Author's Note: I think I can…I think I can…capture all the emotion I want to with these two. Lol. I'm trying, anyway!
Disclaimer: I own not an iota of the Assassin's Creed franchise.
Noise. Essentially, that word alone could define the city of New York. Children running through the streets while squealing and laughing, adults chattering in little groups, town criers shouting loud enough for the Asian continent to hear. Horses screaming and their hooves pounding on stone, dogs barking, cats screeching, pigs snorting. The filthy Redcoats and their resonating snare drums. Shouts of the people they were trespassing against.
It was hard to describe how much Connor disliked the place. He tolerated it so long as he had business there—like he did tonight—but he would never choose to go on his own time. He walked down the crowded streets now, using alleyways to shy away from people as much as possible. The Assassin didn't much care for interaction with strangers unless he intended to kill them after a few words or even none at all. While he was occasionally tempted to stick his blade into ornery drunks, Connor usually tried to tune everyone out and travel on in his own little world.
Haytham, on the other hand, found the city…intriguing. That's not to say he liked it; he didn't, really. The decibel level and stench of waste repulsed him, too. But observing human interaction had always been a hobby of his, and there were plenty of things to witness in this crowded metropolis. Just the other day, he'd seen a man thrown from his house by his wife. She had reportedly "had enough of his escapades at the brothel." The Templar Grandmaster had chuckled from the rooftop he was sitting on, then had settled back down to resume studying the stars. He remembered wishing that he knew some constellations. Another reason that New York appealed to him so was because there was a dog that knew exactly who he was and came up to him every day to lick his hand. Haytham always brought him a small bowl of broth or meat scraps he had from leftover meals. Sometimes he sat outside with the animal, brushing its fur until all the knots became untangled. Tonight, however, he sat under a pavilion at the docks, awaiting his son's arrival.
It had rained earlier that day, and avoiding puddles on the streets was as difficult as traversing a minefield. Connor hated to admit it, but he made a sort of childish game out of stepping and hopping over them. He only resumed playing when no one was watching, however. It passed the time quickly for him. Soon, he found himself at the docks, the designated place to meet his father. The idea of the man was still foreign to the Assassin. Other than Achilles, he was not used to having an authority figure in his life; he'd taken care of himself ever since his mother died when he was young. This, of course, led to a fierce independence—sometimes to a fault—and a rebellious spirit when he was being made to do something he detested. Although he would hardly call his father an authority figure, it was still strange to have a man in his life that could legitimately claim to have some kind of control over him.
The docks weren't as busy in the evenings, but they weren't deserted, either. Connor walked among the other people as close as he dared, trying to catch a glimpse of his father's ridiculous hat or the scarlet underside of his cape. He gave up after a while. The Assassin ended up in front of a pavilion, facing the downtown of the city. Well, where the hell is he? he thought.
"Evening, Connor." Haytham had spotted his son and walked up behind him before the latter laid eyes on him. He whirled around, a little surprised at being snuck up on. "I see you made it here in one piece," his father continued, halfway teasing and halfway mocking.
Connor scoffed at the jab. His father had little room to speak. "Recovered from your beating, then?" he taunted.
The comment surprised Haytham. He hadn't really expected a comeback because, well, his son didn't really strike him as that type of person. He'd been wrong, evidently. Connor was justified in his reply, however, and the Grandmaster was struck with the lack of one—his face just twisted into an indignant scowl before he decided to drop the subject and return to the reason for their meeting.
Nearly grinning at his father's avoidance of addressing his faults, Connor watched as the Templar refused to meet his gaze and stepped out from behind to stand beside. "Benjamin Church is holed up in an abandoned brewery on the waterfront. We should be done with this by sunrise," his father informed him.
The Assassin nodded a bit. "Good. I would like to have those supplies returned as soon as possible."
"Of course." Haytham gave his son a look that one would give a senile man when sidestepping him in the streets. "I wouldn't want to keep you from your lost cause. Come along then; follow me."
Connor rolled his eyes behind his father's back, then jogged to catch up with him. They climbed a ramp up to the edge of a rooftop and hoisted themselves aloft, opening the door to much faster travel than walking New York's roads. The Assassin couldn't help but notice that, while his father wasn't young anymore, he still had no problems running and jumping across rooftops. One had to admire the grace and skill which the man harbored, clearly honed in over decades of practice.
In turn, Haytham was impressed by the ease of Connor's own abilities. Clearly, this came as second nature to the boy. The Grandmaster also couldn't avoid the truth that—no matter who was on what side—these abilities were encoded into their blood. They were tied together by generations of Assassins even though Haytham had…defected, as it were. For all the tossing and turning Haytham's father had probably done in the grave from his own son's allegiances, the actions of his grandson had no doubt set him at peace. The Grandmaster almost chuckled at the thought.
The two men's progress was halted on a particularly high rooftop beside a domed building. Haytham stood on the edge, making sure that they were on the right course. He could see the brewery from here and nodded to himself.
Connor stood back, watching his father. A thousand questions burned on his tongue, and before he could check himself, words came tumbling out. "Tell me something," he blurted.
Haytham glanced over his shoulder. His son couldn't see, but an amused smile had formed on his face from the boy's apparent eagerness. Rather than use words, the Grandmaster just made an acknowledging noise. "Hmm?"
"You could have killed me when we first met. What stayed your hand?"
The query took the Templar aback. He knew not what he'd been expecting, but it hadn't been that. As a result, he had no answer prepared. The truth—which was that Haytham couldn't bear to just slaughter his own son without him having any real knowledge of his father—was too complicated to explain. "Curiosity," he replied after a beat. He could sense his son wanted to say more, so he kept himself open. "Any other questions?"
Rain drizzled down from the sky, dampening the shoulders of both men. Connor kept his eyes downcast and scuffed the toe of his boot across a roof tile. "What is it the Templars truly seek?" Achilles, of course, had told him millions of times what their goals were. It wasn't that he doubted, but he'd never before had the chance to directly ask a Templar to defend their Order's actions. Now, he had the Grandmaster at his leisure. Well…sort of.
Haytham turned around, a little surprised at the uncertainty and hesitance his son's tone held. Perhaps this was an opportunity to try and sway his opinions, to save him from his ignorance. "Order. Purpose. Direction. No more than that. It's your lot that means to confound with this nonsense talk of freedom." The Templar moved to stand closer to his son. "Time was, the Assassins professed a far more sensible goal: that of peace."
"Freedom is peace," Connor insisted. His father had been making to turn back around, but his son's reply stopped him dead.
"Oh no," Haytham corrected. "It's an invitation to chaos." He again faced the city, sweeping his arm in a grand gesture while walking forward. Connor followed. "Only look at this little revolution your friends have started. I have stood before the Continental Congress and listened to them stamp and shout—all in the name of liberty! But it is just noise."
"And this is why you favor Lee?" The Assassin could hardly believe that his father believed in achieving peace, yet had a violent, brutal man for his sidekick of sorts. A rush of anger accompanied the mere thought of the man, and Connor's jaw clenched.
Haytham was quick to defend. "He understands the needs of this would-be nation far better than the jobbernowls who profess to represent it!"
It was clear that his father was referring largely to George Washington, and that there were sore feelings still lingering from Lee being passed over for command of the Patriot army. His son snorted quietly. "It seems your tongue has tasted sour grapes. The people have made their choice, and it was Washington."
His father looked down, appearing to be…sad? Tired? Connor couldn't really identify the look on his face, but it stirred something within him. "The people chose nothing. It was done by a group of privileged cowards seeking only to enrich themselves." The Grandmaster's voice was rising to a yell. "They convened in private and made a decision that would benefit them! Oh, they might have dressed it up with pretty words, but that does not make it true." Haytham got as close to his son as he knew the boy would allow and locked eyes with him. Connor felt uncomfortable as his father's gaze bored into him, but he could not deny the raw honesty and passion he saw in them.
"The only difference, Connor—the only difference between myself and those you aid—is that I do not feign affection." Once his father's back was turned, the Assassin allowed himself to, for the first time in years, look uncertain. He could not say that he had never been unsure as to what the true motives of the nation's leaders were, but he doubted he would ever agree with the actions of his father's Order. Siding with Washington and the others, he realized, had been the lesser of two evils.
Haytham may not have won his son over to the Templar cause, but he did inspire him to do something else that night: rather than believing infallibly in the ways and means of the Patriot leaders, Connor placed his trust in his own two hands.
"Hold a moment." Haytham's quiet command came just before Connor stepped out from the cover of the alleyway's shadows. The Assassin paused at the corner, watching his father study the guards in front of the brewery.
"Church, you clever bastard," the Templar muttered.
Connor blinked. "What is it?"
"I was hoping I could wave you past the guards, but he's replaced most of them with men I don't know. Hmm…" he trailed off, thinking. Well, if Connor was going to raise the alarm, then it wasn't worth it; Haytham would go it alone. "Well, I should be able to pass without arousing suspicion, but you…" he pointedly looked at his son, then decided not to continue.
His father made to walk away alone, but the Assassin grabbed his elbow. "No," Connor said gently. "We do this together or not at all."
Haytham was astonished that his son would touch him. Even though it hadn't been skin-to-skin contact, the area of his arm where Connor had gripped it tingled. "Then what do you propose?"
"I will find a guard who is off duty and take his uniform."
The Grandmaster thought the plan sensible enough. "Very well. I will wait here, then." He settled down against the adjacent brick wall.
"Of course you will," Connor jabbed. He made to walk away.
"Oh, I'm sorry. Would you like me to come along and hold your hand, perhaps? Provide kind words of encouragement?" Haytham mocked. Connor waved his hand and strode away. His father allowed himself a grin, then adjusted himself against the cold stone.
"This is just ridiculous," Connor muttered to himself. The mercenary's uniform fit him well enough, but he disliked the general style. Worst of all, he had to wear one of those wretched tricorne hats. His captain's uniform for the Aquila also had a tricorne hat, but normally he opted not to put it on. The Assassin found himself embarrassed to return to his father looking like this. He busied himself with pretending to adjust the clothing as he approached the awaiting Templar.
Haytham watched Connor draw nearer. As he stood, he realized that his son was…well, handsome. Very much so. The Assassin hood had always kept some of his face hidden, and it felt like Haytham was seeing him for the first time. A swell of pride ran through the Grandmaster, and he straightened his son's lapels.
"That should suffice." He paused, wondering if he should give out a compliment. He decided against it. "Follow me."
As the two men approached, one of the guards puffed himself up and stopped them. Even for his efforts, he was noticeably smaller than the Templar and the Assassin. "Hold, strangers. You tread on private property. What business have you here?" the guard demanded.
"The Father of Understanding guides us," Haytham replied, reciting a Templar motto. The guard gave a small nod in his direction, then glanced at Connor.
"You, I recognize. Not the savage." He spit the last word like it was a curse.
Connor had to force himself not to roll his eyes. He received insults from impertinent people all the time, but they never bothered him. He had the comfort of knowing he could kill them within half a second if he wanted to.
Haytham, however, took great offense to the guard's word choice. Rage glinted in his icy blue eyes and his nostrils flared. "He is my son." The Grandmaster's voice had dropped into a deadly, quiet tone. The Assassin gaped at him, shocked that his father would let the truth slip off his tongue so easily.
A vulgar smirk twisted the guard's mouth. He leaned toward Haytham like the two were in each other's confidence. "Tasted of the forest's fruits, did you?"
Automatically, the Templar's hidden blade shot out from underneath his sleeve. No one spoke of he and Ziio's relationship in such a dirty, disgusting manner. The only reason he didn't plunge it into the guard's throat was because his son's hand covered his own, stopping him. The Grandmaster forced himself to take a deep breath, and the blade silently slid back into cover. Meanwhile, the oblivious guard had knocked twice on the wooden door behind him.
"Off you go, then," he said as it opened. Haytham quickly strode past before he did anything foolish, but Connor gave the guard a lasting glare that made the smaller man cringe a bit.
As he trailed after his father, the Assassin thought about the Templar's reaction to the idiotic guard's words. If he didn't know any better—which he did—Connor would have sworn that Haytham still had feelings for his mother.
But that was impossible, as he was the reason she was dead.