A sort-of-sequel to Vulpine. Can be read as a stand-alone fic.
Spoilers for the second King Washington DLC episode ahead.
Ratonhnhaké:ton flies through Boston, stopping at an abandoned house when the rain starts to fall faster, soaking him to the bone. He will be of no use to the rebels if he has fallen ill. He'll dry his clothes and furs, and wait the storm out, then return to Adams and the others.
The back door is already open, which means there's probably no food there. Oh well. Ratonhnhaké:ton can wait to eat. He has gone without nourishment for a far longer time than this, though he will admit that the hunger pangs are uncomfortable.
He enters quietly. There is one long corridor, with doors on one side and stairs leading to the next floor on the other. He goes into the first door he comes across- a parlour, or a drawing room. A strange layout for a Colonist house, he thinks. There is a thin layer of dust everywhere, mostly undisturbed. Objects are scattered around, as though the family who once lived here had left in a hurry, and expected to return any moment.
Mostly.
It looks as though someone had been in here during the last few days. Ratonhnhaké:ton creeps into the hallway, and listens. There's a scuffling sound coming from the door in the middle of the corridor. He cannot rest in a place that is unsafe.
He waits in the corridor for another moment. He thinks he can hear the occasional grunt of a human being. He pushes at the door experimentally. It opens noiselessly.
His suspicions are correct. There is a person here. The man is searching through the larder, trying to find food that hasn't rotted, like the moulded remains of a dinner on the table. He's already lit the fireplace, and there's some water in a pot suspended over the flames.
Ratonhnhaké:ton tries to get a better look at him, and uses the power of the wolf to creep closer. He faces away from Ratonhnhaké:ton, but his build is familiar. He is white, his hair grey and messy, cut unevenly. He wears many layers of mismatched clothes, though it seems he makes an effort to stay clean.
The man finds a jar of pickled vegetables, and a small barrel of salted meat. He picks them up, and turns around. Ratonhnhaké:ton's breath catches in his throat a moment. He's older, more tired-looking, has a scraggly beard forming, but it's unmistakably Haytham.
Ratonhnhaké:ton shuffles out of the way, and lets his father pass. Haytham sets the items on a swept-clean patch of floor in front of the fireplace, before sitting down himself. Ratonhnhaké:ton watches him open the jar of vegetables in disbelief.
How can he be here?
He is dead. Supposed to be dead. Mother thought him dead.
Ratonhnhaké:ton starts to feel dizzy, exhaustion seeping into his bones. He lets the Wolf Cloak dissipate, and watches his father as he waits for the lightheadedness to fade away. It's obvious that Haytham hasn't eaten properly in a while. He's thinner than he was in the other reality, and he doesn't bother with cutlery or manners, simply eating the vegetables straight from the jar.
Haytham licks the vinegar from his fingers, and it's at this moment Ratonhnhaké:ton's stomach decides it ought to start gurgling in hunger. Haytham drops the jar, glancing up, and before it hits the floor and shatters, there are hands around Ratonhnhaké:ton's throat and he is pressed into the wall and Haytham's nails are digging into his windpipe. Haytham bares his teeth, and growls and Ratonhnhaké:ton is almost too busy trying not to die to register that the look in his eyes is animalistic and feral and his nails haven't been cut properly in a long time.
Almost.
"Stop!" Ratonhnhaké:ton pleads with the last of his precious oxygen. He can't use the Eagle to escape, and the Wolf will not help him now. He cannot summon the Pack, for he has no wish for Haytham to be torn to shreds: he simply cannot lose his father again, not when he has already lost Mother a second time.
Haytham merely snarls, nails digging deeper and Ratonhnhaké:ton thinks perhaps they are drawing blood. He scrabbles desperately at Haytham's stupidly strong hands, and tries to kick him away.
Haytham dodges his frantic blows somehow. He shouldn't, Ratonhnhaké:ton moves quickly and Haytham is leaning over him like a predator over lunch and in a moment of oxygen-deprived clarity Ratonhnhaké:ton realises. That speed is not natural. It is a by-product of the tea.
"Father!" Ratonhnhaké:ton gasps. "Stop!"
Haytham bares his teeth and Ratonhnhaké:ton realises he is probably going to die unless he calls the wolves. His vision starts to prickle at the edges, and he can feel his mind slowly slipping into the long sleep of death. His hood slips off as his head falls back and his limbs loosen against his will, and Haytham suddenly stops, his hands no longer gripping tight enough to choke. Ratonhnhaké:ton sucks in all the air he can, staring at Haytham, staying as still as he can because the look on his father's face is something close to recognition.
They are still for what seems a long time to Ratonhnhaké:ton, but is probably only a few moments. Haytham's eyes search Ratonhnhaké:ton's face, as though he is looking for something or someone lost. He wets his lips with his tongue, hands slowly loosening their grip until they slide off his skin entirely, though Haytham does not step back, not just yet.
"D… Ziio?" Haytham croaks, eventually. Ratonhnhaké:ton almost smiles. Perhaps it is not too late. Perhaps Haytham is not entirely gone, despite what his mother had thought.
"No," Ratonhnhaké:ton says. "Ziio's son. Ratonhnhaké:ton."
Haytham's brow furrows as he tries to make sense of the words. He must not have spoken to another human being for... well, for years really, if he has lost his fluency in even his mother tongue. Ratonhnhaké:ton wonders what that must be like. To be, but not to have words. To exist and feel and know, but for language to have no meaning.
"…Son…" Haytham mutters. "Ratonhn… Ratonhn…"
"Connor," Ratonhnhaké:ton tries again.
Haytham stands properly and takes one small step backwards, and Ratonhnhaké:ton picks himself up off the floor.
"Son…?" Haytham asks, and Ratonhnhaké:ton realises with a sinking feeling that he does not understand. Haytham is not asking 'I have a son?' or 'you are my son?' but instead 'what is a son?' and 'what does that word mean?'.
"I… uh, I am your child," he tries again, speaking slowly, as if to a head-injured person, pointing to himself, then Haytham. "Ziio's child. Connor."
"Connor," Haytham repeats, but Ratonhnhaké:ton has no idea if he understands the pathetic explanation any further than that he is no threat. Haytham goes back to where the smashed jar lies, and picks up the barrel of meat. He holds it out to Ratonhnhaké:ton, as a peace offering.
Ratonhnhaké:ton accepts the food gratefully, even though his stomach is twisted into knots by worry. Haytham- or rather, the man who had once been Haytham- settles into a crouch, and warms his hands by the fire.