Notice: Okay. I've got about two fanfics to update and a heap of drawing and designing to do (and all before my hip surgery), but I took the BLOODY time to write this?

Yes. *spazzes*

Basically set in my D-UA (Dial-Up Assassin) fanfic universe so it's another Modern AU, but I'll make this SO random, it doesn't matter what the timeline even IS in this story. XD

Blame Achilles Davenport for his not-so-clear simile about Connor looking like some Spaniard or Italian (Like, seriously?) and Stephane Chapheau offering Connor an ale. Oh, and a blasted Japanese safety lighter. (IDK, it's too damn early in the morning and using those to light my stove is shit.)

Enjoy the snippet. Ah-Hyuck! :P

— ACT 1: THE DRINK —

Somewhere in Boston, Massachusetts

About 9: 45 P.M. on a Monday

Ratonhnhaké:ton/Connor's POV

"So...", Stephane started, pseudo greeting me, as he polished the counter top for the gazillions time of the night. "How hard was it this time, Monsieur Mohawk?"

I chewed automatically and twirled my fork. Despite my rather irate gut feeling, I looked up from my cap at him, swallowed before speaking. "How hard was it this time?" My voice sounded sluggish as I repeated his question, tone mocking crankily.

It was too late on a Monday. A few hours ago, I had escaped yet another horde of Abstergo lackies who were 'guarding' (For the common civilian, it looked like they were guarding it.) the house of a government official. Said government official (I don't care to remember his name for.) sent out a call to the Assassins before getting cut off. And naturally, the New England team sent me out. And would you know it. It was HALF-WAY across the fucking state!

So when I got there, of course I had to get him out. Luckily, Clipper and Duncan were free for the night and met up with me there. We hijacked the security system, took out enough of the guards to sneak in, and let ourselves in. We freed the official, but it turned out to be a trap: the minute we unbound him, he cried out for the guards. (A Templar mole. Why was I NOT surprised.)

We weren't allowed to kill the guy, but we knocked him out after throwing a flash bang on the floor. As my Recruits closed their eyes, I used whatever sight my Eagle Vision allowed me to eliminated the guards inside. And before the slight completely cleared, we made our way and got out, but not before killing more guards along the way.

After the escape, all three of us went our separate ways as to not cause suspicion And changed my guise to Civilian Mode pronto and hide inside the old Molineux* pub Stephane worked at. All the way in Boston.

To put it short, the only things we got from that experience were our lives intact and one more name to add to our blacklist. So, how hard was it?

"It wasn't really that hard." I lied, too exhausted to tell the truth and took off the cap, putting it on the counter before adding, "But it was shitty enough for me to wish someone else was sent for it."

I didn't usually curse, so Stephane knew enough just how shitty it really was from my stressing of the word alone, him nodding thoughtfully. Heck, I was going to tell him later, anyway.

There was a cough to my left. As he and I both turned to the source, nearby costumer grudgingly rose from his stool at the bar and slammed his drink pay before staggering away. He had consumed five mugs of beer, the mugs stacked together in a small pool of alcohol.

As Stephane rolled his eyes and went to collect the soggy bills, he replied, "Well, it's not like you didn't have a choice to say no, right?" Taking the mugs one by one, he added. "But knowing you, my friend. No, you'd have insisted to be sent. Let's not kid ourselves, oui?" Another swift polishing and he was done, but he kept his 'I told you so' face.

I snorted. Right, I told old Achilles that I was the best fit for the job, being the only available Assassin at the time. I flexed my tired and muscles as I glances back at the joint. After that last costumer left, the place was completely empty, save for me, Stephane and a few bar runners closing up way earlier than their usual closing time.

Then again, Mondays were a pain in the neck for most people. Not an ideal day to bar hop.

Looking down, the plate of half-eaten pork medallions stared back at me as I jabbed my fork in again and took a bite, chewed and swallowed but savoring the buttery taste. Repeated the process a bunch of times before I decided to talk again. "Well, who else was willing to do it? Not old Faulkner or you, that's for sure." I pointed the fork at him mid-sentence before repeating my eating mantra.

I'm going to have to get the recipe for this, not that anything I made could rival Stephane's cooking.

The man in question merely snickered, wiping his hands on his apron and said, "That's because some of us work the graveyard shifts. But then again, the most exciting event tonight is you eating and chatting with me, so maybe I should have joined you." He joked before trying to cover a yawn.

I shook my head as I watched. Like I said, Mondays were the worst, even at night.

But why antagonize the guy further when his pork medallions were the best thing that's happened to me so far today? So instead, I chided. "While on the subject, you can report back on Thurday and we'll fill you in then. But for now," To make a point, I mixed all the buttered pork left in one wholehearted bite, chewing vigorously before wolfing it down with a hardly suppressed burp. "I'm thankful to the spirits for that ass-kicking meal after a shitty time at work."

Sue me for the cliché, but I made for a nearby napkin and wiped at my lips as Stephane's ego got boosted, making his laugh all the more jolly. Taking the napkin from me and into the nearby bin, he said between spurts, "Okay, okay. Since you're the only customer left, how about I get you something to go with those buttered medallions, eh?" The Québécois man darted to the back door before I could ask. Knowing Stephane, only one thing would go great with my meal.

When he came back, it was with a very teasing smirk and a bottle of, wouldn't you know it, brandy

I gave him a nonchalant expression, complete with a nostril flare, upon seeing the liquor. It wasn't that I didn't drink nor was I a light-weight (Shut up. I'm not.), but my Assassin persona requires me to be alert at all times. Meaning, I usually declined Stephane's offer to have a drink with him because with him, it'll be one glass. Then another. And another...

And that night, he tried to convince me again, cooing out, "Come on, Radun! You barely come here during the day, so tonight is a down-right miracle! And you just finished my pork medallions with bliss, too. And nothing goes better with buttered pork than a nice snifter of brandy." As he spoke, Stephane took out said snifter glass from the ceiling, polishing the glass before setting it infront of me.

I scrutinized the wide then slender glass before eyeing Stephane with the same expression. "We've been over this a bunch of times, weren't we? I only drink during gatherings. During the holidays. With people who I know wouldn't let me have more than two shots—no offense." I corrected, but to my disappointment, he wasn't even listening as he poured the brandy in neat.

(Yes. I know that it means 'at room temperature'. I've spent college with a bar tender for a roommate, for Pete's sake.)

Afterwards, he settled the opened bottle on the counter and waited, commenting. "We're not going anywhere until you have a drink with me. Comprendre**?" And with that, he took another glass and poured some for himself.

I felt trapped. Trapped between a pompous Recruit-now-Ally and the possibility of overdrinking. My eyes shifted back and forth, from Stephane's eager glass lift to the one he offered me, the aroma make its way up my nose as I leaned over. Couldn't quite remember what brandy tasted like, but I did remember the warm gush inside my esophagus. My fingers went and fidgeted over one another in thought. Maybe...

With a defeated sigh, I stretched out my right hand and gently held the round base around my palm. I twirled it, the dark caramel liquid swirled as I let my palm warm up the drink. I tried not to look too beaten down the bush as I raised the glass to offer a toast and scuffed, "Santé***?"

And Stephane repeated gladly. "Santé!"

Let me tell you: the face Stephane made as he clinked my glass was the most gleeful face I've seen on that guy in awhile. As we toasted, I spotted the hoppers cheering us on. Like Stephane was victorious in battle.

I rolled my eyes at those chumps. This was going to be a loooong night.

As Stephane took his first few swigs, I took my time sniffing my glass. The alcohol mingled with the grapes curiously, the aroma very pungent. After a few moments, I took a well-sized sip.

The aftertaste of slight fruit and alcohol were nothing to the instant heat going down my throat. Really warm down there now.

Stephane must have seen my expression because he kept going, "Go on. It gets better after the first sudden swig." Or something else after every gulp of his brandy.

Had to be honest and thankful: Stephane knows what I'd like or what I'd probably get used to. And brandy was both, somehow. I took another swig and felt warmer.

The third one emptied my glass and I set it on the counter. My chest feels like a bonfire during a pauwau night! But while I was letting the warm feeling ebb off, the glass emitted a liquid sound as Stephane gave another glass full of brandy, the half-smile never leaving his face.

"Yeah hah~! You're doing great, my friend! Now, another glass for luck?" He chided before giving himself another sniffer-full.

Shaking my head again, I took the glass once more. Was going to do another toast before I realized...

"Wait. Shouldn't we be toasting to...something?" I suggested, twirling the glass once more.

That actually made the other paused at my suggesting. It took him a few seconds before the snap on his fingers meant he had an idea. " Alright. How about...A toast to a not-so-shitty Monday?" He exclaimed with bravado.

My brow raised at the idea because this Monday was slightly shittier than most of my Mondays in reality. My questioning stare earned an eye roll from Stephane as he added, "I meant for me, Slow joe. Because I actually got you to drink with me." He grinned and raised the glass again.

Maybe it's the warmth in my chest, but I was all for that suggestion. Why not? "Fine.", said half-heartedly. Raising my glass, I repeated, "To a not-so-shitty Monday t'us all!"

"Huzzah!" The older man sang. We again finished out glasses. Remarkably, I wasn't feeling that light-headed yet, either. Okay, maybe the warmth went slightly to my cheeks, but I'm still sober. Honest!

This time, I didn't lower my glass. Kept the empty snifter in the air, actually asking for another serving. And it caught Stephane complete by surprised, almost missing his glass as he poured for himself once more. Classic.

Still taken aback, he poured the brandy into my glass, but slower. There was a mixture of pleased, awkward and concern lingering in his voice as he asked, "Really? You're actually up for a third glass?"

I smirked at that. "I've gulfed down two glasses of brandy. Not like I can't handle a third. Right?" Also, not like I was going to let him be the better in this situation.

He immediately got over his shock, replaced with enthusiasm instead. "Oiu, monseiur! And what do we toast this glass to?"

What to toast to...I thought for a moment, wanting to say something about "keeping pur skins after a very unsuccessful mission", but that would compromise the Brother hood. so instead, I smiled stupidly to myself as I answered, "To the best pork medallion recipe you're going to give me right after we finish this!"

Yes. Because those pork medallions where the best. And because Stephane made them just for me.

His laugh was instantaneous, clinking my glass and hollered, "To the best pork medallion that gave me an excuse to drink with you! Santé!"

"Yeah. Santé." I snorted out, not even bothering to be annoyed at the exclamation and drank down my brandy in one gulp.

After that, things got really warm and woozy, I think...

— END OF ACT 1 —

Author's note: *Okay, I have NO IDEA what tavern Stephane Chaphaeu worked at in AC3, so I went and just took the name "Marquis" after Lafayette and bam! Fancy pub name! *shot at by angry French people*

Update: I FOUND OUT. It's the "Molineux tavern". Went and edited that out now.

**Comprendre means "understand". It's like one the first words I remembered from my small French language book. Still dunno if I remembered it properly...

***Santé means "cheers"... Did it NEED a translation, though?

And yes, I know what drinking brandy feels like. And I can relate to how Connor's feeling since I myself ain't such a hard drinker. But yeah, brandy's good. Never had it neat, though, we Asians and our on-the-rocks habits. *shrugs*

So, what happens next after the third glass of brandy? Stay tuned and find out NEXT TIME! XD

(Which may be later this week if I finish D-UA's next chapter quicker.)

¡Asta la vista, me amigos!

~Itchy