Crimmy Comment: The majority of this fic will take place after ACIII, but the beginning few chapters will be riddled with flashbacks. Positively riddled.

Enjoy.


January 7, 1778

He never meant to have children.

Or at least, he never had any perception of maintaining a stable family. Haytham Kenway could be brilliant, yet it was difficult to conjure images of himself as a loving, respectable father and husband. If he had planned more efficiently, would Ziio have remained by his side, her smoky gaze meeting his own with undoubting affection? Would their son have idolized Haytham as Haytham had idolized his own father? Haytham couldn't answer those questions, and as fate would have it, he would never be able to answer. The time for a family had passed. Ziio had passed.

All that remained was a tenuous blood relation to his estranged son, Connor, the half-native boy who demolished many Templar plans under the self-righteous creed of the Assassins.

If the Fates of mythology were ever true, then Haytham would bet his blade that they'd be laughing.

Ever since he saw the boy with his own eyes at Bridewell Prison, Haytham knew that it was his son. The resemblances were uncanny and too coincidental to completely ignore. Yet the Grandmaster didn't have the reaction he had expected. Upon first learning details about the Assassin, Haytham assumed that it was his son. For two years, he had imagined what he would feel upon first meeting the child—his child. He thought that he might feel paternal and nurturing but at Bridewell Prison, as he briefly locked eyes with the native boy he felt…nothing. Perhaps, the time for paternal affections was long past. Perhaps there had never been a chance for it in the first place. All that remained was a dull fury and a short, sharp pang of envy.

Could Haytham ever regret the nights he spent alongside Ziio? That stolen month was precious to him, even now as his son swore his ruination and death. Haytham supposed that there was no longer any time for regret. Besides, he already had a lifetime's worth weighing him down, so what was one more added to the camel's back? He would persevere. He would keep trudging ahead, refusing to show his weariness. The Templars would maintain control of the Colonies under Haytham's management.

But this half-breed, this boy would see it all fall to shambles.

So Haytham watched him. Even though the Templar Grandmaster had plans to plot and seeds to sow, he always watched Connor from the corner of his mind. It wasn't for another year and a half until the two finally spoke.

Haytham could admit that there were better circumstances.

He could, but he wouldn't.

"Any last words?" the Templar mocked, blade poised to strike.

"Wait!" Connor struggled beneath his father's bulk.

"Poor choice," Haytham responded with a flick of his blade. But Connor narrowly knocked the blade away with a bracer and wormed from beneath the larger man.

The two men exchanged brief, mocking conversation, but Haytham's mind was elsewhere. So he finally met his son, without peering through bars or lurking in shadows, and he did…what? He made a halfhearted attempt to kill him. Haytham had pinned him down with a blade to the face like a beast holds its prey—no, worse-like some sort of monster. For a moment, even the Grandmaster was disgusted with his barbarism.

Yet there would be no apology. No such thing was needed between killers. Instead, Haytham proposed that they work together to find that loudmouth traitor, Benjamin Church.

"I may be able to track him," although Connor's words were humble, his chest puffed at the chance to demonstrate his abilities. Haytham waved the Assassin off and let him do as he pleased. Perhaps maybe, just maybe, there could be a partnership between them. And even if things didn't work out, at least Haytham would still be one step closer to finding Church.

Connor led them to an overturned cart and after chasing and interrogating the driver, Haytham tied up the loose ends.

The Assassin blinked a few times, shocked. It wasn't the shock of the warm blood splattered all over his face, nor of the dead body in his hands. Not even the jagged red spot in the driver's head was shocking, nor the emptied skull where the bullet had exited. Not even death shocked Connor anymore.

"…You did not have to kill him." It was the senselessness of the death that left Connor numbly settling the body down and wiping the gray matter from his own face.

Haytham balked at Connor's logic, or lack thereof. "We know where the camp is. He'd served his purpose." The Grandmaster turned on his heel and began to trudge back through the snow. Could that man have lived and not come back to trouble them further? There was no answer to that anymore. Haytham had seen to it that a bullet was the only answer. The Templar grimaced again. Was he so corrupt and black hearted that he could only show his son the error of Assassin ways by killing? The driver had by no means been innocent. Haytham only did what was right and necessary. So why did he feel like a monster while standing beside Connor?

"Father, where are you going? The trail leads north," Connor huffed as he followed my path through the deep snow.

"Do you expect us to walk all the way there in the snow, Boy? Our feet will be frostbitten by the time we reach the camp!" I continued until the snow was shallower.

"We could take to the trees," Connor suggested. Ah, into the trees, just like his mother.

"Not when the branches are this brittle. Besides, why go hopping about the frozen hills when you can instead ride?"

Connor thought about it for a moment and made a slight face. "You have a horse?"

His question was answered as they came upon Haytham's mare, which was tethered to a low branch. The Templar unwrapped the reign and slid into the saddle.

"You don't honestly think that I walked all the way here, do you?" Haytham mocked.

Connor frowned. "Then do not assume that I came through the trees, Father," the native pulled out a small whistle and blew into it before returning his triumphant gaze to Haytham. "I have my own horse. I was reluctant to suggest such a mode of travel if you were not so well prepared."

Connor's steed, a fine dapple gray with bundles of fur on the rump, trotted through the woods. It was careful around the deep snow and found purchase on stable ground. With practiced ease, Connor mounted it and took up the reigns.

Haytham snorted, but was unwilling to waste more time bickering. "Let's go already," he huffed.

They rode in companionable silence—Haytham brooding and Connor pondering—until they came upon the camp. Connor moved to infiltrate and Haytham meant to serve as backup from the brush, but the Templar found himself so lost in thought that he didn't hear the guards patrolling until they were upon him. It was bad enough looking like a cold hearted spinster next to Connor, but it was worse being saved by him. Unable to take the humiliation for any longer, Haytham decided that leaving Connor with the rest of the guards would be fitting enough.

"I figure that you can handle a few measly guards! See you in New York!" he called while running back through the camp to fetch his horse and confiscated weapons. He only just heard Connor's curses flowing after him.

At the time, that course of action had seemed like a perfectly good idea. It wasn't until Haytham had traveled several miles out that he bothered to really go through the parcel bags on his mare. And of course, those bastards had taken a good deal of his traveling supplies—nearly everything but a small bundle of food. Haytham sighed, frustrated. He could keep pushing his mare until they got to a more suitable location, but he didn't want to risk it breaking a leg with a misstep. Then, he'd be out of a horse and in the cold anyways. So he decided to just tough it out for the night and make camp. There was still scant daylight for him to gather firewood and raise a makeshift tent. It wouldn't be anything fancy, but he could do it, even if he only had one blanket. He had been in worse situations than this.

So Haytham went about his merry way, pleased that he at least still had his leather gloves in his pocket. After starting the fire, he dug into the snow and built up a pit around him. The snowpack would make for adequate insulation against the sharp wind that was picking up. Even though his mare would be cold, at least she her winter coat was thick enough to last the night. An icicle horse was still a very dead horse.

And speaking of horses, Haytham heard a sharp whinny on the wind. It wasn't far away, maybe about five or ten minutes maximum. So casually as he could, the Templar readied for any sort of attack. Fortunately all that greeted him was a weary half-native. Haytham chuckled to himself and stood out of the brush again, making of show of sheathing his blade.

"Well, looks like you survived after all," he chuckled.

If looks could kill, then Connor could've assassinated Haytham on the spot without ever drawing a blade.

"I did not appreciate being left behind like that. You could have assisted me," he all but growled as he dismounted his horse and moved to crouch by the fire.

"What are you complaining about? You did well enough on your own, Boy!" Haytham scoffed and went back to finishing his tent. After snapping down some low boughs on nearby evergreen trees, Haytham lined the top of the igloo to keep the wind out. He sealed the entrance with the single blanket. Shivering slightly under his coat, he joined the Assassin by the fire.

"…Don't tell me you intend on staying here for the night," Haytham finally blurted.

Connor shot him an indignant glare. "I intend to stay, whether you give it your blessing or not, Father. The least you could do after ruining our cover and abandoning me is to accept my presence for the night."

"Do you have to make everything sound so melodramatic, Boy?" Haytham sighed with a roll of his eyes. Even though he wanted nothing more than to push Connor away and leave the boy to fend for himself, he remembered the pelts that were still strapped to Connor's horse.

"Fine, you can stay," Haytham resigned, hating the brief flicker of hope on Connor's face. "BUT! Only if you have something to offer our…predicament."

Connor's expression faded back to a stern, unreadable grimace. "I have furs. You have food. We will combine our resources," he said matter-of-factly.

Haytham was about to argue the point, but he stopped himself. Even though it was no feast, he did still have enough food. It wouldn't be horrible for him to share both his shelter and provisions with his son.

"Very well," Haytham agreed and stood to dig into his saddlebag. He procured some dried meat, a loaf of bread, and a block of cheese while Connor stood and dug through the furs. Connor removed the saddle and saddle bags from the horses so that their fur could fully puff out and took the bundle of pelts inside the tent. Haytham spread some feed out for the horses. After that, the two sat by the fire and ate in silence.

They both watched the fire and would occasionally open their mouths as if to say something, but then snap their jaws shut once again without a word uttered. It was awkward to say the least, but what would they have to say to one another? Connor was but a naïve child and Haytham was just a grumpy old man. The only things they had in common were their blood, their blades, and their penchant for killing.

They could speak of morals and their personal beliefs. They could try to persuade the other to see the flipped side of the coin. But both men were too weary and too cold. It took too much strength to argue. So wordlessly, the two headed back into the tent and bundled up under the furs. They frowned as they bumped into each other and grunted while trying not to accidentally impale the other or themselves with their array of weapons. The shelter was small. Haytham had only built it to accommodate himself. He hadn't been expecting another man to join him, particularly one roughly his size. Most of the weapons ended up outside the shelter, but the men each kept their hidden blades firmly strapped to their wrists. Neither was willing to give such purchase to remove it.

Finally, they settled down, back to back. After a long time of listening to the wind howl a low lullaby through the trees above, both men fell asleep.

Haytham woke up first. He expected it to be morning, but with a grimace, he realized that the sun wasn't the reason he awoke. Connor was pressed against him beneath the furs, and apparently, he was having a good dream. Haytham could feel the erection pressing into his backside.

A rude awakening seemed to be in order.

Haytham snarled low in his throat and jammed his elbow into Connor's ribs. Connor, wild eyed and ready for attack, gave a short yell and tried to roll away. The Assassin hit his head hard against the snow pack wall, and then as he tried to flail into a sitting position, his head hit the boughs above. Connor's blade ejected and with a furious, wild roar, he flopped onto Haytham blade-first.

Haytham gripped tightly to Connor's bracer and narrowly diverted the blade. He wrestled with the young man above him. Even though Haytham knew that Connor was simply acting upon instinct, he couldn't help but idly consider killing the boy now. Fortunately, Connor stopped struggling as he came to understand his surroundings.

"F-Father?" he asked, still disoriented.

"Tch, who else?" he irritably growled.

Connor's muscles tensed for another moment, and then slackened as he slid off of the larger body. The hidden blade went safely back to his bracer with a soft click and Haytham heard himself sigh with relief.

Connor rubbed at his head first, then his tender ribs. After a moment of consideration, he spoke. "You hit me in the chest, Father. Why?"

"What, you don't remember your dream? Although I don't know the finer nuances of it, I have an idea about the subject matter," Haytham snorted.

The fire outside had dwindled to ashes long ago. No light shone through the blanket. It was black as coal inside the shelter, but even so, Haytham could practically see the shameful blush spread on Connor's high cheekbones. The Grandmaster smirked to himself. The boy was such a sanctimonious fool.

Connor must have remembered his dream. The Assassin moved again, trying to maneuver towards the exit. He was thrashing like an animal eager to escape a cage. Haytham grunted as he was shoved and kicked in Connor's meager effort to escape. Finally, the boy made it outside and Haytham heard him hiss at the cold wind and then crunch through the snow towards his steed. Haytham waited and listened, expecting Connor to just ride off into the night. That would be fine. Most of the pelts were still in the shelter and Haytham's saddle bags still had the food. Even if the boy did rob him of food or weapons, Haytham knew how to survive. He would be fine.

The Templar allowed himself to fully take up the shelter. It wasn't what exactly roomy, but it was better with only one body in it rather than two. He expected sleep to come quickly, but…it didn't. Part of him was listening to Connor outside, still waiting for the boy to run away. Time passed. Connor still hadn't fled.

"…What in hell are you doing out there, Boy?" Haytham could no longer hold back his curiosity as he called out. At first, there was no response and a part of Haytham felt a short jab of fear. Perhaps Connor had died already, frozen to an icicle. Just as he was about to go have a look, he heard movement again. Connor's footsteps reached the front of the tent, hesitated, and then slowly lifted back the blanket.

The clouds outside were blocking the stars, but not the moon. Haytham could see the lines of distress on Connor's face, even in the gloom.

"…It's cold out here. May I enter?" he asked stiffly.

Haytham blinked. Connor must have felt rather guilty to have this sort of reaction. The elder man rolled his eyes and gave a short chuckle. "Fine, but promise me that you won't rut against my leg in your sleep."

Connor's eyes lowered. A gust of air blew into the shelter, making both of them shiver. "I…cannot guarantee that promise, Father. I cannot control my dreams any more than I can control the wind."

"Nor your loins, apparently."

The Native gave Haytham a simmering glare.

"Then go masturbate outside or something! Take care of it, Boy!" Haytham threw his hands as far up into the air as he could. "Decide quickly. You're letting the wind inside."

Just to spite him, Connor held the blanket back further.

It was Haytham's turn to glare at the Native's satisfied smirk.

"Fine! Get in here before we both catch our death, Boy!" he huffed and rolled to the side of the shelter.

All too eager to warm up, Connor thumped inside the shelter and lay with his back to his father again.

Another few moments passed in silence.

"So…was it at least a pretty lady? One with a full bosom and curvy hips?" Haytham asked, half teasing.

Connor huffed and tried to curl into a ball. "I do not wish to remember," he grumped.

"Oooh, so it was a tough young lad, was it? One with rippling muscles and a firm backsi—" Haytham was cut off as Connor's elbow dug into his ribs. Payback. Though judging from Connor's response, it appeared that Haytham had his answer. Another thick silence fell over them and Connor drew his arms around himself tightly.

Ah. So Haytham had made the guilt worse.

"Well…it's not so bad to fancy…men," Haytham started awkwardly. At least he didn't need to explain the subject of sex to his son.

"Father, I am not in the mood for this conversation."

"Nonsense! I'm just saying that it's okay if you want to bugger a man!"

"Father!"

"There's nothing to be ashamed of! It's only society that speaks of it with disgust!"

"Father, not now!"

"And at least you won't have to worry about offspring!"

"Stop, Father!"

"It's just as well! Humanity is starting to get a little too big for its boots!"

"FATHER!"

Haytham paused for a moment. "…What?" he huffed.

Connor rolled over as if to say something harsh or cold to Haytham. But he stopped himself and resigned to facing his side of the shelter again.

"I just want to sleep," he finally grunted.

Haytham gave a short bark of laugh. "Unlikely! You're probably determined to stay up all night so you don't have another wet dream again!" Haytham knew that he was being cruel by this point, but part of him delighted in making the Assassin uncomfortable.

"Tch, it is not as if you are going to take care of it, so just accept it!" Connor huffed in arrogant retaliation.

Well, there was an ultimatum. And it was one that Connor clearly felt the victor upon. Haytham rolled to face Connor's back and wrinkled up his face at the prospect of jerking off his son. It was deplorable to say the least. He had no sexual inclination towards the younger man and the fact that they were father and son made it worse.

The logical part of his mind was adamantly reminding him of their blood relation. The biological part of his mind was whispering horrible things. Such as the fact that he hadn't lay with anyone in months. Such as the fact that Haytham still couldn't accept Connor as his son, so it almost didn't count as incest. Such as the fact that Connor was going to win this argument unless Haytham did something drastic.

It seemed that Connor seemed to enjoy premature victory as Haytham bared his teeth in the dark. Flexing his fingers under the furs, Haytham hesitated. It wasn't as if they were ever going to forge a father son relationship, even if they did want it. So why bother trying for one? Why not just ruin any inclination of that now? Without warning, he wrapped his arm around Connor's hips and firmly grabbed at the younger man's crotch.

Connor gave an unmanly yelp and tried to wiggle away. "F-FATHER!?" Connor's voice was laced with confusion and a spark of fear. His body was as taut as a bowstring and he could feel a slight tremble beneath the coat.

"What?" Haytham's words were sharp in Connor's ear. "You were the one who suggested that I take this route lest you dry hump my leg all night."

"This isn't—ngh!—This isn't what I meant!" Connor huffed as Haytham's hand, unnaturally skillful, massaged his cock through his breeches.

"No, perhaps not literally. But if you truly want me to stop, all you have to do is say the word," Haytham firmly squeezed through the fabric.

Connor made a small, distressed sound, but he said nothing. The Assassin was at war with himself. Yet it seemed that Connor came to the same conclusion as Haytham had and with a low moan, he ground his hips into the inviting hand with fervor.

Haytham grinned into the back of Connor's neck, but the expression was far from pleasant. It was too forced, and too cold, and too bittersweet; it was akin to an animal bearing his teeth, whether for fear or for dominance, one couldn't know.

They could never go back.

Haytham undid the buttons on Connor's trousers with practiced ease, and breached the hem. Connor gave a shout as Haytham slid his hand along heated flesh and firmly stroked. The cold metal of his blade casing touched Connor's hips, making the Native jump a little and give a small whine. Connor's breaths turned short and harsh under the ministrations. He reached his bladed arm above him and gripped the back of Haytham's skull.

Ah, so the boy wasn't as sentimental as Haytham thought.

Should Connor sense any foul movement to him (or particularly, to his swollen cock), then he would be in the position to eject his hidden blade into Haytham's neck. It was aligned already so that it could sever the Templar's spinal cord with a mere flick of the wrist.

Haytham chuckled. Ah Connor, ever the Assassin.

The shelter seemed to heat up as Connor writhed in Haytham's hand. His bared backside rubbed tantalizingly into Haytham's bulging crotch, making the Templar grit his teeth with restraint. Soft, needy sounds fell from the Native's lips and his hips bucked as he neared release. Finally, Haytham could feel Connor's body tightening against him as the boy's hips lost all sense of rhythm. The Assassin gave a final, animal keen as he came, cum spilling over Haytham's hands. His knuckles were white in the Templar's mussed hair, gripping onto him as if he were holding on for dear life.

A few more pants—a few more strokes—and Connor relaxed bonelessly against Haytham.

The elder man withdrew his sticky hand and wiped it on the pelt. Connor pulled up his trousers and buttoned them as his breath evened out. The Native's head felt full of molasses as he rolled to face his companion.

Haytham turned his back towards Connor, ignoring his own straining need.

"F-Father…what about…Do you need…?" Connor couldn't find the words so he made a pistoning motion with his first.

"It's nothing, Boy. Now go to sleep."

As much as Connor wanted to argue, his eyelids seemed to have gotten heavier with his recent release. He tried to reach out to Haytham, but his hand fell short of his shoulder and instead withdrew. Perhaps they could discuss such a strange turn of events in the morning. It was likely that they wouldn't even bring up the topic…but perhaps...

Haytham willed his erection away by focusing on Connor's breathing. It soon evened out as the Assassin fell asleep. Good. He didn't need the boy to be bothering him anymore. His mind was already thrown into tumult at their actions. Likely, Connor was just as emotionally confused. But it didn't matter. They were too different to get along. They would have never been able to act as father and son. Never. And now, their actions saw to that more than words could. They could never be a real family now.

After all, Haytham never meant to have children.