supplies are strewn about the floor and several tables. A vase has broken, spilling water and the remains of a small plant onto the floor. A dead man lies upon the floor not far away, a hole dug into his forehead. It bleedsprofusely. In his cold hands he carries two things - an old pistol and a vial full of an unknown liquid.
Samuel the third turns around to gaze at the two who stand behind him, not noticing them for several long moments despite his father's cry and Connor's heavy footsteps. He looks as he usually looks, minus the overcoat and tricorn hat. His white shirt is speckled with blood. A decorated pistol is gripped firmly in his hand, still smoking.
"Father?" he gazes at the older Samuel first. The father steps around Connor to examine the wreckage. His eyes fall next on the Assassin who draws surprise from the shaken man, "And Connor too..."
"What in god's name has happened, son?" the politician draws close to the body, shamelessly poking at the man with his shoe to check if he was alive. "Connor went running before I even knew what was happening! You never leave your door open..."
The doctor leans down, rather slowly, to pick up a browned cloth from the floor. He takes his time rubbing blood droplets from his exposed forearms, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up to his elbow. Connor steps further inside the home, trying to avoid stepping on any of the fallen supplies. She examines the younger Samuel for a moment before her attention is also turned on the body.
"I'd just returned from buying some supplies at the market," the doctor dabs at his forehead, tone filled to the brim with relief. His usual smile is replaced with a serious demeanor, "This man followed me home, and when I went to close the door he stormed inside. He demanded I hand over the medicine I had just purchased. I refused, so he came at me with a knife. I feared for my life for a few moments, but the man was weak and I knocked the blade from his hands. He grabbed the medicine from me, but I drew my pistol," this weapon, unlike any other pistol Connor had seen, is wiped down next with the cloth, "Had I not shot when I had, I fear I may have been the one upon the floor. Just as I fired he went to pull out his own firearm."
"Thank the gods that you are safe," the older Samuel straightens up, turns his gaze, smiles at his son. A hand is set upon the son's shoulder and the father squeezes it lightly. Relief fills the air.
As the two relish in what was not lost, Connor's eyes take in the dead man's features. He is burly, dressed in rags. He dons a thick, tangled, dirty beard and moustache. Rags wrap around his feet and hands and forehead. These thoughts are interrupted when Samuel reaches out and touches Connor's wrist, encircling it in his grasp. The Assassin turns quickly around, and must mentally convince herself not to act harshly to the man for unnecessary touching - he was shaken, still.
"I am quite glad to see the two of you here," Samuel looks between his father and the Assassin, smile reappearing.
"You know Connor?" the older Samuel seems to be surprised by the gesture between his son and his friend and takes to scratching his chin in a way that might suggest deep thought.
"I met her quite some time ago." Samuel lets his hand fall from Connor's wrist, offering his father a nod.
Before the older Sam can open his mouth again, likely to start a conversation that might become awkward with details, Connor speaks instead.
"Are you hurt?" her voice is soft, and she takes to weaving her fingers over her stomach, arms bent. The Assassin is glad Samuel didn't opt to hold onto her for the duration of their stay.
"No, thankfully," Sam gestures to the floor where the knife lies. It is a rusty, bent piece of metal - hardly something Connor would refer to as a knife. "He was quite frail, to the point that I wonder if it was he who needed the medicine so desperately and not the wife which he spoke of."Despite the fact that the dead man had been his attacker, Sam seems regretful in having to kill him. The older Samuel doesn't seem to notice his son's remorse.
"My son is a fine shot, Connor, fine enough that he might rival even your skill," the man stands up a bit taller, crossing his arms behind his back. The younger Samuel chuckles awkwardly, opting to move away from the two to pick up a few things from the floor.
"I find that doubtful, father," he says over his shoulder. The Assassin's eyes follow Samuel for a few moments before she occupies herself with the same task - picking up the vials and cloth bandages and needles from the floor with careful fingers.
"You'll likely have to replace this floor, son," the older Samuel opts out of the cleanup, placing his attention on the dead man once more, "What should we do with this man?"
"If you help him, I will handle the body," Connor puts in, immediately straightening up. She hands over the things she has picked up to the surprised politician. The doctor looks up from what he does.
"Are you quite sure, Connor? That is not exactly a sanitary endeavor."
"I have done this before," the Assassin kneels down and picks up the bleeding man. There is surprise in this action - the man was light, lighter than even some children she had picked up before. Even Godfrey's young son back at the homestead was heftier than this stick of a man. The doctor moves over to the back door and opens it for Connor, eyes following her out the door and into the yard.
A while later Connor returns to the yard of Samuel's home, body disposed of and fingers cleaned. Her steps are slow, as she finds little reason to hurry back - even from here she can see the two men talking through the open window. The curtains sway in the breeze. A father pats his son on the shoulder. The son is smiling his usual smile, and it seems as though the fright of the situation has finally passed.
Connor allows herself to sigh, to shake her head. Always, she seemed to find this man in the most unusual places without even trying.
Upon reentry into the home, Connor finds the mess mostly cleaned. The empty shelves from before are now lined with the medical supplies that were on the floor before. Chairs have been turned upright, replaced in their usual spots. A small bed mat with blankets has been put back in its rightful position and the blood and water and plant have been cleaned up. Only a bloodstain remains on the wood. Both Samuels look up and pause their conversation as she enters.
"Quite a way to meet," the politician chuckles, prompting a frown from Connor. She would be a fool if she did not realized what he spoke of. To this day, pushing Samuel into the Boston Harbor had earned her plenty of embarrassment, and the father of the man she just so happened to go swimming with was not making this situation much better.
"I would rather not speak of it," she mutters, lifting a hand to motion towards the now closed front door, "Will we be going now?"
"So eager?" the older Samuel's poking fun at her (an unusual thing for him) has Connor pressing her hands to her hips, biting on her lower lip.
"It is fine, father," the doctor lifts a hand in dismissal, turning halfway to stand between his father and his friend, "I did not mean to interrupt whatever business you two must attend."
"Oh, goodness no," the older Samuel smiles, "We weren't going anywhere in particular."
The Assassin instantaneously narrows her eyes at the older man. Whatever happened to that assassination contract he had talked of on the way here?
"Might the both of you care to stay for dinner then?" the younger Samuel brushes his front off, straightens himself out, as he glances between the two, "I have not had proper company in some time, there is much to catch up on between the both of you."
"I am afraid I cannot," the older Samuel bows slightly at the waist. He lifts a hand Connor's way in suggestion, "But I'm sure Connor would like to. I've only the need to brief her on a contract before I go, if that is quite alright."
The Assassin doesn't understand what is going on, and it takes her a few moments to fully comprehend her longtime friend's intentions. And it takes a lot of willpower on the part of the native woman to not let her mouth hang open. Sam Adams was normally a reserved man in every aspect except his patriotism, but now it seemed as though he was trying to play... matchmaker?
"Would you like to join me then, Connor? I'd be glad to have you if you have no other business to attend," the younger Samuel offers his smile, and Connor gets the feeling that she's not getting out of this.
The second sigh of the day breezes past her lips. She clasps her hands together, tipping her head down once in a nod.
"...I would be glad to."
"Perfect," the older Samuel tips his head up, smiles brightly at the achievement he seems to feel. He puts his hands on his son's shoulders once more, "I expect you to take more precautions from now on. What would your sister think if anything were to happen to you?"
"I will, father, thank you."
The older Samuel turns next to Connor and approaches her. He pulls a letter from within his overcoat and hands it over to her. The wary look she gives him is expression enough that she knows what he is up to. The man acts oblivious to the point that she almost believes he has not done anything on purpose.
"Within you will find the man's description, location, and other factors that might aid you in your search for him. Use caution, as always. I've faith in you," a small smile is offered before he adds, "Do enjoy your evening, Connor. My son is a good host, and I'm a believer in occasional breaks from business - the likes of which you seem to lack yet deserve."
As father and son say their goodbyes, Connor unfolds the paper and reads what is written. By the time she has finished the younger Samuel is closing the door behind his father, lowering the hand he used to wave.
"Perhaps I should apologize for my father," Samuel rubs at the back of his neck, moving over to his desk to rummage about in a drawer. Now that his father is gone, the doctor doesn't seem to be so uptight, even letting his shoulders sag a bit, "I hope he did not place you in an uncomfortable position. You seemed rather uncomfortable with accepting. If you are too busy or do not want to stay, I understand."
Samuel's honesty and observant nature is wholeheartedly refreshing. It only provokes Connor to think of the honesty she should show to him as well. The Assassin wrings her hands and thinks genuinely on the subject. Did she want to be here? True, she did need a break, and Samuel was a kind man, if not a bit touchy-feely.
Not to mention, her dinner otherwise would likely come from some freshly killed animal out on the frontier. A home cooked meal sounded too appealing right now to turn down.
"I am not busy," the words are stated clearly, reflecting the honesty he had decided to show her, "While I had hoped to stay out of your sight, I fear I was unsuccessful. As such, I am not one to turn down such an offer."
A smile passes over both faces. Connor's is much more brief than Samuel's and half as large. Her answer has pleased him greatly, and it is reflected in his eyes.
"I certainly have missed you, Connor," he speaks fondly, moving away from the desk once he has found another cloth. He adjusts the positions of two chairs that sit below the shelves. Samuel takes a seat in one and then pats the other. "Might I examine your leg? Not much time has passed since our last meeting, and I regret not taking a look at it then."
The Assassin nonverbally offers her consent to this, hands falling to her sides as she moves to sit in the chair near her host's. Her normal habit would have her flip the chair around and sit with the back of the chair against her chest, but if he is to examine her leg such a thing would not work well. As she sits and makes herself comfortable, Samuel's hand breezes up to brush the hood from her head. Connor finds herself pausing in the removal of her boot to eye the man, who only has a kind smile to offer as explanation.
"I notice you don't much appreciate the touch of others," he says, and before she can lean down to begin removing her boot, he offers out a hand. This time it is the Assassin who chuckles, coming out more along the lines of a scoff. Accustomed already to this routine he seems determined to continue, she sets her hand in his.
"I make many exceptions for you," she mutters with some disdain. A chuckle passes Samuel's lips, and he takes to removing her fingerless glove. The Assassin finds the action foolish, but doesn't bother to argue it. It was only a glove.
"We are far past the time where you owe me still."
"I am aware."
Oh yes, she certainly was. The native woman makes a note of how she would try to prevent anymore unnecessary touching from Samuel in the future. Had anyone else removed her hood or even her glove, they would have lost anything from a single finger to their entire arm depending on the person.
As done in the past, Samuel presses his lips to the back of Connor's hand, thumb stroking along the outer edge of her palm. The kiss is held for only moments, but before the hand is taken back he ghosts another kiss over her fingers. This movement startles Connor, a shiver crawling up her spine. The Assassin mutters in her native language as she steals her own hand and glove back, causing laughter in her companion.
Once the laughter has calmed and Connor has replaced her glove (and righted her nerves) she takes to removing her boot. The light bandaging of the half-healed wound is revealed. Samuel makes a curious noise in his throat. Connor's ankle is lifted in his grip, handled as carefully as a doctor would know how. His other hand works to unwrap the bandage.
"Might I ask how you came to be injured like this? I don't believe I asked before," he makes idle chat to fill the air. They are not completely past the point of awkward stranger tension at times where there is nothing to say, and it is a fact that Connor will not speak unless prompted, especially after that little stunt of his.
"A fight with regulars," she says simply, not bothering with details. Her eyes follow Samuel's ponytail as he leans over her foot. It falls over his shoulder, and she's surprised how thick his hair is.
The doctor shakes his head, a 'tsk-tsk' leaving his throat. Connor leans back in the chair as he lifts her foot up and sets it upon his own knee.
"This could be in better shape. You have not taken good care of it," he reaches up with one long arm to grab a bottle from a shelf and cloth from over his shoulder. The Assassin eyes Samuel with some confusion.
"I did as the doctor instructed," she replies simply, unsure of why she feels the need to defend herself but does so anyways. Perhaps it was because she felt so awkward with her foot upon his knee like this. The Assassin lets her fingers wrap around the bottom edge of the seat of the chair.
"I doubt he was a very good doctor, then."
Some of the content of the bottle is poured onto the cloth. The next moment the damp cloth, reeking of a strange stench Connor had never encountered before (and really didn't like), was being pressed against the wound. Unprepared, the Assassin gasps, one eye twitching with the instantaneous stinging sensation. Fingernails dig into the wood of the chair. Her nerves were on fire today, it seemed.
Samuel doesn't even notice her reaction, and she is thankful - in her line of work, hissing at a little bit of surprise stinging was a foolish thing. Some of the embarrassment is relieved.
"Have you any other injuries?" he asks, breaking the focus he seems to have put himself in as he carefully cleans the half-healed wound that stretches up from the side of Connor's foot to mid ankle.
"None others," the Assassin mutters, rolling her shoulders back to try and relax into the chair. It always seemed like touching Samuel was inevitable each time they met - this fact was what prompted her simple response, which also happened to be a lie. She carried a wound on her side as well, but removing layers of clothing in front of this man was going much too far beyond her comfort zone.
The cloth is removed after a time and Connor's ankle is examined again. His grip on her is far more delicate than she had thought possible of him, if him wrapping his hand around her wrist before was any indication.
"I apologize," he says as he pops the cork back into the top of the bottle and sets the cloth aside, near a washbin. He reaches up to grab for some new bandaging, the other previously used bandaging cast aside with the cloth. He wraps the wound and does not continue to speak, prompting curiosity in the Assassin. The apology certainly was out of the blue.
"What is it you feel you must apologize for?" Connor folds her arms over her chest, tilting her head slightly to the side with curiosity.
"Why, for the mess you came upon here in my own home," he tips his head over to the blood stain on the wood floors, then to the shelves above their heads, "My shop is normally not in such disarray. It's quite embarrassing."
The Assassin narrows her eyes and furrows her brows, prompted to examine the surroundings despite already having done so several times today.
And it made no sense. Compared to many other places in Boston, Samuel's home and workspace were fine places to be. Despite the stain on the floor and the slightly unorganized shelves, she cannot see anything worth apologizing for.
"If you call order disarray," she mutters, putting the statement out there in an offhanded way. The doctor furrows his brows when he has finished wrapping Connor's leg. The attached foot is replaced upon the floor and the doctor himself takes to looking about his work area. The displeasure in his eyes doesn't fade.
"Compared to the norm, I would consider this disarray, yes," he reaches out and puts a hand on Connor's arm briefly. The Assassin looks to the doctor, and has the urge to fend off his hand but ends up not acting on it. "I'll need to fetch some things from the market to prepare for dinner. You're welcome to stay here in the meantime, if it suits your fancy. I'd even recommend it with the state your foot is in."
Connor nods before she can appropriately think over her options, too distracted by his touch yet again. But seeing as how there was a whole house to explore and a very curious soul within the native woman, she guesses this is the choice she would have made anyways.
Samuel pulls on his overcoat and sets his hat upon his head, stopping to look into a standing mirror near the door to make final adjustments.
"You're welcome to go upstairs. I've some comfier furniture there if you feel like resting before dinner. I'd also recommend freshening up, since I'm sure you've endured a long day," he says these things over his shoulder as the Assassin stands from her chair, eyes already roving about the items on the shelves. Before he leaves he grabs a pouch from a drawer at his desk, then promptly locks it with a small key he produces from within the pocket of his pants. He tips his hat to Connor, offering her a pleased smile, "I shall return shortly."
"Be sure nobody follows you home this time," the native states with some sarcasm. Samuel's chuckles follow him out the front door, which he closes and locks behind him.
There is little amusement in exploring the vials and medicines that stand upon the shelves and the contents of the desk are simply documents. Several of the drawers are locked, and the Assassin doesn't feel so bold as to try to pick the locks. She wasn't that curious.
With interest mounting further, Connor makes her way over to the staircase. From the bottom she can see only a small wall. Against it is a small table with a few knick-knacks sitting upon it. On the wall above hangs a family portrait, blurry from where she stands. The Assassin's eyes comb over the work area once more before she treks up the steps to examine the portrait.
The older Samuel is easily recognized, standing behind and holding onto the shoulders of a woman whose hair is hidden by a bonnet. Connor is sure it is Samuel the second's wife. Beside the mother to her right stands a teenage boy who is surely Sam the third. His blue eyes, the bluest of the lot (which surely said something, as each member of the family had blue eyes), stood out amongst the rest. At the mother's left stands a younger girl.
Connor's eyes turn next to the rest of the area. It is a small yet cozy abode - the Assassin takes careful steps into a sitting area. Comfortable chairs, a long coffee table, and even a fairly old sofa are arranged in front of a large, unlit fireplace. A large rug covers much of the wooden floors. Pictures line the walls - from family portraits to artist's renditions of the frontier. The colors are deep greens, and it is now she begins to wonder if that is not Samuel's favorite color. Open to her view next is a small kitchen area where some vegetables hang from hooks in the wall. Utensils are organized and not a single one is out of place. A large window opens up to the street below that buzzes with life. The curtains around it waver with the breeze.
Along the farthest wall are three doors - the first of which she opens is closest to the stairs. Within is a study - another desk sits against the back wall, a window closed and curtains drawn just above it. Shelves line the walls, and many books occupy it. It is a dusty place, so Connor does not feel the need to linger for an extended amount of time. The second door leads her into a small and plain bedroom. Knick knacks rest upon shelves but little else occupies the room. The third door leans into a bedroom Connor assumes belongs to Samuel himself - this fact made certain by the unmade king-sized bed. It is a bigger room, with a large closet and drawers. Candles sit about on small tables. A cozy rug occupies the floor. It is a comfy space, probing Connor to linger in here. She fiddles with books she finds upon the tables and picks through some of the clothing within the drawers and closet.
The Assassin was nosy by nature.
A tall mirror occupies the wall near the bed, above which the window stands open to allow the fresh air in. On one of the corners of the standing mirror hangs another tricorn hat - this one appears older, a faded brown in color. Connor takes the hat into her hands and sets it upon her head, adjusting it in the mirror to make it sit right.
As the Assassin rummages through more of Samuel's things, she is surprised to find that his material possessions, besides for books and older looking medical instruments, are few and far between. The hat is replaced on the mirror before Connor turns around to face the door.
What she finds makes a smile turn the corners of her lips.
Hooks adorn the wall, many holding up different pistols. There are many of them - at least eight, but two sets of hooks are unoccupied. The Assassin remembers the pistol from before and wonders if it is part of a pair that Samuel carries. She hadn't bothered to notice while he was home and not wearing his overcoat.
It is tempting to reach out and touch the weapons, to pick them up and examine them more closely, but judging by the rest of the home she would guess that these possessions were his favorites. It would be wrong of her to fiddle with them without his permission, so she withholds her curiosity.
After a little while longer within Samuel's room, Connor makes her way out into the sitting area once more. With nothing else to occupy herself, Connor takes to lying down on the sofa instead. Her bow and quiver are set against the arm of the couch as she is unable to wear them while laying down. Upon the ceiling over her head hangs a small chandelier with unlit candles. It, like many other things within the home, appears older.
It was a nice space, Connor could admit. A cozy home for a man living alone. It seems the longer she thinks the more tired she grows. There is no point in fighting it - Samuel would return soon. Any moment now he would come walking through the door downstairs. Surely she would not fall asleep. Perhaps doze, but certainly not sleep. That way when he returned she would awaken to the noise and right herself before he came upstairs.
The next time Connor opens her eyes, the fireplace in the sitting area is lit. The warmth of it dances along her cheeks, warms the hands that rest idly by her head. A pot is hung above the flames and the aroma produced drifts past the Assassin's nose. It makes her stomach twist in delight.
But the Assassin does not remember where she is, and it takes her a moment of looking around to remember she is in Samuel's home. She is also surprised to find a knit blanket placed over her and a pillow beneath her head, things not present before.
As Connor sits up a pair of footsteps find her ears. They come from the stairs, and Samuel appears. He offers his guest a smile that holds quite a lot of emotion, the likes of which Connor is too groggy to notice.
"Did you rest well?" he inquires with some playfulness, noting the bashful look that takes up space in her groggy features, "Your sleep certainly was deep. I dropped a bowl and you did not even stir."
That fact was even more embarrassing for Connor. But Samuel had been right - the day had been long, and the night before had been sleepless. The Assassin paws at her eyes to clear them of sleep, diverting her gaze to the open fire.
"I did," she mutters, forcing an incoming yawn back down her throat, "How long have I...?"
"An hour, maybe two," Samuel sits on the edge of the sofa, his hand settling upon the junction of Connor's shoulder and neck, "Once you feel like getting to your feet, you might freshen up. I've brought in some water downstairs that you might use."
Connor can only nod, this time not suppressing the yawn that crawls up her throat. The hand on her shoulder is warm, but she remembers it is his and takes to brushing it away with her fingers. Samuel stands up and makes his way into the kitchen area with the usual smile adorning his face. He hums as he works, chopping fresh vegetables and meats.
Once within the safety of the empty downstairs area, Connor stretches out her arms and legs. Unsatisfied with the amount of rest attained, she vows to find a good bed to occupy later. No trees this time - she would spend her little funds on a tavern bed. Outside the night begins to overtake the afternoon light, casting deep shadows and turning the sky brilliant oranges, reds, and blues.
The first thing she does is splash water in her own face, gasping at the unexpected chill of it.
It doesn't take long to wash down her face and hands, and she relishes the moments that she can take to press her face into a soft cloth towel. The now talkative stomach within her torso soon leads her back upstairs to where Samuel stirs the contents of the pot. Some meats cook alongside it, skewered. Fresh bread sits upon a countertop in the kitchen area.
"Do you eat like this every night?" Connor inquires, picking up the blanket from the couch to fold. It is interesting to watch Samuel cook - the precision he applies to all tasks is an enduring aspect of his personality.
"I do not eat many nights, actually," his gaze lands only briefly on her before it is returned to the pot. Instead of bending over to get at it he kneels, pressing a knee to the wood floor, "Tonight is quite slow. Normally I have at least one or two men who need to be looked after because of this Revolution. Tonight is a lucky night."
Their chat dims down as Samuel finishes preparing. Connor offers help and Samuel accepts, and together they handle the soups and hot meats.
"You'll have to excuse me for not having a proper table," the man chuckles nervously, "I've simply no room."
"But you do have a table," Connor motions over to long but low coffee table between much of the furniture. Samuel grins, shaking his head with his apparent amusement.
"I can't help but admire you, Connor. Things do not have to be extraordinarily complicated with you."
"I see no reason why anyone would desire complication," she states simply, shrugging her shoulders.
The large dinner is laid out upon the coffee table. The two opt to sit upon the floor instead of the chairs and sofa. They talk, exchange stories. It is the most Connor has had the chance to speak in a long time, and the feeling is refreshing. Samuel's company is enjoyed more and more each moment.
That is, until the inevitable comes up.
"Do not deny me this," Samuel points a finger to himself, his other hand extended to where Connor sits upon the floor. Her gaze, for the first time in half an hour or so, is stern and narrowed.
"I dare not understand your enthusiasm."
"And why must you? It is you who said that we should not desire complication. Put simply, I enjoy dancing with you."
A sigh falls past her lips as she puts her hand in Samuel's. The eager doctor helps his companion to her feet.
"We have no music," she blandly states upon standing, letting him lead her to the only open area upon that second floor - the floor space in Samuel's own room.
"Then we will make our own music," he pulls his dancing partner close, arm coiled around her waist. The Assassin hardly remembers what she is doing, and lets him place her hands for her, already tense and awkward.
As they begin to move, Samuel starts to hum. Connor struggles with the steps, posture stiff as she is unable to relax, but the doctor moves slowly and shows her the things she had forgotten. It is easier to relax knowing that they are not being watched by others, that she doesn't have to act any certain way in the privacy of Samuel's home.
It takes practice before Connor feels like she knows what she's doing again. At times they switch off humming, the Assassin humming some of the songs of her people. They hardly talk unless Samuel feels the need to stop and instruct her, which happens more frequently when he decides he wants to try to teach her new steps.
"There you go, you've got the steps now," he mutters encouragement despite not being necessary. The toothy smile he wears never fades. "How about a faster beat?"
After a while, Connor could even admit that it was fun. Samuel's touch ceased to be uncomfortable after a while, the arm around her waist and the hand that gripped hers no longer bothered her. There were no more smiles or laughter necessarily, but with her relaxation came the ease of movement and only more enjoyment for the two.
"You are excellent," Samuel says over Connor's humming, twirling her once and pulling her back to his chest. "I'm glad-"
The two suddenly press tightly together and stop their steps as the crash of glass echoes from downstairs. Connor's hand is quickly pulled from Samuel's to pull the tomahawk from her belt. Both pairs of eyes are on the open doorway leading out into the sitting area.
"You must be joking," the man growls under his breath, lowering his head. His cheek barely presses against Connor's forehead. "My pistols are downstairs."
"Take mine," Connor whispers, and Samuel's unoccupied hand moves down to pull the pistol from his partner's side.
Together they move out of the doorway, both sets of eyes peering about the top floor. Connor twirls the tomahawk in her hand as she moves over to the stairs. Night has fallen, making the staircase a pitch-black tunnel. Samuel quickly steps over towards the window in the kitchen area.
"By the gods," he mutters, drawing Connor's attention briefly away from the stairs. Noticing the dire look on his face she approaches his side.
Down below in the street, several men stand at the doorway to the home. Many are dressed in raggedy clothing. The Assassin narrows her eyes, but she cannot see their details in the dark. They only see a man climb through the broken window.
"He will come upstairs," Connor turns to Samuel as he speaks, pulling up her hood to shadow her eyes, "We might be able to surprise him."
"What do you propose?"
With the curtains drawn, the upstairs of Samuel's home is an eerie pitch black. The moon is small tonight and casts little light. The fire within the fireplace has been extinguished, and in the dark Samuel maneuvers to stand in the doorway of his study, facing the stairs. Connor kneels by the railing of the stairs, ducking low with tomahawk poised at the ready.
A faint light bursts to life downstairs. There is talk that echoes throughout the home. The men are looting the medical supplies, but aren't finding what they're looking for.
As Samuel has explained, his more potent doses are kept in the study, in a locked cabinet. Connor silently applauds his cautious nature.
But the situation they are in is not good. While they might surprise one or two of the men, there looked to be several. Connor didn't worry so much for herself as she did for Samuel, whose combat experience was something she knew little about.
"Aye, stairs," one of the men says.
"Careful. I saw light up in the window," another says. Both voices sound hoarse and ragged. The stairs creak to life as one man begins his ascent.
Connor looks to Samuel, who ducks back further into the room, pistol raised. He nods to her, and she nods back, swallowing the lump in her throat.
Light is cast upon the floor as the men reach the top of the stairs. The first man holds a lit candle, the other holds something akin to a club. Samuel closes one of his eyes, Connor stays still.
The two men notice Samuel right away, but before they can call out or bark a demand, the pistol is shot.
The two men fall to the floor in front of Connor, a hole torn through one man's forehead and the bullet lodged in a hole in the throat of the other. Connor glides her tomahawk across his neck swiftly, to end his suffering.
Samuel was quite the shot after all. As he reloads the pistol commotion erupts outside. Connor scoops up the candle from the floor and stands, quickly descending the stairs with Samuel at her heels. The bag full of almost-stolen medical supplies remains upstairs with the bodies.
The candle is extinguished before they hit the bottom of the stairs. It is tossed aside by the Assassin who moves swiftly to the window. Samuel tucks Connor's pistol somewhere beneath his overcoat and moves over to his desk. From one of the chairs he grabs his own two pistols - matching, just as Connor had thought.
"What should we do?" someone asks from outside, "Neither o' them guys adda-"
"Go inside and check on them," a huskier voice rises up, and a moment later a pair of hands find the window frame. As the man crawls inside, Connor takes her chance - he is grabbed by the coat and hauled inside. Only a loud yelp can escape his throat before the Assassin swings her tomahawk down upon his neck.
The next moment the Assassin has swung herself out of the window, Samuel yelling after her. Outside stand three men, and the man who stands the tallest is instantly recognized - and instantly he runs.
The Assassin slices her way through the three men with ease, and immediately gives chase to the ringleader - the man whom the older Samuel had written about.
"By gods-" Samuel stares between the bodies littering the ground, then his eyes find Connor dashing away.
There was no way he was going to keep up with that. The doctor turns to his surroundings, trying to think of a quick solution.
The Assassin dodges down backstreets in pursuit of the target. Luckily he is a slow runner - unfortunately he also seems to be clever and can jump much farther than she had anticipated. When he takes to the rooftops, Connor is not surprised. She leaps from stacked boxes onto the sign of a shop, hauling herself up onto the rooftop just as he leaps to another.
Her overcoat whips in the wind behind her. It is a dark night and it is hard to keep track of the man upon the rooftops, but Connor has done this her whole life. Tracking prey is her forte, and she will not lose this one. To lose him would mean only danger.
When the Assassin reaches back for her bow, she's startled to find it's not there. Faintly she remembers where it rests at Samuel's home and scoffs at her luck. No pistol, no bow, she would have to do this the hard and uncomfortable way. The tomahawk she carries is replaced at her side, and she opts to use the hidden blade instead, tensing her hand for the moment in which the bare-footed man slips up or the moment in which she catches up to him.
But he is clever - as Connor begins to cross a rope line strung between two rooftops, the man turns around. A large blade is in his hand. The Assassin's eyes nearly pop, and before she can turn back the ropes have been cut and she is falling.
The landing is made soft by a well-placed wagon of hay - perhaps the luckiest landing the Assassin had ever had in her life.
Coughing and wheezing, Connor hauls herself out of the bale, eyes scanning the rooftops. But he is not in sight.
Down at the crossroads a horse dashes by, and Connor's eyes follow it. A flicker of green is what sends her running after it.
By the time Connor has caught up with the horse, it stands without a driver. The Assassin scans the area but there is no sign of Samuel or the target. The ascent to the rooftop goes quickly, and the Assassin is secretly hoping that if she must fall again that it be another soft landing. Hopefully it wasn't too much to ask of Lady Luck.
The Assassin makes her way across flimsy rooftops, feet heavy upon the shingles. Many of them are old and frail and break beneath her weight.
As the search continues on, the Assassin begins to grow worried, almost panicked. Was Samuel looking for her, or the target? Would she be able to catch the target? What if he'd found Samuel?
The Assassin regrets not being more kind to the man.
As the docks are neared, Connor finally catches sight of the target. He stands atop a shed, arms thrown wide open, and he is speaking to someone on the ground. The Assassin takes the chance to sneak her way along the rooftops, circling around to his back. From atop a chimney stack, she finally gets a view of who he talks to
Luckily it is Samuel, who brandishes double pistols and aims at the man atop the shed. There is relief in this moment for Connor.
Like a wolf, the Assassin ducks low and makes her approach along the rooftops up above and behind where the man stands. It is almost as though he is preaching to the doctor.
"Don't ya think the rest of us deserve some care? We're sick and dyin' out in tha streets and all ye fancy doctors care about it getting your rotten money. Ta hell with ya all! If I had my way-"
It becomes apparent now that Samuel's actions - not shooting the man for the things he says - is done on purpose. This fact is made apparent when his gaze flicks to her and the head nod he gives her when the crazed, sick man tosses his head up to the sky.
"-killin' innocents who are just tryna make a livin', tryna take care o' their families. Ya shot 'im dead and tossed his body intatha ditches! You ain'tnothin' but a slimy, disgustin'-"
Connor is poised at the edge of the rooftop overlooking the shed. The Assassin flicks her wrist, blade glinting in the little moonlight.
With one leap and a single gasp of breath, the hunt is over.
"Why did you not shoot him?"
"He was your target, not mine," Samuel watches as Connor pushes the bodies of the dead men out the back door.
But when he speaks the Assassin pauses, turns to look at the doctor. They stare for a few moments, and Samuel seems to read the words in her gaze that do not come out of her mouth.
"I apologize if you find it bothersome… but I read the letter my father gave you while you were asleep," the doctor looks bashful as he says this, adjusting his hat upon his head. "Quite the coincidence that they might be connected to the man who tried to rob me earlier? From what your target said, that man was a friend of his."
"Were it any other letter…" the Assassin begins, but turns back to her work instead, "I suppose you carry some exception. He is your father."
"I meant no harm. I am simply curious as to the things you do… tonight was a demonstration of why I should be concerned for you and the business you partake in."
To this, Connor says nothing.
It is late into the night, and the Assassin vows to dispose of these men's bodies once the sun has come up. At the moment she is too tired to try to move them any farther, and the silence between herself and the doctor begins to pry at her nerves. When she turns around again Samuel is twirling her pistol in his hand. In the dark his eyes are warm.
When she reaches out for her weapon he pulls it away, out of her reach.
"Your help is appreciated, but I would like my things back. Maybe then I might forgive you for prying," her expression is serious and plain as day. Despite this, Samuel, as always, is smiling.
"I think I've a better idea," he turns and walks back into his home, and the Assassin has no choice but to follow.
Weight is rocked from one leg to the other as her eyes follow Samuel. He sets Connor's pistol upon one of the sets of hooks on the wall. For a long moment Samuel stands with his hands upon his hips, examining the weapons. Finally having decided, he pulls a different pistol from the wall. It is well decorated, but it is well put together and slightly larger than her own pistol.
"I believe this would suit you better," he holds out the weapon with both hands, allowing the Assassin to examine it before she takes it. The weapon is turned over in her grip several times, the smallest of smiles passing over her face. "Consider it a gift, for allowing me the pleasure of having you for dinner and dance… and for assisting me in the prevention of a home invasion."
"Thank you, Samuel. It is a fine weapon."
"Put it to good use. It is a trustworthy weapon."
Accepting the gift means many different things for Connor. It was an acceptance of Samuel and his obvious affection for her, but it was also a reminder of how she should focus less on avoiding him and more on getting to know him, since he wasn't disappearing anytime soon. It seemed fate continued to drag them together, and it was important that she come to expect it so as to not be caught off her guard by it.
"Do be careful, Connor. You gave me quite a fright with that fall of yours," the Assassin breathes a somewhat annoyed sigh as she stands upon the steps to his home. Yet another embarrassing and unprofessional moment witnessed by Samuel. Despite this he continues to smile, and in a non-sarcastic way, "Are you positive you will not take the spare bedroom?"
"It is a kind offer, but I dare not burden you further," from the broken window to the man before her she looks. His gaze follows hers.
"That is hardly your fault," Samuel lowers his gaze, rubs at his neck with one of his hands. It is surely to hide the stress he must feel. Floors that needed to be replaced, and now a window too. What luck.
The two stand in silence for a moment, the native woman's fingers stroking along the detail of the pistol she still grips. Samuel lifts his head, and appears as though he is holding back something when he bites down on his lip.
As Connor tucks the gifted pistol away in its proper place, she seems ready to take her leave. As though he has just made a decision in the matter of half a second, Samuel reaches out a hand towards her. It is forseen by the Assassin but she does not stop it. She allows him to brush his fingers beneath her jaw, allows him to rest his thumb on her chin. He tips her head up, seemingly to hold her attention or maybe to get a better look at her face beneath the hood she wears.
"Please, take care," affection shines through in his tone, "If you are ever in need of treatment, you now know where to find me. I will always be available. Even if you are not in need of treatment, you are welcome as well..."
"I will keep it in mind. And I will not forget the kindness you have shown me," she nods, and he releases her chin. He presses one palm to his side, and the other raises a finger over his own lips.
"Do not speak to my father of the aid I provided you tonight, though. That man is far more overprotective than he seems."
The Assassin nods her goodbye, and Samuel tips his hat as he lowers his head.
"I hope we meet again soon, Connor," he says to her as she turns away.
"As do I," she says over her shoulder, footsteps carrying her into the dark backstreets of Boston in search of a tavern with an empty bed.
The night chill felt nice on her skin, but she couldn't remain outside for much longer for fear of passing out. Eyelids hang heavily. When Connor finally settles into a bed for the night she strokes at her chin. The gifted pistol is set upon the bedside table, and she keeps it close. Always at the ready.