Haytham could not say he was particularly surprised by the fact that he was not overly welcome aboard his son's ship, but he had at least expected a modicum of civility. The crew paid him hardly any attention, and on some occasions refused to even speak to him or acknowledge the fact he was even there when he spoke. Though he would take being ignored over the great rudeness that was given to him by the first mate, Robert Faulkner. When he had first come aboard, Robert had given him a look that could sour milk and had wasted no time in professing his dislike for the circumstances.

"I don't like having a Templar aboard," he had sneered. "I'm not sure what the captain's thinking, having you around."

Captain. Now there was a term he had never thought he would ever have to apply to his son. Granted he did not know a great deal about Connor, but he would never in his lifetime have guessed the boy knew how to sail a ship, let alone how to captain one. And he still wasn't sure he could. Haytham did not profess to have an over abundance of knowledge when it came to sailing, but he was almost certain that Connor didn't actually fully know what he was doing. Still they were almost a day into their journey, and they hadn't sunk or crashed into anything, so he supposed his son wasn't entirely incompetent.

Haytham looked up towards the night sky, from where he sat on the upper deck, and frowned before looking back down at his hat that he held in his hands. He flipped it over so the bottom side was facing upwards and ran a hand along the interior, and sighed before leaning back up against the mast he sat against. He had come up earlier to sit in quiet, away from Robert's jeers or the cold indifference of the crew. Most everyone else was below deck, probably asleep by now, and Haytham was mostly grateful for the solitude. He thought perhaps he would end up spending the entire evening alone, but that dream was shattered when someone spoke up from behind him.

"What are you doing up here?"

Haytham sat up and turned his head, peering around the mast. Connor stood there, scowling at him from underneath his tricorne hat. The captain's uniform looked foreign on him, and he'd have been lying if he said his son looked entirely comfortable in it. Haytham gave his son a small smirk before raising his hat, for Connor to see. "Just airing it out, a bit. It's still wet you know."

Connor stepped around to be in front of his father, and slowly seated himself on a cannon, before reaching up and pulling his own hat off, and setting it beside him. "Don't you have another?"

"I'm quite attached to this one," Haytham leaned back. "It's older than you are, you know," he looked down, turning it over again. "I've had it since before I came to the colonies."

"Why would you hold on to a hat for so long?"

"Sentiment, I suppose," Haytham frowned. "I nearly lost it, that night you tackled me into the docks," He said, looking back up at Connor, frowning. "Which, I hope you realize, was an incredibly reckless thing to do."

"You are still upset about that?" Connor raised an eyebrow.

"Of course I am," he huffed. "You could have killed us both."

"That is not true."

Haytham's eyebrows rose as he looked back over at his son who continued to stare at him, a deadly serious expression on his face. Haytham turned around and set his hat beside him. "Oh?" He leaned forwards towards his son. "Pray tell, how is that?"

"I tackled you first," Connor shrugged. "If there had been pavement or ground beneath us, you would have broken my fall."

The Templar grandmaster could do nothing but stare and blink at his son, dumbfounded. "I would have broken your fall," he repeated, blankly.

"Yes, so what you said was untrue," the boy continued. "It would not have killed us both. Just you."

It was quiet between them for a few moments, before Haytham burst into laughter. He raised a hand to his face and his shoulders shook as he continued to laugh, and through his hysterics he noticed Connor raise a hand to his mouth in order to hide a smile that was slowly forming on his lips and his shoulders hitched, ever so slightly.

"I am not joking," Connor affirmed, keeping his hand over his mouth, but he could not hide the smile from his eyes. "I was being serious. It is not funny."

Haytham laughed a few moments more before leaning onto his knees and wiping his eyes, allowing himself to catch his breath. "Oh, Connor. That was most likely the closest thing to a joke I have ever heard, and probably ever will hear you say."

"It was the truth," Connor said, the amusement not quite gone from his face.

"Of course it was," Haytham waved his hand. "Which is why I said it was the closest thing to a joke, I will get from you. My dear boy, you inherited many things from me, but my wit was not one of them."

The seriousness was back on Connor's face again. "You and I are nothing alike."

"Aren't we?" Haytham blinked up at him.

"No, we're not."

"Now, that's not true at all. I see many resemblances."

Connor's face was dark, and he looked as though he was ready to reach for his tomahawk at any second. "Like what?"

Haytham looked him over and then pointed. "You have your mother's eyes, that's true, but the rest of your face is undeniably Kenway."

The dark hatred that had twisted Connor's face into a scowl only moments ago was gone. The native man sat up straight again, frowning with confusion heavy in his features. "What?"

Haytham stood up, and walked over before reaching down and taking his son by the shoulders, and pulling him up to a standing position. "Look at yourself, honestly. You've got my exact, build," he said, clapping a hand on the side of his son's arm. "And…" He reached down and pulled Connor's hand up, before putting his own hand to his mouth and biting his glove off, and then pulling Connor's glove off by the fingertips. "Your mother's hands were much longer, and thinner." He said, holding his hand up side-by-side to Connor's to compare. "You've got the hands of an Assassin," he pinched his son's thumb between his own, and his forefinger. "These hands come from generations of using hidden blades, holding swords and pulling the triggers of guns."

Connor looked absolutely dumbfounded, and it was clear he didn't quite know what to say. He looked down at his hands a moment before looking back up at his father. "But you are a Templar."

"Hm?"

"Why did you say my hands come from generations of Assassins?"

"Oh," Haytham frowned. "Well you don't exactly come from a family of Templars, son. My father was an Assassin."

"He was?" Connor's eyes widened.

"Yes," Haytham looked away, his mind briefly lingering on memories of his father, and his home in Queen Anne's Square, before Connor's voice pulled him back to the present.

"Then why…?"

"Why am I a Templar?"

Connor stared at him a moment before nodding. Haytham took a deep breath and pulled his glove back over his fingers.

"I suppose you could say I defected. Though that is a very long story, for another time."

"But we-"

Haytham waved a hand in the air. "Another time, Connor. I promise one day I'll tell you the whole story," his thoughts went to his journal that sat on his desk in his quarters at Fort George. One day, indeed. He sighed, and ran a hand over the back of his neck before picking his hat up off the crate he had been sitting on. "Its late now, son. I'm going to turn in. You ought to do the same," he looked him up and down. "You are captain after all. You have responsibilities. Wouldn't want you falling asleep in the middle of a fight now would we?"

Connor scowled a little and pulled his own glove back on before reaching down and picking up his own hat. "Fine."

Haytham smiled, and turned to start walking away towards the hatch to the lower deck. He paused a moment and turned over his shoulder. "Goodnight then, son."

There was a brief silence before Connor looked up at him, a look Haytham couldn't quite decode on his face. "Goodnight, father."