Chapter Text
Connor was panting in the night air. His heart pounding in his ears as he leaped overturned carts and ducked under carriages to avoid the persistent Templar at his heels. He scrambled up the brick buildings, fingers still somewhat unfamiliar with the strange surfaces.
This was meant to be a quick jaunt into the streets of Boston. A delivery for Achilles, nothing more. It had all gone awry when he’d drawn the unwanted attention of the Templar soldier. Connor couldn’t figure out for the life of him why though? He cast about as he stole around corners and past bustling shops, none of which adorned with a poster bearing his likeness. Not even the nearby town crier was saying a thing about a ‘young native.’
Ah, an open window. Connor dove through startling the inhabitant (a woman cradling a wailing baby) and exploded out the opposite window. He hit the ground in a roll and rounded one last corner to an alley to ensure he was hidden as he knelt to catch his breath.
Just like that, the wind was knocked out of him as a force slammed into him from above. Connor made to struggle but the templar leaned down to whisper in his ear, “Gotcha now, no need to struggle.”
Connor twisted but his hands were pinned behind his back, he could feel rope binding his wrists. “There now,” the Templar said and Connor felt him sit up, presumably to admire his handiwork. “That was a merry chase you sent me on! The boss weren’t lyin’! You’re right quick you are!” He chuckled and wrestled Connor over so that he was on his back.
Connor saw this as a chance to spit in his attacker’s face. The Templar jerked away with a sound of disgust and immediately drew his fist back to deliver a blow to the teen’s unprotected face. Connor felt his teeth rattle as his head banged against the pavement. His vision swam and blood poured from his—thankfully unbroken—nose. He uttered a curse in Mohawk.
The Templar tugged Connor roughly to his feet pulling his hands high over his head. Connor guessed there had to be a hook or something there because suddenly his attackers two hands were free; one was gripping his hair and the other was cuffing his cheek. “Fiesty, ain’cha? Still…” the hand that hit him dragged Connor’s curtains of black hair out of his face uncovering the freckled hybrid skin beneath. “Th’ boss must see something in you. He might not mind…”
The Templar seemed to be talking himself into something. “Nothin’ wrong with gettin’ a taste o’ wot you paid for…” The hand holding Connor’s hair traveled to his chin. From his haze Connor could tell something was about to happen, he just wasn’t sure what it was. It felt as though fingers were all over him, undoing lacings, popping buttons, the hands gave up at his pants and simply cut them away. “No,” Connor moaned and blood from his nose trickled down his lips. The sound of his own voice made his head pound. The Templar shushed him and ran fingers over the exposed flesh of his chest, fingering the nipples to their full hardness. No, but this was wrong. Something horribly wrong was happening.
When the wet heat of a mouth closed over the side of his neck and the press of a fully hardened cock nudged at his belly Connor began to struggle anew. Hands were separating his legs. Greedy fingers searching for something…and they found it. The unwelcome finger jammed inside Connor forced more words of Mohawk from the boy’s unfettered lips but it wasn’t until he felt the press of something more, the push of something much larger and more lubricated than a finger did he seem to snap to his senses.
The man pulled back to grin at Connor who took the opportunity to smash his face into that of the Templar. Then in an amazing feat of flexibility, Connor kicked the man hard in the chin. He heard his skull crack as it hit the brick wall opposite them.
There was a repetitive dull thudding. The abrupt physically exertion of killing the man had been too much. The thudding grew louder…footsteps? Boots. Someone was coming closer…
“Hm…” the voice didn’t sound surprised and Connor could just make out a blurry patch of blue bending over the crumpled templar. “Well, really I suppose I should’ve come for you myself.” The voice’s English accent was tinged with exasperation and the face it belonged to came into focus for a moment.
“Father?” Connor whispered.
“So you know me? Let’s get you home,” Haytham was doing something to the bindings holding his arms over his head and Connor blearily thought, home? as the world dissolved around him.