#ac imagines

"Did Hope give it to ye?" He asked, voice low and careful, eyes still impossibly dark, even when the warm tavern light dances over his features. Your mouth twists, sour line worrying into the skin.

"Liam."

"Ah." Then, "Well, he's always been a right git anyhow."

Looking at him like this, an air of familiarity drifting between you two, it almost tempers the sorrow and grief that still echoes in your bones. The insisting song of rage and injustice. Your fingers curl tighter around the bottle- and you see it too. How Shay's eyes don't even dart away but a barely perceptible twitch. Always watching each movement. A biting scoff rises in your throat before you can stop it.

For everything that Hope and Liam had trained you for, for all the burdens you bore, memories and lessons drilled into your head- this was not how you thought it would go.

Because every scary story told to you, every drill and hasty explanation- it was all because of him. Every bruise and aching joint- every nasty remark and lessons forced well past their dues. Even Achilles, as senile as he seemed, remarked upon the force the Brotherhood trained you.

All to avenge ghosts of Assassins you didn't know, never had a chance to know. All for a Brotherhood that had been tarnished before you joined.

You were meant to replace Shay, you realize that now. A bitter truth that had come to a head earlier that night, when Liam saw how you held your blades. Accosted you for it, demanding where you learned it from. 'From Shay', you had wanted to say, because it had been the truth. Then the rest of it followed, with Hope pleading with you to leave for the night while everyone cooled down. While they cooled down.

Looking back, you should have known better than to accept some strange man's friendly banters in taverns. Known better than to walk his boat, learning its knots better than you learned your knives.

It makes sense. Shay befriended you to sniff out the Assassin's plans. It made sense. Just as it made sense that Liam tried building you into a better tool, trying to outpace the losses that the Brotherhood had suffered.

'It's not fair.'

You think how his hands felt on your sides, careful in his guidance. Teaching you with a far greater patience than Liam had, with far kinder methods than Hope's. You had learned better under Shay- and somehow, that made it all worse, stinging more than the betrayal did.

"I hate you," you tell him. Shay tilts his head, little more than an acknowledgement. Eyes studying you, judging your reaction. Fog puffs in front of his face with his slow exhale. The wind blows it back, dusting across dark eyes before disappearing into the night.

"I know."

Still, even though you know, even though he knows, neither of you move. It's just the slow tilt of the bottle against your lips, burning motion of liquor down your throat. Cold seeping through your clothes, always too thin, never durable enough for the winter. Something that Shay had tried to correct you on but Kesegowaase didn't care for. Always too busy for your innate questions.

You want to hate Shay for everything. Pin it all on him. It'd be the easiest way. Give in to what your mentors had been trying to drill into your head: enemy, enemy, enemy.

Glass presses to your lips again. Shay's fingers ghost over yours, leather pressing light to exposed fingers. A grip that remains solid - but not insistent... and with the patience of a man that wouldn't exist in the Shay that the Brotherhood knew.

But he lets you take another drink anyway. You weren't a lightweight. Shay had made sure of that.

"Are you going to kill me?" You decide on saying when the fire has tempered in your throat. All that's left is the chill in your eyes, the nip of frost and frozen winds on your cheeks.

His fingers remain on the bottle and with a light tug, you concede, letting him bring it to his own lips. Cleanshaven, unlike the scruffy remnants that you had been sworn to. In all the ways that matter, he's unlike the man you've been told about. But you can see where the threat lies, the careful way he tilts his shoulders, languid but prepared. That part of the stories are true.

"Only if our blades cross," Shay responds, swallow audible, eyes dark as he peers at you over the neck of the bottle. He passes it to you, fingers brushing over yours.

Fingers connect. You try not to memorize how they feel.

"They'll order me to kill you," you decide to say.

Shay blinks, then blinks again when the snow lingers on his lashes. "Aye. And I won't let you." You scoff bitterly against the bottle. You both have roles to play. You just wish yours wasn't this.

You turn your eyes away, skimming over the balcony, out into the rolling hills of snow. More powder falls from the sky, dusting across your shoulders, frozen kisses upon cold-flushed skin. It'd be easy, you know, for Shay to just reach over and slide his blade into your neck. Nobody would hear you. Even with gold light dusting over the white expanse ahead, there's still dark shadows. You're both still isolated.

The music in the other room sounds so far away.

He doesn't move and you get to take another drink.

You think, then, that this isn't all there is. That there's more to the man that you were told about. That words uttered with hate or hellfire don't amount to the hours you've spent by his side, listening to some bawdy tale that Gist told him.

Then, in the same breath, you think: he doesn't have to kill me and I don't have to kill him.

Then, in another: what if there was another way?

Because for all the assassins are, good teachers aren't one of them. That you still swore to protect the innocent and your blade hasn't known flesh. In all these moments, caught between the Homestead and someone you had thought you had known, there exists things that you don't know. Impossibly, that there might be kindness beyond this rage and suffering that everyone has been dealt.

Again, in your mind's eye, you feel the shadow of Shay's gloves on your arms and waist, correcting your stance. Think of Achilles' words, heated and grave. Of Hope's flattering gait as she leads you through her warehouse.

"Shay, what-" You turn, throat tight, shadows and aches lingering in your mind still. There's nothing there, the impressions of his boots filling with the drifting of snow. Only gloves left on the railing, cuffs rimmed with fur. Still warm, even as you press chapped and shaking fingers inside, leather cushioning your palms. Because this is who Shay is, always watching out for you.

You didn’t break the kiss as your hands started exploring his legs. One hand traced over the already slight bulge on his thigh and the other grabbing Haytham’s face. Haytham hands were on your waist in anticipation. His body was far more excited than he might have shown. The twitch on your hand didn’t go unnoticed as you started rubbing the wet clothed tip faster. Haytham’s grunt moulded into the kiss when he finally mustered the courage. His hand snaked to the back of your neck, deepening the hot kisses. With him quietly moaning into your mouth, you undid the button of his trousers.

Quick shuffling around led to Haytham’s hardened cock in the grips of your hand. Leaning onto the desk, his head fell back whilst your hand slowed as it slid to the base. Back up to the tip, Haytham’s pre-cum leaking down his shaft and your hand. The movement was agonising, and he was not a very patient man. Haytham opened his mouth to complain only to be cut off by the friction and the added grip, he bit back a moan. The control within your hand made you feel powerful. The teasing worsened as your tongue lapped up all the pre-cum. Haytham’s hand moved to the back of your head, his heavy breaths followed by a groan. As you took the tip into your mouth, your tongue swirled around whatever was in your mouth. Your eyes looking up at the heated man’s face, eyes half-lidded, mouth slightly open, hands gripping the arms of the chair while his chest rose and fell quickly. The sight of such a self-composed man becoming weak with the little touching that you’ve done spurred you on to take him further into your mouth. Haytham watched your head bob up and down, his hand slightly pushing you down as he heard the slick noises come out of you. He felt like he was on fire, your tongue working just as hard as your mouth. Your hollowed cheeks, struggling slightly at the length and girth of his burning cock, made Haytham louder. Slight hissing led to biting his lip which led to a strong grip stopping you.

Looking up, he tugged at your hair a little to pull you off. Neither of you could remember to move his important papers out of the way as he bent you over. Your clothing was quickly removed and the warmth was replaced by his hands. Massaging, memorising the shape and beauty of your skin. Kissing along and down your spine, his fingers grazed your hole. Keen to tease you, he only pushed slightly in and out, enough to cause a whine from your lips.

“Please…” The plead caused a slight smirk to play on his lips

“Yes, dear?”

“Fuck me.”

And so his fingers pushed in. Stretching slightly in anticipation for his cock that he knew would fill every inch of your hole. His fingers were only giving you a taste of what his cock could do inside you. The curling of his fingers only made your grip tighter on the desk, his lips continuing to attack on your back. The marks left behind and your further pleas spurred him on. The arousal made Haytham leak further as his cock brushed against your thighs.

Once the frustration grew, Haytham was merciful enough to remove his fingers. The desperation to fill you up grew evident as his hungry eyes watched as your readied hole ached for his equally hungry cock. Pressing the tip in, Haytham hissed, leaning his body onto yours. Both the sweat and heat mixed as his hips swung slowly. His cock buried deep at first, taking a second for the both of you to adjust to each other. His hands gripped on your hips, the movements of his own hips first slow. The heat and tightness of your hole squeezed onto Haytham who could only moan in response. He listened to your quickened breath, the creak of the desk and the rustling of his papers. The room began to fill with stifled moans. You had to beg more and more just for Haytham to listen to you. And he was merciful enough to finally give it to you. As though he had enough torture, Haytham rocked his hips faster. Head against the desk, hands gripped against the edge, Haytham pushed your legs further apart. He fucked you. He fucked you like he would never hve the courtesy of doing so again. He fucked you like it was a privilege that he was so lucky to have. The desk creaked and the legs scraped against the floor. Your head had become almost dizzy with pleasure. His cock continued to hit the right spot forcing every moan out of you. Skin on fire, you couldn’t help but groan his name continuously. Despite not being able to see his face, the hunger in his eyes was enough to keep him almost rabid-like. He left your neck in kisses and saliva, devouring whatever skin his mouth could reach. His moans melted into your skin, fingers moulding into the skin of your hips. You felt like you could cum any minute, the tension below continued to tug.

“I… I can’t…”

“Finish with me.”

Your back pressed against his front, both covered in sweat and tired. Thrusts lazily turning into grinding. Your head fell back and your eyes squeezed shut. Moans turning into needy whines. Haytham’s strong thrusts became slow, giving a few more pumps before you crashed onto the desk. The room fell almost silent with you both catching your breath.

Your legs shook slightly as Haytham pressed soft kisses along your back. His hands rubbing your sex as you eased down from your orgasm. Haytham pulled you onto his lap after sitting down on the chair. You turned your head to place soft and lazy kisses on his lips. Both quiet in each other's embrace as you cooled down. His skin felt soft against yours, arms wrapped around your waist. 

“I do have to finish this work.”

“You’re so stubborn… After all this, you won’t even let me enjoy your company?”

It’d been years since Ezio had even thought about stepping foot in Florence and if it weren’t for the man he was targeting, he wouldn’t be here in the first place.

The stillness of the night and the warm glow of lanterns adorning the doorways were familiar to him, but the eerie quiet only worsened the haunting feeling. And the accompanying sounds of armor from the guards in the streets didn’t help much either. There were too many painful memories. Too many things he’d had to leave behind.

But he was back. Back to take down another one of Cesare’s lackeys: Marco Esposito.

He was a man that Ezio believed wouldn’t be too much of a problem, but he was wrong. Backed by the power of Cesare, the coward believed he could do what he wanted and it was Ezio’s duty to make him realize otherwise.

Unfortunately, with the increase of guards throughout Firenze, this was not going to be easy.

He’d recognized the posts upon rooftops and throughout the streets, but the groups had gotten bigger. Which just meant more hassle for him. It also didn’t help that, when he’d walked by Esposito’s estate, it was swarming with them. Coward.

Now, with his travels and canvassing of the city over and done with, Ezio just needed a place to rest. His feet dragged and the horseback journey here hadn’t exactly helped his growing back pain.

Had Ezio been paying attention to what was in front of him he probably would have seen the person barreling around the corner of the building ahead of him, but he’d been too busy scanning the rooftops for a tower of some sort to take shelter in.

A blur crossed his vision before he realized that that blur was heading his way. It became apparent that the blur was a person when it sprawled on the ground upon impact with his chest.

“Oh, Mi dispiace, Signore. I didn’t see you there.”

It was a woman. A familiar woman. Someone he never thought he’d see again.

Ezio stiffened. His heart felt like it had stopped and sped up simultaneously. The blood roared through his ears, silencing all thoughts to his brain.

It was you.

And you were still struggling to get up from the ground.

“It is fine. I should’ve known that the streets of Firenze are never completely empty.” He held out a hand for you and you took it with a small smile, eyes downcast so as to keep him from revealing your identity.

It didn’t help.

Pulling your hand away, you wiped discreetly at your face before bringing your hand back down and sucking a deep breath in, followed by a shaky exhale. A quick scan of your face revealed puffy eyes and tear tracks left behind in carelessness.

His heart clenched.

“Grazie, Signore.” You ducked into a curtsy, before finally glancing up to meet his gaze momentarily. Panic seized Ezio and he swept into a bow to avoid your own recognition of his identity. His heart seemed to be beating straight into the hand draped across his chest.

Get out of there.

Clearing his throat as he straightened, Ezio gave you a nod before opening his mouth to speak once more.

“Be safe, Signora. Buonanotte.” He all but whispered, his statement lacking all his usual charm in favor of a speedy getaway. Sparing you no further glance, he ducked into an alley and made it to the rooftop in time to watch you walk slowly away.

He only wished his heart didn’t long to follow.

—

It couldn’t be, could it?

Could he really have returned to you after all these years?

It wasn’t likely. No. It wasn’t just unlikely, it was impossible.

He was dead. You’d heard it.

When his father and brothers were hanged, he was hunted down. He was too reckless in his need for revenge and he’d been caught by the guards of Firenze.

He had died the following morning.

And your spirit had died with him.

But if that was the case, how was he here now? It was a story that your— since passed— father had told you. Had he lied to you? You scoff to yourself, earning a side glance from a passing merchant but you pay him no mind as you trudge your way through the streets.

Your father, in his years in this world, wasn’t known for his kindness. It was him who’d pushed you into a marriage to a man nearly fifteen years your senior. You had no say in the matter and your husband— the word sent bile up your throat every time— had all the wealth your father could ever hope to gain. The whole ceremony was a loveless affair but, when questioned by the other noble ladies, you say that you have a simple, romantic relationship. Something that you wish you could convince yourself of as easily as they had been.

You pause in the entrance to the plaza of your husband’s villa. Your husband’s, not yours. He loved to remind you of that fact. Nothing was truly yours: not your home, your freedom, nothing.

Were you hallucinating? Had you just seen the face of the only man who ever cared for you because you’d taken one too many blows to the head? Were you on the verge of death and that was the ghost of him greeting you from the other side?

No, the creaking feeling in your bones as you kneeled at the base of the stairs reminded you that you were very much alive. And so did the droplets of water that began to rain down upon you from the darkened clouds in the sky. Distant rolls of thunder and the puddles collecting on the too-perfect cobblestones of the plaza.

You should move, before he sees.

The thought sends a fresh wave of hot tears down your face, a stark contrast against the pins and needles of the chilling downpour.

This was never what you wanted.

What you wanted was a life with Ezio, a man that was snatched from this world too early. Or so it seemed.

You knew those eyes, the ones you’d spent hours gazing into. Those wonderful brown eyes. In fact, you swore that they looked almost golden at times, a brightness that put the finest jewels to shame. They were the ones that haunted your dreams for years, how could you ever forget them?

But that man, he had those exact eyes. Lines of age had altered them slightly, but they were still his. You’re sure of it.

Which meant that you could see them again.

It’s this thought that carries your bruised and broken body out of the chill of the storm.

—

It’s not until late in the evening, two days later, that you spot him on the streets again.

Despite the hood that hides his identity, the stark white stands out against the quickly darkening clouds of the night sky.

Based on his reaction at your last meeting— the fact that he pretended not to recognize you— you decide to follow him. The fear that he’d avoid you in a direct conversation seizing at your chest.

As you moved with him, the crowds from the evening market began to thin out until, you noticed, as he emerged into a courtyard, there was no one around. He walked to the center of the plaza, the slivers of the moon peeking through the clouds adorned his robes, the glow of the pure white seemingly otherworldly and out of place. You could almost believe that he was a ghost if you hadn’t physically run into him two days prior.

So mesmerized by the ethereal look of him that you hadn’t noticed him turn your way until he called out to you in the darkness.

“There is no point in hiding. Come out and face me.” He spoke confidently, as if he knew you’d been there the whole time— though he probably did. You notice that he’s ducked down and his feet are spread into a stance, poised and ready to attack. Despite this, the sound of his voice sends a shiver down your spine, similar to that of a familiar melody playing again after being lost to time.

You know it’s him and it’s this certainty that encourages you to step out from the archway and into the light of the courtyard to speak the words that have been eating away at you since you ran into him.

“Is it really you?” He stiffens at the sight of you then clears his throat and straightens in an effort to look casual and composed. Obviously, he was expecting someone else. A thought that makes your heart clench slightly.

“I have no idea what you are referring to, Signora.” He’s fiddling with the lapels of his robes, gaze avoiding you altogether in favor of recovering from the shock he’s received; obvious only to you as you’ve always been one for an attention to detail, especially when it came to him. Satisfied with the array of his clothing, he finally levels his eyes with your figure standing across the plaza from him.

There’s a moment of hesitation before, as if looking at you were similar to looking straight at the sun for too long, he sweeps himself into a bow. Exactly the same as the one you received two days ago.

“I’m sorry for the confusion I may have caused, but I have some business to attend to. If you’ll excuse me.” The fluidity of his turn has you reeling and the quick dismissal is one that keeps you stuck where you stand until it hits you—

He’s leaving.

He’s leaving.

No

You stumble forward, tripping over the cracks in the cobblestones.

No

His back is turned to you. You hone in on it as if it were your lifeline. At this point, it might as well be.

NO

With your heart racing alongside your footsteps, you call out to him with everything you have left.

“Why didn’t you tell me?!”

He pauses, his back still faces you. But you have a hold on his hand, latching onto the warmth of him.

“The man you’re searching for is long gone,” He glances over his shoulder, that amber gaze— cold in contrast to the heat of his hand, a practiced iciness— barely making contact before his other hand comes up to gently pry your fingers away, “I’m sorry.”

The apology is spoken in a whisper, but it’s barely audible to you over the ringing in your ears.

Once free of your grasp, he steps wordlessly away and stalks to the exit on the other side of the courtyard. The glow of his robes disappear in the shadows, along with your hope.

Your knees find the rough cobblestone of the plaza when he’s out of sight and the tears find their familiar tracks down your cheeks. You fold in on yourself, forehead pressed to the ground as the air rushes out of your lungs in a silent sob.

He’s gone.

He is really, truly, gone.

You never should’ve allowed yourself to hope in the first place.

—

The wringing of his heart hadn’t stopped for days and it was only going to get worse from here.

In fact, the thought of tearing out his heart entirely seemed like the less painful option at this point. Maybe then Ezio could pour his focus into the mission ahead of him.

His target needed to be eliminated tonight, Machiavelli had emphasized as much to him in the letter he’d received the day prior. And it was the one thing he couldn’t bring himself to pay much attention to. Not since his run-in with you.

Considering the fact that Marco had been on high alert, increasing guard patrols and instilling a curfew over the city, Ezio had expected him to send someone to follow him. But what he didn’t expect was you.

You

Bathed in moonlight as you stepped out from the shadows. Looking just as beautiful as the day he left you. The day tragedy had torn his life to pieces.

Ezio believed that, after all these years away, he’d gotten better at controlling the ache that bloomed in his chest whenever he thought of you. He was wrong. These run-ins had taken that belief and ripped it to pieces.

He longed to run to you. To sweep you into an embrace that you would never leave. He longed to kiss you. Deeply and tenderly, the way he knew you always liked. But he couldn’t.

Not anymore.

Not with the life he led.

So, he’d stayed rooted to his spot, moving mechanically to part ways with you. Rushing into one last goodbye, taking those last moments to commit your form to memory. A sad smile twitched at the corner of his lips, one which he hoped you couldn’t see because it would make this all the more harder for him.

What Ezio wasn’t prepared to face was the grip of your hands on one of his. The trembling from your fingers that sent jolts through his body. He would’ve told you everything with just that simple gesture. But he steeled his nerves and with his other hand— shaking just as much as yours by now— peeled your hand back before his resolve crumbled completely.

He’d hidden behind the archway instead of leaving immediately, listening to your heart breaking along with his. It was unfair of him, yes, but it’s what needed to happen. This wasn’t something you could get involved in. He’s lost too many loved ones to this fight and he refused to add you to that list.

A shaky inhale past the knot in his throat awoke him to his reality. His thoughts came back to him. The mission. Cesare’s man. He needed to leave now.

Pushing off the wall of the archway, Ezio takes a shaky step forward before striding towards the building he intended to scale.

—

By the time your eyes had dried out and the only remnant of tears were the crusted trails on your cheeks, the moon was high in the night sky. The clouds had almost dissipated, making way for the twinkle of the constellations. It was a reminder that you needed to be back soon.

You absentmindedly make your way through the familiar streets, the route back to the villa engraved into your movements, allowing you to trudge back without much thought. Despite your muddied attire, you enter through the front doors.

The servants of the household pay you no mind, knowing that making a fuss over their lady’s appearance would bring the wrath down upon you as well as them. It’s only Giulia who dares step away from her duties to help you up the stairs to your chambers.

Giulia, a beautiful and lively woman of almost 60, has been by your side since you were born. Despite her place as the head housemaid in your old home, she took it upon herself to look after you when your mother died in childbirth. When you were married to Marco, she’d been the only remnant you had of home when she became head housemaid of your husband’s abode.

There was nothing you could keep from her and, from the look she was giving you as she ran a comforting hand down your back, you’d have to tell her about what had transpired tonight.

A warm bath and a fresh nightgown later, Giulia had you seated in front of the fireplace, working through the tangles in your hair with a comb.

“So, are you going to tell me about it, or are we going to continue to sit in silence?” Giulia’s attempt at cheering you up. You let out a dry chuckle, shoulders shaking with the effort of keeping the disappointment down.

“I—“ you sigh, “I thought he came back.” The fingers working through your hair never hesitated. She knew who you were referring to.

“I mean— he was right in front of me. I ran into him two days ago. He was there, tonight, i-in the courtyard—“ You continued on, telling her of all that had happened these last few days. Listening to you explain his sudden appearance and disappearance in your life with steady hands continuing to ready you for bed. Nothing about your story fazed her, it seemed. And by the time you were through with regailing her of your encounter, you were laying in bed, having the leftover tears wiped away in her motherly manner.

The slamming of the door to your chambers sent a jolt through your body and your heart sank. You hoped you’d be asleep by the time Marco wandered in from his late night, that maybe you could avoid whatever “punishment” he had for being gone all day.

You curled tighter into the mattress, grip on your pillow ironclad as Marco dismissed Giulia with a belch. The shuffle of her footsteps faded away while his heavy stomps neared the bed. His wine-stained breath reached you before he did and you had to stifle a gag as his rough hands reached to grab hold of your shoulder.

You have no idea what possessed you to— perhaps the knowledge that you’d seen the man you loved is what lit the fire in you— but before you knew it, you’d twisted out of Marco’s hold and brought your nails down on his face.

With a bellow, Marco sprang back from your form, a hand to his eye as you rolled off the bed.

“You bitch!” He brings his hand back, revealing the rivulets of blood running from the gash on his cheek. He staggers towards you in his blind and drunken rage while you run to the vanity, rummaging through the combs and cosmetics to find something, anything to use against him.

A simple eye pencil was what you were rewarded with. You snatched the tool off your vanity and whirled around in time to meet the palm flying to meet your face. The force of the blow sent you to the rug, the pencil flying from your grasp as the wind was knocked from your lungs and the stinging in your cheek flamed hotter with the heat of the fire next to you.

Still working to refill the breath you lost, Marco clunkily settled his weight on your abdomen. His hands closed around your throat, slipping slightly in his drunken stupor, but the threat remained as his fingers squeezed.

“If I knew how much trouble you’d be for me, I never would’ve wasted my precious time,” his fingers squeezed tighter, “and,” tighter, “money!” Tighter.

He was going to kill you.

He was going to kill you— and you couldn’t do anything about it. Even your scratching at his hands and arms seemed to do nothing. Your vision blurred, marred with black spots that were growing larger by the millisecond. The grease of his hair ran through your fingers as your limbs grew heavy. His face, contorted in rage and turning red as he spoke, grew fuzzy.

At least you could die knowing you gave him hell.

“No children, no fortune, nothing,” he was leaning closer and closer, almost determined to be the last thing you saw of this world, “You are the most useless—“

The loss of his hands around your throat along with the weight of him from on top of you, brought the world back into focus. You rolled onto your side, coughing and gasping for air as you caught sight of a familiar form hunched over your husband. The ringing in your ears subsides enough to catch the tail-end of his statement.

“-not fit to even breathe the same air as her,” the sound of a blade sinking into flesh followed by a wet gargle, “Requiescat in Pace, bastardo.” The venom in his low whisper sends a shiver down your spine.

Another series of coughs rips through your throat, drawing the attention of your savior. He moves swiftly to wrap his arms around your shoulders, allowing you to lean against his chest. The warmth of his hand soothes down your face.

Your vision clears enough to truly see the face of the man holding you.

“I knew it.” You croak out. He folds his body over yours in an awkward, yet loving, embrace. You can feel the shaky laugh he lets out as you reach to wrap your own arms around his shoulders. His smile presses into your neck and his other hand cups the back of your head.

“You did,” he pulls back slightly, eyes earnestly finding yours, “and I am so sorry for not telling you. You have no idea how much I regret it.” His gaze bounces back and forth between your eyes. The hood of his robes has fallen off, which makes his stare all the more intimidating. Still, you can’t give in easily and accept his apologies without an explanation.

“Why?” Is all you whisper, but he knows what you’re really asking. He shifts a little and clears his throat, the heat of his hands still pressing into your head and waist. He seems to be contemplating how to tell you until he takes a deep breath and exhales slowly, shakily.

“The life I lead now— it’s a dangerous one.” His gaze never leaves yours, a silent plea for your attention, though he already had it.

“Since the day my father and brothers,” he pauses, the lines around his eyes and brows deepen, the memory of it clearly still painful, “I’ve dedicated my life to taking down the man responsible: Rodrigo Borgia.” He spits the name out with venom lacing it. Your brows knit together in confusion and a slight frown settles on your lips.

“The Pope?” His hand comes up to tuck a stray hair behind your ear and moves to smooth the space between your brows with his thumb— an action you instinctively relax into. It was a comfort he provided all those years ago whenever he found you upset or frustrated.

“Sì, the Pope. It affords him friends in high places and I’ve been eliminating those same friends one by one.” He nods to the form of your husband laying in the corner of the room. You swallow hard.

“So, does that mean he’s—”

“Dead, sì,” He confirms grimly, “Although, that bastardo deserved a fate worse than death.” Ezio’s hold on you tightens just slightly as if to subconsciously confirm that you’re here, alive, and in the safety of his embrace. You guide his head to you once more and his face softens. There was just one more thing that didn’t make sense.

“I spent every single day thinking of you, wishing I could go back to the way things were, but it was all too dangerous. And I thought that if I let you continue on without me, that you’d be safe from that danger.” He chuckles dryly, tilting his gaze to the ceiling, “Look how well that turned out.”

The last of the puzzle pieces had fallen into place. Everything suddenly made sense. Why your father had been so ready to tell you that Ezio was gone. Why Marco Esposito, a man so hated by the nobility, had suddenly shot into a position of power. Why Ezio had avoided you in your encounters.

“Sometimes life doesn’t go the way we want it to, but we’re here now,” you shift so you’re matching his kneeling stance, bringing a hand from his shoulder to rest it on his own that found purchase on your face, “together.” The familiar grin splits his face. One you haven’t seen for a long, long time.

“And I am so unbelievably happy to know that you, Ezio Auditore, are alive and sitting here in front of me.”

He leans in, taking up what little space there is between you, eyes half-lidded and mischievous glint in his eye. His thumb brushes across your bottom lip, coaxing you closer ever so slightly.

“And I, Ezio Auditore, am so unbelievably happy to be here as well.”

He closes the distance, lips meeting yours in the gentle way that only he possesses. It makes your heart flutter like you’re kissing him for the first time. A feeling that you’ve longed to have for years. His other hand leaves your waist to cup the other side of your face, deepening the kiss. It’s earnest and sweet, making up for lost time. There’s a reluctance in him as he parts from you, breath ghosting ever so softly over your lips.

“I’m so sorry that I kept you in the dark for so long. And I’m sorry for making you wait this long for me.” Another kiss is placed on your lips, shorter this time, but it makes your stomach flip pleasantly nonetheless. You pull him in for an embrace. His hands are holding you so tightly, it’s as if he’d never let you go no matter what.

“Come with me.” He pulls back so abruptly it leaves your head spinning, falling forward onto his chest with the force of it.

“What?”

“Come back with me. To Roma.”

You’re frozen. The thought of reuniting with Ezio and running away with him all in the same night leaves you reeling. It’s quite possibly the best decision you could ever make. There was nothing here for you.

Ezio, obviously mistaking your silence for denial, adds hastily, “I-I mean, I understand if you choose not to. The life I lead is not for everyone. I should’ve-”

You silence his anxious ramblings with another long kiss and you feel his body physically relax under your hands.

“Of course I’ll go with you. There is nowhere I’d rather be than by your side.”

           “I swear I just saw him,” she whispered. “Where on earth did he go?”

           A frigid bite of metal against her throat answered her question, and as she sucked in a breath, she heard in her ear, “Make any sudden movements and I will slit your throat.”

           Recognizing the voice, she swallowed thickly, and knowing the stories of his ruthlessness from Connor, she understood that he would without a single hesitation, slit her throat.

           Her lips suddenly felt dry and she licked them, ignoring how they seemed to freeze after. “I’m not here to cause trouble, Mister Kenway.” She murmured, hoping a soft voice would ease his tension.

           His free hand dug into her waist. “Oh ho? And trailing me isn’t trouble on your part?”

           A chuckle passed her lips and when she tried to turn her neck a bit to see him, he pressed the blade harder to dissuade her.

           “I am looking for you, Haytham, but I’m not going to try anything.” Before he could say anything, she said, “My name is (Y/N). Your son and I are in a relationship,” she tipped her head to catch his eye and smiled, “I just want to talk.”

           Haytham’s grip slipped as his steel eyes went wide. He searched her gaze for a lie, and seeming to not find one, he retracted the hidden blade and let her go. (Y/N) felt along her neck for a wound but didn’t find one. She turned around and glanced at the man.

           “If you don’t mind, could we go somewhere where it isn’t snowing?” she asked and he simply turned on his heel, telling her to follow; she rolled her eyes at how commanding and pompous he looked from behind, but decided to not voice her concerns.

***

           About ten minutes they walked, and he held the door to a tavern, gesturing her inside. (Y/N) walked in and instantly sighed as the warm air wrapped her in a hug that resembled Connor’s.

           “Go sit in the corner,” Haytham instructed, and it took everything in her to not turn on him and tell him off for giving her orders.

           Silently, she conceded and a few moments after she took her seat, he came over and sat across from her, setting two wine glasses on the table. (Y/N) picked hers up by the stem and swirled it before meeting his eyes.

           “Surprising for a man who drinks ale in taverns to drink wine right now,” she remarked and took a small sip before smiling. “Mmm, sweet with honey. A good choice.”

           Haytham took a sip of his wine before remembering, “You said you and my son were in a relationship?”

           (Y/N) cleared her throat and nodded. “We have been for quite some time.” She had to think on it. “Three years, if I’m not mistaken. Though friends for a longer time.”

           His eyes narrowed, and she wasn’t sure if it was from suspicion or thought. “How did you two meet?”

           Laughing, she scratched at the old wooden table and let her eyes drift towards the doors. “Oh, he saved me from getting torn a new one by regulars some time back.”

           A silver brow arched on his forehead as he surmised, “So my son’s lover is a troublemaker?”

           (Y/N) felt a rather unladylike snort come from her and she countered, “Oh, not in so many words, and not like you and he do.” She winked at him. “I merely dabble in the pond while you two are sunk to your necks.”

           A bark of laughter escaped him, and she felt pride at how she managed to make the almost stoic man grin. He nodded. “Touché, (Y/N).”

           They fell into a silence, enjoying their wines, and when they were almost gone, he questioned, “You wished to speak with me about something?”

           (Y/N) nodded and sat up straight. “Are you going to busy on Christmas Day?” she asked, and evidently, he hadn’t been expecting that because his eyes went wide.

           “I beg your pardon?”

           She huffed a laugh. “Christmas Day. Will you be busy?”

           Haytham’s eyes narrowed, and this time she knew it was in suspicion. “And you are asking why?” he challenged, and she rolled her eyes.

           “Well, I was going to ask you if you’d like to have dinner with the two of us.” (Y/N) reasoned.

           As if she’d slapped him across the face, his jaw went slack from shock and he fell into a stillness, her simply staring and waiting for an answer.

           When he finally found himself again, a look of pure confusion came over him. “You…are inviting me…to dinner?” he repeated.

           “I am,” she answered with a smile.

           “…Why?”

           (Y/N) inhaled deeply and reclined in her seat, gazing at the back of her hands. “Ratonhnhaké:ton and Achilles aren’t exactly seeing eye to eye now that the two of you are working together,” she explained and with a sad look, she added, “I figured that maybe if the two of you shared a holiday dinner that…well that…” she trailed off and shook her head. “Neverm—”

           “No,” Haytham interjected. “Tell me.”

           She met his eyes and with a sudden rush of confidence, she said, “I want the two of you to spend at least one night acting like a family.”

           His eyes went wide, but (Y/N) didn’t stop. “You both are so rude and disrespectful to each other, and I understand it’s because neither of you know how to act as you’ve both grown without knowing one another, but still,” she stressed, “You are father and son, and even if you are on different sides, it’s the Christmas season and you should be a family.”

           Rising from her seat, she yanked out her coin purse and pulled out a single pound and a scrap of paper. “Here,” she pointed out. “For the drink.”

           He took them both but raised the paper. “What’s this?”

           (Y/N) glanced at him. “Directions to my cottage at the Davenport Homestead.”

           “Are you sure it’s wise to give this to me?” Haytham murmured, but she placed her palm flat on the table and got in his face.

           “If you send someone after me, he’ll kill them and then you without a second thought,” (Y/N) warned before standing up and continuing, “You’re a bastard, sure, but not that much.” She nodded at the scrap. “Be there by seven…please.”

           And she left him without another word.

***

           It wasn’t a struggle to keep him away from the door, but it was certainly one to keep him from putting his fingers in the food. For what seemed like the millionth time, she whacked at his hand, but he was much too quick and dodged her, sticking out his tongue.

           “Stay out of that, Ratonhnhaké:ton!” she hissed. “It’s not time to eat yet!”

           He let his head loll back and sighed. “But Otsi’tsa, I am hungry.”

           (Y/N) snorted and shoved at his stomach, nodding at the table before handing him a platter of venison. “Go,” she commanded. “And don’t sneak a piece!”

           Connor groaned and did as she asked, but when he set down the plate, he noticed an extra plate. “(Y/N), are we having a guest for dinner?”

           She turned around and faced the fireplace, gnawing at her lips as she searched for an answer. “Uh…sort of?” She could hear the confusion in his voice.

           “What do you mean ‘sort of’?” he asked, and before she could respond, a knock was at the door.

           They turned and she hurried to it before he could, cracking it open slightly. Connor saw the corner of her lip turn up and she opened the door fully, letting the person inside. His amber eyes went wide when his father removed his tricorn and hung it on the coat hanger, his cloak and jacket following.

           (Y/N) tossed him a sheepish grin and hesitated, “…Merry Christmas?”

           All her lover could manage was, “Why?”

           She sighed. “Oh my god, it’s Christmas, you two.”

           Haytham scoffed and glared at her. “I showed up, did I not?”

           Connor cut her off with a hiss. “I can show you out if you would like.”

           “Boys,” she scolded, and at that, they both turned on her with equal looks of disrespect; she rolled her eyes. “Please, let’s just sit at the table and eat dinner.”

           Father and son stared one another down for a full minute before taking their seats, and (Y/N) hoped it would remain civil.

***

           Surprisingly, dinner did remain fairly civil, only a few moments where she had to soothe Connor’s anger—and kick Haytham in the shin underneath the table, no doubt he’d have bruises in the morning.

           They sat by the fireplace, her and Haytham with a mug of cider in their hands, Connor drinking hot chocolate—she had to elbow his father in the side before he could say something that would no doubt set her lover off.

           It was a peaceful moment before Connor questioned, “Why did you come, father?”

           Her eyes darted to Haytham who simply gazed into the fireplace, the golden glow making his steel eyes shimmer. “Because (Y/N) invited me,” he simply returned.

           She let out an exaggerated cough. “Liar.”

           Haytham glowered at her and she shifted her eyes between him and Connor. Finally, he sighed and revealed, “I thought…that you and I should spend the holidays together.”

           Connor huffed a laugh, sarcastically countering, “What, because we are family?”

           His father gazed at him with clear eyes. “Yes.”

           It was the most honest she’d ever heard the man be, and even she was as surprised as Connor was, who simply turned meek and looked at the fireplace with a quiet, “Oh.”

           (Y/N) watched Haytham stare at his feet as he murmured, “This is the first time in…decades…that I have spent a holiday with…family.” A rare smile came across his lips. “I have…enjoyed it.”

           She glanced at Connor and nudged him gently in the side, giving him a smile when he looked at her; after a moment, he sighed and said, “As have I.”

           Watching the two give each other truthful and heartful smiles, she stood and announced, “I have final gifts for you two.”

           Their eyes followed her curiously as she walked to a shelf and came back with two boxes, one red, the other blue. She handed the red to Haytham and the blue to Connor.

           “Here, open them,” she smiled.

           Doing so, they ripped the paper and opened the boxes to see a simple ribbon in each box, Haytham’s ribbon red, and Connor’s ribbon blue.

           (Y/N) tapped Connor’s and explained, “There’s an inscription on each ribbon. I had them made in Boston a while ago.”

           Haytham picked it up and started examining it. “What does it say?”

           “It says, ‘You need glasses’,” Connor quipped, and she snorted when his father glared at him, then looked to her and waited.

           (Y/N) leaned on her lover’s shoulder and replied, “They both say, ‘True wisdom comes to each of us when we realize how little we understand about life, ourselves, and the world around us.’” She glanced at them. “A testament to the fact that you both know so much about the world and it’s realities, yet you still understand so little.”

           She almost laughed at how their faces pinched exactly the same, and she added, “And because I hope that when you wear them, you remember it and make better choices.”

           “Who said I make bad choices?” Connor suddenly asked and (Y/N) cocked a brow.

           “Uh, the Boston Tea Party?” she hinted, and he scowled.

           “There was a purpose in that,” he countered.

           “Yes, destroying good tea,” Haytham argued. He sighed and placed the top back on the box, and she stopped Connor before he could say something about his lack of thanks.

           He stood to his feet and made his way to the door, starting to dress in his jacket and cloak. (Y/N) handed him his hat and he looked at the two of them.

           “Thank you for inviting me,” he said, placing the tricorn atop his head. “I have enjoyed tonight.”

           (Y/N) smiled. “Thank you for being here tonight.”

           Haytham turned to the door, but as his hand gripped the doorknob, he glanced over his shoulder. “I will be having New Year’s dinner at my home in Virginia, if you two would like to come.”

           She nodded. “I would love to.” His gaze shifted to his son.

           Connor took a moment, obviously wrestling with himself before he nodded. “Yes…I would like to be there as well.”