CHAPTER, Connor is a sheep in wolf's clothing (or, where despite Connor's fighting abilities are unquestionable, his understanding of romance is)


Leading an Order meant learning new levels of toleration, but Connor had never had such company as the three strangers he was responsible for. They weren't especially difficult if odd; Connor himself had meekly stared wide-eyed at everything when Achilles had first brought him deep in town, so it was with the same puzzled curiosity that he shepherded the three newcomers-transfers-assassins (?) that had fallen under his care. Their arrival had been too unusual for Connor remember clearly — a mixture of light, limbs, and triplet scarred faces. The youngest-looking one, Desmond, had stared at Connor with astonishment and awe. Connor knew Stephane — he only took one look at Desmond's sparkling eyes and tiredly waved the three foreigners into the American Order. In a new land, the three followed Connor like lost ducklings.

Desmond was a little quirky; he'd jump and become hysterically animated at the oddest moments, particularly when he was between Alistair and Ezekiel. Alistair was unarguably attached to Desmond and was somewhat silent, if prone to staring at Templars or anyone who looked at Desmond like a swivel gun on its mount, Alistair's head slowly turning with sights trained on a target and ready to slice a hidden blade through a throat — or fire killing intent with eyes alone. Connor wholeheartedly believed the serious Levantine capable of murder by sight.

Ezekiel appeared immune to such powers, however; the most boisterous of Connor's three shadows, Ezekiel was a murderer with flair if it meant flipping in the air, dancing with a sword, or pulling a cape like from stories of bullfighting Connor would occasionally hear. Every target of the ever-lively foreigner would end up dead, somehow, much to Alistair's irritation. Ezekiel apparently even had the time outside of what rigorous training menu could possibly support his talents to introduce himself to every pretty lady but never fail to serenade Desmond every day like a puppy that sniffed new scents but always returned to its master.

Honestly, Connor thought that Desmond was the scariest of the three.

So naturally, the world found it funny to make Connor stumble into an odd sight of a fighting Desmond, Alistair, and Ezekiel one day, the three having participated in a training session — rather, the former wishing to train, and the latter two clashing for the right to lead Desmond in training — and pulling out moves and language that hadn't been seen or heard in centuries. When the three realised that they had an audience, they froze in the middle of their dispute with identical brown eyes trained on Connor, waiting for his reaction. Connor who, of course, had heard Desmond calling Alistair, "Altaïr," and Ezekiel, "Ezio," and the two great figures of Assassin history calling each other creative derogatory names that Connor — with his limited understanding of Italian, much less Arabic — was confident couldn't be physically possible.

"Connor — you weren't supposed to see this!" Desmond had panicked with worried, chestnut eyes. Behind him, Altaïr and Ezio had startlingly tense, almost threatening, airs. They seemed to be protective of Desmond despite their revealed identities, oddly enough. Of course, they had also been especially stiff towards Connor whenever Desmond went Stephane all over him.

"…Clean up any blood when you're done," Connor blurted.

"Oh," Desmond said, startled. Connor turned and left to complete the day's duties, careful not to lose composure in revelation of Alistair and Ezekiel's true identities. If he was going to freak into a panicking mush, it was going to be in a corner of Davenport Manour where Achilles couldn't give a look that said, I told you so.


The day after the "big reveal," Ezio discreetly followed Connor, wondering what was so great about the Assassin leader — not even a Mentor! Ha! — that had Desmond starry-eyed since the moment the three of them had been dumped in eighteenth century America. The advice about blood had actually been helpful; Ezio and Altaïr often forgot to care about stray blood when they were after each other's throats, but when Desmond looked ready to kiss Ezio for fixing up the grounds with not a trace of red, it was Ezio - 2 and The Old Man - 0. Altaïr would strangle Ezio if the Levantine knew Ezio's mental label of him.

The first event of the day was to get an envelope from an Assassin informant. Simple enough — if the informant's wife had not found the envelope first and threatened to throw it into the fireplace, thinking her husband was cheating on her. Connor could barely finish a sentence in the verbal storm he walked in on, but by the time he was through, the informant and wife were crying and promising each other they would never let small things get between them again. When Connor left the house after the full two hours, Ezio felt as victorious as if he himself had resolved the conflict.

Which was why his patience snapped when a thief chose the moment a crowd of playing children bumped into Connor to snatch the envelope and run off in the confusion. Connor gave chase and Ezio followed like a shadow, mentally promising broken bones if he ever caught the thief. Except that when Connor did catch the thief and repossess his envelope, he mercifully let him go. Ezio confusedly stared at Connor at that, until — when Connor would be accosted by thieves three more times — it was evident that poverty had struck some families hard and that many fathers were driven to low levels to feed their wives and children. After Connor managed to whisper a few words following the catch of each thief, Ezio began noting the change in the thieves' demeanour, and understood. Ezio expected to see them doing honest work in the future, and he pondered this as he followed Connor through the rest of the day.

By the last stress-filled event of the day, frustration — and, despite Ezio's best efforts, respect — had sunken into Ezio's skin regarding Connor. There were aspects of Connor's life Ezio had never witnessed as a well-raised, popular aristocrat; certain ethnicities were looked down upon by others, and irrational refusals or reluctance sometimes roadblocked Connor's attempts to fulfill duties. However, there was irrational kindness, as well. Connor appeared to be an unspoken symbol of freedom; his efforts as an Assassin and an American — citizen? rebel? The people here acted independent of their supposed monarch — must have spread amongst the people in vague echoes. A few men of different trades would tend Connor as if to a friend, and a few women would uncharacteristically smile and nod in greeting to him when their children would wave in passing as they'd cross his path in play.

Ezio watched as Connor waited outside a closed store for an ally to pass along something to him. So what the Mohawkan Assassin leader was kind of the role model of a noble, just man? Ezio was a Mentor; yet, so was Altaïr. Regardless! Connor was just a naïve boy who didn't even understand that the few odd stares the people gave him on the street was because of his exotic (to them) and pretty features. Wait…what? Ezio shook his head to clear his thoughts and stubbornly focused on strictly observing, and not thinking.

Ezio watched a lone sheep approach Connor. The Mohawkan inquisitively regarded the fluffy animal softly butting its head against his leg, and then leaned down and…petted it? Something welled up in Ezio's throat.

Too.

Much.

Cuteness.

Connor unsheathed his hidden blade when a human-sized blur pounced on him, only to realise that the someone was dressed in Assassin white and was…squealing? "Ezio?" Connor awkwardly regarded the man with his arms drawn tight around Connor and Italian gibberish spilling from his lips with high-pitched frenzy. Connor was vaguely reminded of a group of excited girls before a baby. His contact then chose that moment to open the door and stare at the scene before her. Connor's cheeks warmed, and he tried coaxing release from his many times old predecessor while simultaneously trying to pay the contact for past information. His contact smiled. "No, no," she insisted, "keep the money. My services are always open to you, Mister Connor." When the door closed, giggles sounded through the wood. Connor suddenly felt as if he had missed something.


Desmond squirmed. "Where is Ezio?"

"Probably trailing after Connor," Altaïr murmured in Arabic. He was more occupied with palming a warm underside of his habibi and watching different shades of red flush Desmond's skin. Desmond moved again — possibly to discourage Altaïr from his advancements in a place others may stumble into, possibly to end the advancements completely — but the fledging was a virgin, and the sensitive body bucked at the startlingly bold, skilful massage of fingers in a place that didn't know it lusted for touch.

"A-Altaïr, haa…." A weathered hand snuck under the hoodie and left a burning trail where it mapped Desmond's skin and moved downwards under the waistline. Desmond's knuckles were white where he grasped onto Altaïr's clothing, as if anchoring some part of himself in reality. Altaïr's nose grazed Desmond's cheek, and the Levantine breathed a kiss where the ear met the neck. The hand left Desmond's front, where a knee moved below and replaced it. Desmond made the sound of a door turning on its hinge.

"Davenport Manor is the best place for the three of you."

Desmond and Altaïr jumped away from each other at the sound of Connor's voice just in time for said Mohawkan to obliviously walk into the scene with Ezio practically attached to his elbow. Connor was innocently lost on what to make of the sudden Italian energy focused on him and simply chose to try and roll with it. The strategy had obviously worked with Faulkner when Connor was first introduced to the sea dog and sailing.

"We should go there now, as night is falling," Ezio suggested. His eyes were narrow and focused on Altaïr. Connor missed it; Desmond did not, and the brunette felt torn between calming his two horny ancestors down, or preserving Connor's innocence. Connor had Desmond's respect as someone who had went through a lot of crap — Juno, burning village, Templar father, Juno — so when Desmond looked at the three assassins he held respect for and the two of them that were emanating testosterone, there was no contest.

"Let's go on ahead, Connor. These two need to kiss and make up."

Altaïr and Ezio spluttered. Desmond sent a knowing look at them. They were attached to Desmond, true, but they were also strong males, so they were naturally attracted to like strength. Ezio had a statue of Altaïr in his basement, for crying out loud, and Ezio's serenades hadn't only impressed Desmond….

Better two ancestors fell for each other than solely for their descendant, right? Right?


"How was it?"

Altaïr glared for the first time at Desmond. It was half-hearted.

"There was steel and blood at first." Desmond nodded. That was expected; some couples needed to fight before they realised they wanted each other. "He's…good," Altaïr admitted. Ezio subtlety preened. Desmond would have been surprised if Ezio's experience with practically all of Italy had not impressed Altaïr, even a little. The three of them spoke in their native languages together; Desmond had worked with Altaïr and Ezio stuck on a boat to Homestead long enough to improve their English to be able to speak to Connor and others. "Not so much of an Old Man after all," Ezio mumbled in Italian with a flush of embarrassment and pleasure on his cheeks. Altaïr huffed a wordless, Of course. "You're still getting it," Altaïr pinned his X-ray vision on Desmond, not allowing his habibi to escape the focus of his attention so easily. Ezio was backing Altaïr up with a consuming stare and the lick of his lips. Desmond gulped.

"There's an old man and an innocent man-boy upstairs, and you two still allow yourselves to be governed by your hormones?" Desmond exclaimed. The three of them were staying in the basement of the Manor, but be it one floor or two, Achilles was not a deaf assassin. From the glint in the old man's eye, however, he probably knew more than he let on. Desmond worried for the Brotherhood. Were all Mentors well-acquainted with perverted tendencies, if Achilles accepted Altaïr and Ezio's existences and infatuation with Desmond without batting an eye?

"You two are exhausted from your most recent bout," Desmond reasoned. "You can't possibly have the energy to engage in more sexual intercourse tonight." Altaïr winced at the truth. Ezio shrugged; he had a higher stamina than most, but when he shifted, a stab of pain reminded him that despite the energy he may have, his body was not ready for excitement too soon. Desmond picked up on all of this with an inwardly pleased smile. Maybe he should just encourage his two ancestors to have sex with each other every day — then they would be too exhausted to mess with him. He jumped at the palm between his legs.

Wha—!?

"Hm. He is as sensitive as you said," Ezio murmured to Altaïr's nod. The Italian found a loop in Desmond's jeans and slid Desmond closer. "No!" Surprisingly, it wasn't Desmond, but Altaïr who had spoken. The Levantine had a raised hand in a classic, "stop." "When we first do him, it must be together," Altaïr insisted. Ezio suddenly understood. "The Grand Master doesn't have a lot of stamina, hm?" Altaïr huffed with a hint of pink. "Twenty-four hours," Altaïr said. Ezio shrugged. "You gave me a rough time; I might need those hours, too." Desmond gaped. Maybe he shouldn't have gotten his ancestors to get along. And who only needed twenty-four hours? Curse Mentors and their stamina!


Ezio and Desmond were sleeping already — though it had taken a lot of convincing and faces distorted in pain for Desmond to believe he wouldn't be raped in his sleep — but Altaïr needed to sit alone outside for a while. He felt torn in frustration — that Italian was frustratingly amazing — but he had wanted the first time traveller he slept with to be Desmond! Yet the fledging insisted on a certain distance — claiming that since they were ancestor and descendent, their attraction wasn't right — but if the Apple kept sending them to places and even introduced Altaïr to Ezio, it must have meant that something was meant to be.

The current time period also interested Altaïr, particularly its "destined" assassin Connor, who Desmond recognised as an ancestor and special, and who Ezio had considered enthralling. Apparently, despite Ezio's best efforts, Connor was oblivious to Ezio's intentions, only treating Ezio with the bewildered handling of a man with puppies — awkward petting on the head here or there — and Ezio — instead of being put down by failing in seduction, of all things — only found Connor even cuter. Altaïr did not understand; Desmond was the epitome of frustratingly cute. How could anything else appear adorable if he had Desmond?

A rifle suddenly cracked down on Altaïr's head, cutting off the thought, and a boot followed towards Altaïr's stomach. Or at least that seemed to be the plan, but a veteran's intuition anticipated the attack and triggered a swift tuck and roll followed by a quick hidden blade to the attacker before rifle or boot could make contact. Altaïr was a Grand Master, for eagle's sake; he was insulted by such underestimation!

Until the rest of the troop showed up.

Altaïr narrowly regarded the large group. There was no leader; the sloppy collection had come simply to destroy the property and lives connected to the non-white rebel i.e. Connor fighting against the Crown. Altaïr's lip curled in distaste as his eyes flashed gold, and the corrupted soldiers, red. Two had already come up from behind while Altaïr was assessing his situation, and the Levantine was quick to respond, but delayed enough to barely glance a bayonet off his hidden blade and spin from the shot of another rifle. The second bayonet did meet him, however, and ire lit with the spray of blood from the not fatal, but painful slash nonetheless. Altaïr stabbed the gunman in the neck and satisfyingly slid it out to defend against the next soldier, but he wasn't facing scattered Templars on familiar soil; these were troops armed with weaponry centuries ahead of Altaïr's time, and they weren't going to attack one by one.

Until Connor pounced on them from the second floor like a wolf in moonlight. Altaïr didn't have to do much; Connor seemed to be able to take care of everything just fine with a hidden blade and a tomahawk. Altaïr should have been miffed that his targets were stolen from him, except there was blood dancing in the air with Connor's finishing moves, and sweat was plastering loose hair on his neck and the sides of his face. With the last threat gone, Connor finally looked at Altaïr. "Are you alright?"

Connor was hot.

"Hey." Altaïr jumped when Connor had closed the distance during Altaïr's daydreaming, and he resolutely did not watch a bead of sweat trail hazelnut skin from the throat down to the collarbone and bend inwards for the chest. Was this how Dezmund felt sometimes? "Are you alright?" Connor seemed to be worried that Altaïr wasn't responding, and he even moved to check for a concussion, when Altaïr scrambled for room to breathe.

"Well," Altaïr blurted. "I do well, but for the swiftness I may use language." "Language barriers can be tricky," Connor agreed. Seriously? Was this what that Italian idiot was talking about? Altaïr was pretty sure that if it were anyone else, they'd be backing away from Altaïr's obvious heat. Someone seriously needs to protect this boy, Altaïr distantly thought. Especially if Connor could turn Altaïr on when the Levantine was exhausted from recently having sexual intercourse. Altaïr was almost afraid how he would respond if he ever watched Connor fight again without having recently had sex.

As Connor and Altaïr returned to the Manor for bed, Altaïr cursed himself for forgetting that Connor was also Desmond's ancestor. Now I know where the magnetising attractiveness comes from, he realised.


Desmond choked on air when Ezio "caught" Connor from slipping on stairs one day by grabbing and pushing Connor up a step with a hand on one butt cheek. Connor was confused at the foreign touch, but at Ezio's bright smile, Connor mentally shrugged and assumed it was an Italian thing. He did not consider to think that Ezio was trying to court him and admiring his cuteness. Altaïr also nearly made Desmond bang his forehead against the wall when the Levantine would suddenly turn away at the sight of Connor slipping on his bow and quiver and incidently summoning to Altaïr's mind images of the Mohawkan doing archery. Desmond wouldn't have been surprised if Altaïr's nose was bleeding. The increased sexual energy only meant that Altaïr and Ezio were desperate to touch Desmond and Connor; Desmond found himself experiencing creative manners of grinding whenever his horny ancestors managed to find a secluded enough corner or alley. Ezio and Altaïr especially exploited Desmond's sensitivity once they realised he truly was a virgin.

"Your ancestors are a unique pair."

Desmond tiredly but wholeheartedly nodded from where he stood with Connor at the docks, Altaïr and Ezio supposedly away scouting a place to eat but were most likely making out in an alley as Desmond spoke. "Yeah, my — ancestors?" Had he heard right? "Yes," Connor said slowly. "Are they not related to you?" "Right…" Desmond confirmed, reminded of Connor's sharpness on some things, but not all, apparently. Even though Connor didn't see the groping Ezio or Altaïr had been doing since arriving in the eighteenth century, surely Desmond's squeaks were revealing? Desmond continued on to splutter, "But that's not the point! Do you not see the — and the — harrassments — me?" Connor's brows furrowed. "I do not follow."

Desmond suddenly wondered how Connor had become an ancestor.

"So you don't know why some girls look at you and giggle? Or why some people on the street stare at you when your hood's down? Or why you can drive even older people like George Washington to speak to and touch you softly?" Desmond sensed he was quickly losing Connor, and this only increased his hysteria. "You don't catch any of that?" Connor silently stared for a beat, as if in silent contemplation. "Washington is old? You do know he wears a wig, right?" the Mohawkan reminded. Desmond felt like pulling his hair.

"Is that the only thing you got!?"

Connor's attention was pulled away by a familiar clicking of boots against wooden planks. He looked up to the figure descending from a ship. "Hm," he muttered. It seemed that his company for lunch was going to extend to four.


When Haytham returned to see Connor again, he was expecting repulsive company as he often found of Connor's allies. Instead, he returned to something even worse: two men courting his son. And they were Assassins.

Someones were going to die today.


Desmond awkwardly ate from Haytham's left as Altaïr made "covert" moves on Desmond while staring at Connor when the Mohawkan licked his lips every now and then. Haytham was completing shipping records in favour over eating, and instead of the usual, subtle nudging of Connor towards the Templar cause, the Brit was caught in awe and shock at his dangerously sexually oblivious son. Kaniehtí:io had been nothing like this! And Haytham…. Ah. For once, he felt very guilty for being his son's father.

A stray crumb caught the edge of Connor's lips, and Ezio slipped an arm around Connor's neck before leaning in and licking it off Connor's cheek. "Uh, thanks," Connor said with a nod, and continued eating. The inkwell pen in Haytham's hand snapped. "Connor, please eat over here," he insisted with a gesture to the right. Connor gave his father an uncertain look. "Why?"

Haytham refrained from throwing his hands in the air. "I can't believe this! You're suspicious of me asking you to change seats, but you're not suspicious of someone licking food off your cheek?" Connor wasn't the type to shrug, but his voice did enough. "I've learned that Italians are just intimate." "No," Haytham denied with a hint of hysteria, much to Ezio and Altaïr's amusement — the Brit truly was Desmond's ancestor, what with the familiar tone, "wrapping an arm around someone's neck is intimate — licking someone is assault!"

"He is not attacking me."

"Connor," Haytham said flatly, suddenly exhausted. It's obvious I mean sexual assault! Before Haytham could voice his thoughts, however, Desmond spoke up. "Connor, I suggest you take your dad's advice…." Connor actually turned to Desmond with the obvious willingness to listen. Haytham wondered who the young man was.

"Do you speak as a traveller from the past, or future?" Connor queried. What. "The future," Desmond responded without batting an eye, "but that doesn't matter; I'm speaking from experience." From dodging sexual assault. "Wait," Haytham stopped them there, "Connor, have you had alcohol recently? I know you're a lightweight." "No, father. Desmond and company are truly from different times." Altaïr turned eagle-sharp, golden eyes to Haytham. A half-eagle crest wrinkled with the movement of Ezio's cape.

Haytham felt a switch go off.

"Absolutely not." This was directed at Altaïr and Ezio, who were unaffected by the protective daddy aura. "You should be proud," Altaïr had the audacity to say. "Not as a Templar father, I don't," Haytham immediately shot back. Ezio smirked. "Well, all the more reason to stick with Connor when you're around…." "Touch my son, and I will rid you of your hidden blade." The true meaning went unspoken. Tears were mentally running down Desmond's face. Connor was still going to be the death of his father — for all the wrong reasons.


Connor steadied the Aquila as Haytham brooded behind him. Desmond, Ezio, and Altaïr had disappeared to who knew where in favour over boarding a ship; Connor suspected Altaïr to have a fear for water.

"Father, you shouldn't be prejudiced just because Altaïr and Ezio are Assassins."

"This has nothing to do with them being Assassins, Connor."

"Really?"

"Only a little bit."


Ezio pointed. The three time travellers were secretly investigating the Temple while Connor and Haytham were off on a mission together, and light had suddenly started warping at the Temple door. "Is it supposed to do that?" Ezio asked aloud. Desmond's horrified silence answered well enough. "Who mentally commanded the Temple?" Desmond demanded, eyes darting between his ancestors. Altaïr fidgeted. "I was just thinking about Connor," the Levantine mumbled, "and then I added you and the peacock to the mix…." Ezio had the pleasantly startled look of someone who had been thinking the same thing. Desmond's brow twitched.

"Oh, for the love of—"

The Temple door flashed a brilliant yellow, carrying five men away to another time.


A/N: Ah, I have too much fun writing Connor.

If you pay attention in AC3, there's boy love sprinkled EVERYWHERE. Benjamin Tallmadge's first meeting with Connor, for one; that was a slow hand on the back, Tallmadge…and Connor didn't even think it was weird!

Sorry if some parts felt stilted or that Desmond had less attention here — there were many ways I could attack altdeseziocon, but I had the most fun with an innocent Connor, so that's what I worked with the most. If you want some love between Connor and Desmond, I can give you two blushing virgins — just say the word. I also hear you guys demanding for some smut — I'm not very good at writing those kind of scenes, but I can try (Desmond will lose his virginity ;) ). For now, I'm working on the next chapter (Edward ~ woot woot!) while eagerly waiting for Unity to come out — I'm anticipating plot elements that can contribute to Dezmund with heavy ArnoCon, and who doesn't want to add some French to the Italian seductiveness in altdesezio?

Thank you so much for following this fic — please leave a review! The longer they are, the more motivated I am to write~