Chapter 9: Longing


"There was really nothing left of it?" Shay glared at Gist from over the top of a pile of rolled up naval charts heaped on his desk at Fort Arsenal. He'd been back in New York for a little over a week, and reduced to helping manage the Order's finances. There wasn't much else for him to do, what with the Assassins under hatches and the gangs either dead or sent packing.

"How many times do I have to tell you, Gist? There's nothin' left to bother wastin' the time and resources to rebuild," Shay snapped icily. He didn't really want to talk about the fate of Fort Baie Rouge, especially not with his pathetic meltdown still painfully fresh in his memory.

His thoughts drifted to Haytham, and he still couldn't figure out how he'd found himself apparently infatuated with the man. Not that he'd acted on it. They were entirely too cold, tired and cranky after the whole escapade to talk much of anything but business on the way home. Though, it didn't really bother Shay much. Haytham had seen him at his worst, and hadn't turned his back on him. That spoke volumes, really. True, Shay was anything but stable emotionally, but he wasn't alone anymore. Just knowing that gave him something worth hanging onto, and he couldn't remember the last time he honestly felt that way. The last thing Shay needed to do, was muck the whole thing up by letting the Grand Master find out that he was secretly undressing him with his eyes every time his glance wandered in his direction.

"Shay?" Shay tilted his head slightly in a questioning gesture. Gist grumbled in annoyance. "I asked if you kissed Master Kenway yet. Mills wanted to know..."

Gist just managed to dodge the book that Shay hurled at his head. It wound up on the floor in the hall, after hitting the wall on the other side of the open door with a loud thud.

"Well, I'll take that as a yes. I'm surprised, Shay. I didn't think you had it in you."

"Keep talkin', shitbird, and I'll cut off your cock and shove it up your arse. Sideways," Shay growled, giving Gist a warning glare and aiming another book.

"Honestly, I would pay good money to see that."

Both men turned in surprise to see Ben Church standing in the open doorway holding the fist book Shay had thrown at Gist. "It's a damn pity I don't have the time. Shay, Master Kenway sent me to inform you that he needs you in his office - immediately."

"Aye," Shay grumbled, and pushed his chair back with a loud scrape on the wooden floor. What did he want? Shay only hoped he found something that could be solved with violence, because he was itching to sink his blades into something to release some of the mindless pent-up frustration.

"Give him a hug for me, Shay. Oh, and a proper ravishing for Charles who's probably drowning in his own bitter tears of jealousy somewhere by now," Gist said, his words dripping with sarcasm.

Ben nearly choked to death for how heartily he was laughing. Shay bit back a litany of cussing and settled for leveling them both with what he hoped was a menacing glare.

"I'm goin' to tan both o' your hides later," He retorted and sulked out of the room.

He could hear Ben and Gist's hysterics all the way down the hall. Why was it that everyone else seemed to see something that he wasn't sure of himself? No. That wasn't an image Shay needed in his mind right then. Haytham probably had work for him. Besides, if anything ever came of his feelings, he'd die before he let anyone else know about it. Haytham, he was sure, would at least agree on that. The man was practically the living definition of discretion. He knocked three times on Haytham's office door, and didn't even wait for an answer before he shoved it open and walked in. Haytham looked up from the large leather-bound journal he was writing in and gave Shay a forced sort of smile. He carried that book everywhere with him, Shay knew. Once or twice, he'd tried to sneak a peek at its contents, but Haytham never let it out of his sight. He closed the door behind him quietly and took a seat in the vacant velvet chair in front of Haytham's desk.

"Where is Charles?" Haytham asked.

"According to Gist, drownin' himself in jealous tears," Shay informed him with a shrug. "Remind me to stab Mills."

"Such drama. It is beyond me why they feel the need to invent this nonsense. It is like dealing with children. Really, though. Where is he?" Haytham pressed, closing his journal and stowing it in the top drawer of his desk.

"Bailin' Thomas' idiot arse out of boarding school. He got caught passin' off fake coins at the market again," Shay explained. "Why?"

"Because if he was here, I was going to give him some work to do," Haytham said with a nonchalant shrug. "I do have a job for you, however."

"What is it?" Shay inquired, fidgeting a bit in his seat. Please let it be something other than this bureaucratic nonsense, he prayed silently.

"We need to replace the Soleil. The Assassins are not powerless without the Aquila, even if we have knocked them down a peg," Haytham told him, digging through one of his desk drawers for something. "Do you think you can manage that?"

"It'll be no trouble, Sir. The frogs might've lost the war, but they're still skulkin' about. I'll have the fleet take one o' their vessels," Shay answered as Haytham got up from the desk and they both went for the door. He hoped he managed to hide his disappointment. He could set sail himself, sure, but that would mean leaving. Strangely, he didn't really want to leave New York. ...Didn't want to leave Haytham.

"Excellent. Now, I unfortunately need to give Thomas a proper lecture about behaving like a responsible adult. I pay him more than enough real money to spend at the market. I suppose you are free to go for the time being, so long as you see to your tasks," Haytham said, though something in his tone made Shay wonder if he really wanted to send him away.

Shay dashed the thought from his mind, and told himself for the hundredth time that he needed to stop pining after a man that had about as much interest in him as Thomas had in sobriety. "If you say so," He mumbled, and definitely did not purposely let his hand brush against Haytham's as they parted ways.

Shay was starved for touch; that was obvious. He hadn't really thought much of it in recent times, but Shay couldn't even begin to describe the sudden, odd sort of longing he felt just to be close to another human being. How long had it been since he'd lain with another? Not since the first weeks after leaving the Finnegan's, as far as he could recall. Though, that had been an utterly pathetic and ill-advised attempt to force himself to let go of Liam. Still, in all honesty, it took most of the self control he possessed not to throw himself at Haytham as he slowly made his way down the hall with his back turned to Shay. And where had that come from? It didn't help that Shay had never been more conflicted in his life, either. Part of him told him that he needed Haytham like air, the more rational side was questioning the sanity of it all.

"I'll... I'll go then," Shay thought aloud. He needed to remind himself that the last place he wanted to be caught was standing in the hall, watching Haytham leave with a sad, forlorn look in his eyes.

Shay lost track of time as he wandered aimlessly through the busy streets of Greenwich, stopping sometimes to admire the view of the ocean from the docks. It felt strange to be able to go where he pleased, without having to worry about a job that needed doing. Well, technically he didn't have any work aside from the precursor box. He'd dried up all the leads they had. The only hope was for the Assassins to make a slip-up somewhere along the line. It was bound to happen eventually. Still, it could take years – decades even.

It had only taken a few moments to give one of his fleet captains the orders to capture a new Man o' War. Shay sighed in disgust and leaned against a worn wooden fence blocking off the front of an empty building, as he watched a group of children playing hopscotch in the dusty street. He'd like to say he longed for those days of innocence, but he'd never really had them. He was a sailor born and bred. There was salt water in his blood, and conflict followed him around like a black cloud spewing death and misfortune. He didn't really make his own luck; he left nothing to chance. In Shay's mind, preparation was everything. If you took precautions, and had a plan for every possible outcome, then everything always would go your way in the end. Well, mostly. Human error did tend to throw a wrench in several of his plans over the years. Somehow, things still always worked out in the end. He was quick to adapt, not lucky.

It was nearing nightfall, and the setting sun painted the sky with vibrant colors that cast its reflection on the ocean. Shay admired the view for a moment from where he sat on top of a large shipping crate on the docks, and thought to himself that it was probably best to head home for the night. If he stayed away too long, the others (meaning Haytham) might think he was avoiding them again. ...Or he could go find a tavern and play cards until dawn. No one would complain about him robbing a bunch of drunks blind, if he put the money toward new guns and a spare set of sails for the Morrigan. He hadn't slept properly in days anyway.

"It is a lovely sunset, I must say."

Shay bit back a slew of thoroughly uncouth swearing, and glared over his shoulder at Charles who was standing a few paces behind him. He wondered just how much of a mess he still was. It wasn't like Shay not to hear others approach him. Normally, Charles would have had a better chance of getting struck by lightening than catching Shay unawares.

"Aye, it will be fine weather for sailin' tomorrow. There's an old sayin' my father taught me as a child: 'Red sky at night, a sailor's delight. Red sky in the mornin', sailors take warnin'," Shay said, carefully keeping the bitterness out of his voice and hoping the pointless rambling might get Charles to leave him be. "What d'you want?"

"Nothing in particular. I was heading to the printer's shop to, ah, bribe them to tastefully edit a few articles in regards to Thomas' charges," Charles explained, leaning against the wall beside Shay. "And, I suppose I should probably tell you that Master Kenway will give himself an ulcer if he thinks you have gone missing again. No offense intended, of course."

"Quit talkin' like an apothecary. If I took offense at that, than I might as well o' murdered Gist by now," Shay told him humorlessly.

"I am not jealous, either, for the record. If anything, I feel like the two of us are the only ones not acting like schoolboys lately. Really. You and the Grand Master... How much kill-devil did Master Gist have to drink to start spewing that idiocy?" Charles continued, folding his arms across his chest. "That being said, you should head back. At any rate, I am off. A good night to you."

Shay watched Charles leave, and tried not to wish he'd step in a pile of horse shite on his way. Charles could be a decent human being, Shay knew, as long as no one was standing in the way of his goals – whatever they may be. Still, some things are best in small doses, and Charles was definitely one of them. He was right about one thing, though. Haytham would worry; Shay knew that. With a sigh, he started back on his way to Fort Arsenal.


To talk like an apothecary – BS, basically. Talking nonsense.

Kill-Devil – Rum

Shitbird – Kind of like calling someone an asshole.

Boarding School – Jail. Originally it specifically meant the Bridewell Prison.

Under hatches – Dead

Frogs – I know this is used at least once in Rogue, but just in case... Basically it was a derogatory term for the French.