Notes: I'm gonna have to admit, the best part of writing this was looking up 18th century slang. Some of it is downright hilarious. Also, the chapters switch POV between Shay and Haytham every other one. Though, this should be fairly obvious.

Chapter 2: Milking the Pigeon

To say Haytham was worried about Shay would be a gross understatement. He wasn't sure what the others expected of him, really. The man was only human, and everyone had a breaking point. Some were just harder to reach than others. If he had to listen to Charles or Benjamin complaining about Shay's apparent drinking habit one more time, he'd kill one of them. Gist and Thomas at least kept their mouths shut. To be fair, he expected both of them knew better than to call the kettle black, and Gist was around Shay often enough to understand the difficulty he was having in dealing with his friends' deaths. At least after Hope, Haytham had been able to keep him busy enough to distract him. He'd seen the signs then, but Liam apparently had been the last straw.

Now, however, there wasn't much for Shay to occupy himself with seeing as he'd exhausted the few leads they had on the precursor box for the time being. He wasn't the type to sit around handling the more bureaucratic aspects of the Order, after all. There really wasn't much to do about it, either. Shay would just have to sort himself out on his own; he was a grown man after all, and he'd made his choices. Haytham just wouldn't be too hard on him unless he veered off the right path and back to the Assassins, not that he had any reason to suspect such a thing. Shay was nothing if not a loyal Templar.

"Well, that is rather distasteful..." Haytham, muttered, crinkling his nose at the sight of the bloodstained naval maps left on his desk. He unrolled one and remembered that the ships dispatched to India were due back during the week, according to Shay's meticulous entries in the ledger. ...He hoped they didn't run into any trouble, not that there was a whole lot to be done about it at that point. He shoved the maps aside and didn't need to bother unfolding the yellowish canvas flag to know it bore the Assassin insignia. Shay wouldn't have brought it otherwise. Well, that was bothersome. They were like a nest of tenacious cockroaches, even without Achilles to guide them and Hope to rally the local criminals.

"Sir, we have a problem." Haytham frowned, and turned to face Charles who was standing in the open doorway with a look on his face like someone had died. That was never a good sign.

"What is it?" Haytham asked, snatching the Assassin flag and dropping it into the fireplace like the refuse that it was.

"We've just received word that we've lost Fort Baie Rouge to the Assassins, and they've been laying waste to our ships around the North Sea. Apparently they've acquired a new vessel, the Aquila, and she's on par with our Morrigan." Charles explained glumly. Haytham was just glad it might give Shay something to do, and set out to locate him immediately.

He found Shay in the armory, sitting in the middle of the floor with one of his pistols in pieces around him. It was old, and well worn with a plain wooden handle and a bit of corrosion on the metal parts from being at sea for so long. Shay mumbled something about it having a clog in the barrel, and didn't even look at Haytham. Haytham crouched down beside him, and noticed with some amount of concern that his hands were shaking.

"We've lost Fort Baie Rouge," He said flatly. "And a ship called the Aquila needs dealing with. Is there anything you know about this that we don't?"

"About the fort? No, that's news t'me. The Aquila's been a right royal pain, though. She's makin' a wreck o' our fleet. The Morrigan ain't enough to deal with her alone. I'm goin' to send a few frigates after her when I get news about the mission in India. Sooner if we don't hear anythin' by the end o' the week. That ought t'light a fire under her arse." Shay explained and got up, brushing dust off his pants.

"We should recapture the fort in the meantime, then." Haytham suggested, watching Shay place the reassembled pistol back on its display.

"No, not until the Aquila is dealt with. I don't know who her captain is, but I reckon old Faulkner is still her first mate and that man is one hell o' a sailor, if the stories are true. We won't be able to hold the fort until after we sink the Aquila." Shay explained dully. Apparently she'd been giving him problems for a while now, and he hadn't seen the need to mention it. "She ain't easy t'get rid of neither. She nearly sunk in a storm while chasin' a Templar trade ship here a couple years back. They must o' repaired or rebuilt her."

"...In a storm you say?" Haytham asked curiously, recalling the ship that had tailed the Providence nearly all the way to colonies in a last ditch effort to eliminate him. He'd seen the foremast get struck by lightening and the ship lost its bearings instantly. She couldn't have survived that... Could she?

"Aye, lost her main mast but she made it back to safety in one piece. The men sailin' for the fleet have taken to calling her the 'ghost o' the north sea'. She's been givin' them no in end in trouble." Shay replied. "Rushin' in after her won't do us no good, unless you fancy diggin' graves. She's lighter'n faster than the Morrigan in a good wind, and armed nearly as well."

"Damn," Haytham said, shaking his head. "Is nothing ever easy?"

"Not in my experience." Shay retorted, finally cracking a weak smile.

"Nor mine." The Grandmaster conceded with a wince. "Walk with me, would you?" He added and headed out toward the foyer, knowing Shay would follow whether he answered or not. It was disconcerting sometimes, how obedient Shay was for the most part – in spite of his occasional total lack of manners. But unlike Charles, he wasn't fishing for praise or a promotion. Shay was doing his job, to the best of his ability. True, sometimes he questioned his orders, but the reasons were normally legitimate strategical concerns. And, in the few cases that Shay disobeyed a direct command, it usually led to less bloodshed and better results. He was highly efficient, and Haytham had far more respect for his judgment in the field than that of any of the others that worked for him currently.

"Where are we goin', Sir?" Shay asked, a few paces behind Haytham as he stepped through the door leading to the courtyard. Shay closed it behind him as Haytham looked skyward with a frown. "It'll be a few hours at least before it starts stormin'. Not 'til after sundown, probably." Shay said, answering Haytham's unspoken but obvious concerns.

"Hm. Very well then." Haytham said offhandedly and waved to one of the guards near the main gate. He stepped aside and nodded politely to the two men as they passed. He thought to ask Shay how he could tell exactly when it would storm, but he assumed it was some old sailor's trick rather than some kind of sixth sense. Speaking of a sixth sense...

Haytham stopped in his tracks and whirled around as the faint, yet unmistakable gurgling sound of a man drowning in his own blood from a slit windpipe caught his ears. Shay gave him a knowing glance and dropped the lifeless corpse of a would-be Assassin behind the pile of hay he'd apparently tried to leap out of. He wiped the blood off his hands on the hay and kicked enough of it over the body to hide it for a while. It should have worried Haytham that he could kill a man and dispose of the evidence without so much as batting an eyelash, yet such a thought would be hypocritical at best. Haytham was raised to be a killer. Shay may have became one out of necessity, because murder was preferable to starvation, but both of them were still human beneath it all.

"You should watch your back, Sir. There's more o' them about." Shay said in a low tone and walked at Haytham's side rather than behind him.

"Do you think they will try to take Fort Arsenal back?" Haytham asked, now cautiously eying every niche that could hide a man.

"They can have it over my dead body." Shay grunted, and kicked a bit of refuse out of his way. With some amusement, Haytham thought that he might be a little grateful for all those years of only rarely leaving his family home as a child. City streets were loaded with filth, regardless of what city it was. At least New York was somewhat less disgusting than London, and smelled much better than Boston with that reeking mill pond.

Shay raised his eyebrows when Haytham led him to a bustling tavern, and held the door open for him. He had the tact not to comment and stepped inside, dodging a husky brunette barmaid carrying a pile of tankards balanced precariously on a wooden tray as he did. They found their way to an empty table in the far corner. Haytham sat by the foggy window, and Shay dragged a chair out from under a thoroughly unsuspecting drunk sailor, as there was only one at the table. Haytham tried, and failed, not to chuckle quietly to himself when the poor man fell on his rump and Shay just ignored his slurred cussing entirely.

"Why're we here, Sir?" Shay finally asked, waving over one of the barmaids. She was a willowy little thing with pale blonde hair and a terrible, still wet beer stain on on her powder blue dress. One of the patrons must have spilled their drink on her for refusing them an illicit favor or two. "Whiskey. Or rum, whichever ain't piss water." Shay said gruffly, hardly sparing her a second glace.

"A beer will suffice." Haytham added, nodding his head in clear dismissal. She left without a word.

"Beer? I half expected you t'order some sort o' posh vintage." Shay commented with a snort.

"I actually prefer beer or ale, and sometimes rum. But then, my father was a pirate. I suppose I inherited some of his traits." Haytham told him flatly. "As for why we are here... I think you are well aware that we need to have a proper conversation about you behavior over the past couple of weeks, and that there was no way you were getting off that easily."

"This is hardly the place -"

"I think it is just the place. Charles isn't here to bother me with tilly-tally I couldn't care less about, and Gist isn't here to try and defend you while he's so drunk himself that he's barely standing. Don't worry, he is going to get a lecture, too." Haytham replied tartly, and Shay stifled a bark of laughter as the barmaid reappeared and thumped their drinks down onto the table that was slightly warped from years of spilled liquor.

"I don't know what you want me t'say. I don't regret it. If anythin', I'm itchin' to feed Charles his teeth for stoppin' me." Shay admitted, taking a swig of the whiskey. He made a face and stared down into the metal tankard in disgust. "I said I wanted whichever wasn't watered down piss." He grumbled and shook his head.

"I honestly don't care if you regret it or not," Haytham told him, meeting his eyes in a sharp glare. "If drinking yourself into oblivion actually helped, I would have let you carry on for a while longer. That is my concern, Shay. You are a danger to yourself and those around you. You have become reckless at best. If you don't find a healthy way to deal with the morass of guilt you're harboring, it is going to kill you. Actually, it will probably kill all of us if we manage to get caught in the crossfire."

"That's easier said than done, Sir." Shay growled, and gulped down some of the horrible excuse for whiskey. "D'ya even know what you're bloody sayin'? You're askin' me to milk the pigeon, y'know? I killed my best friend. He saved my sorry arse from the streets, and I killed him. I know I had t'do it, and I don't regret that, but it don't make it any easier. And that's not even countin' the thousands that died in Lisbon."

"You had no control over what happened in Lisbon." Haytham reassured him in a firm tone.

"Maybe not, but I did with the others. I keep tellin' myself that they had to die, and I know they did, but I wish t'God I didn't have to be the one to do it. I don't want your pity, and I ain't havin' this conversation sober." Shay snapped icily and knocked back most of the whiskey. How he could drink like that was beyond Haytham, but he was Irish and a sailor.

"I am not here to offer pity. That word is hardly in my vocabulary. I am offering an ultimatum: Get your wits about you, or there will be consequences. I care about your well-being Shay, but I have limits. I have a rite of the Templar Order to maintain, and you have a responsibility to that Order as well. There cannot be a repeat of this, and there is precious little that I can do do to help you if you have no desire to help yourself." Haytham hissed, barely audible over the rumble of drunken tavern patrons and a group of women singing near the bar.

"That sounds more like you, Boss." Shay said glumly, and dumped the rest of the whiskey into the large terracotta planter on the floor next to him that was housing some kind of exotic palm plant. Haytham hoped it wouldn't kill the poor plant. "But... I don't know what t'do. There's days I've thought about goin' after the Aquila myself, just because I know I won't survive it."

"If you want to talk about it, I am willing to listen. It's a start, anyway. You should know by now that I won't judge you based on your past, either." Haytham told him, finally feeling like he was getting somewhere. Trying to get Shay to discuss anything of a personal or emotional nature was about as useful as attempting to argue with a brick wall. Haytham knew he was a poor choice to tackle that beast, when he was no less stubborn himself. Still, the only one he knew of that that Shay trusted enough to be open with was Gist, and that would just end in a tavern romp for the record books. ...And most likely more than a few dead bodies and/or illegitimate children.

"I... Fine. But not here. Not today." Shay finally ground out and dropped a few silver coins on the table for the drinks, and a fine a tip for the barmaid that looked like she was having far worse than the usual bad day. Haytham counted it as a victory and let Shay lead the way back to Fort Arsenal.

Milking the pigeon – to do the impossible

Tilly-tally – nonsense, trivial BS