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Description
I'm having way too much fun with this verse. Another reply to an ask on my tumblr ask blog: [link]

--

They met on what should have been a perfect day; a day with not a single cloud in the sky, where the sun shone bright. Haytham awoke that morning wanting nothing more than to spend on of the few work-free days he had sitting in the shade with a cup of tea and finally making some progress on his to-read pile of books, instead he got this.

Haytham had been sitting at the kitchen counter, waiting for the kettle to boil and idly playing with the dog-eared pages of his novel, when the doorbell rang. Part of him seriously considered not answering but his gentlemanly side wouldn’t allow it. He begrudgingly pulled himself from his seat and strode to front door.

He pulled the door open enough to be considered polite but not enough to be welcoming, it was his day off after all and he would rather not spend it catering for an uninvited guest. Standing on his doorstep, looking bashful and hesitant was a boy. He looked in his late teens and, although Haytham had never seen the boy in his life, he looked oddly familiar.

When the door opened the boy’s expression morphed into a strange mixture of delight and excitement as well as nervousness and fear. His dark eyes flicked around the landing before he spoke with the most timid voice Haytham had ever heard. “Um… Haytham Kenway?”

“That’s what it says on the fence.” Haytham conceded sharply as he crossed his arms. Even with the affirmation the boy stayed silent. “Well?” The boy’s eyes snapped up to his. “Who are you? Why is it you are here, on my doorstep?”

Delayed comprehension seemed to dawn on the boy as he finally realised his prompt for an introduction. “Oh! Right.” He nibbled his bottom lip and readjusted the strap to the duffel bag he was carrying but still did not answer. This kid was beginning to get on Haytham’s nerves. “I…I’m your son.”

Haytham had witnessed enough practical jokes in his life to know when he was being laughed at and promptly slammed the door in the boy’s face.

He couldn’t understand it but there was something keeping him rooted to the spot. A nagging thought in the back of his mind telling him to stay. Haytham allowed himself to glance outside through the peephole. The boy was shuffling in his spot and shifting his weight between his feet. In his hands was something Haytham couldn’t quite see but the boy’s attention seemed solely upon it. The boy took a deep breath, leant down, and slipped it under the door.

Curious, Haytham picked it up carefully. The paper was old and weathered, like it had travelled the world twice over and had lived to see better days. He held it tentatively in his fingers and gently unfolded it. A pain shot through his chest as recognition dawned upon him.

He hadn’t seen this picture in years, nearly two decades, yet it was like being thrust back in time. Memories of silky black hair, a smile that lit up her eyes and crinkled her nose, of sun kissed skin and a copious spattering of freckles. Of laughter, tears, and midnight kisses. Of mornings spent wrapped up together and sweet nothings and promised whispered on sugary breaths. Of the only woman he had ever loved and ever would love.

The force hit Haytham like a blow to the chest and it took an eternity to calm himself. He couldn’t be. Caught between hesitation and undying curiosity, Haytham leant back to the peephole. The boy looked so much like her, and yet so much like him too that it once again stole the breath from his lungs.

He had a son. He had a son. Nothing in his life could have prepared him for this. Many years ago he had resigned himself to a life of solitude. After many failed attempts at romance he realised he would never be able to move on from Ziio and any thoughts of starting a family were lost. Now that his blood was here, he had no idea how to feel.

When he reopened the door the boy, his son, was sitting solemnly on the floor, playing with the zip of his bag. He perked up at the sound of the door.

“What did you say your name was?”

The boy pulled himself off the ground with a tiny smile. “Everyone just calls me Connor.”

Haytham stepped backwards and opened the door further. “Well then, Connor, you had best come inside.”

--

Assassin's Creed (c) Ubisoft
Art (c) Kiaraz

Description
I'm having way too much fun with this verse. Another reply to an ask on my tumblr ask blog: [link]

--

They met on what should have been a perfect day; a day with not a single cloud in the sky, where the sun shone bright. Haytham awoke that morning wanting nothing more than to spend on of the few work-free days he had sitting in the shade with a cup of tea and finally making some progress on his to-read pile of books, instead he got this.

Haytham had been sitting at the kitchen counter, waiting for the kettle to boil and idly playing with the dog-eared pages of his novel, when the doorbell rang. Part of him seriously considered not answering but his gentlemanly side wouldn’t allow it. He begrudgingly pulled himself from his seat and strode to front door.

He pulled the door open enough to be considered polite but not enough to be welcoming, it was his day off after all and he would rather not spend it catering for an uninvited guest. Standing on his doorstep, looking bashful and hesitant was a boy. He looked in his late teens and, although Haytham had never seen the boy in his life, he looked oddly familiar.

When the door opened the boy’s expression morphed into a strange mixture of delight and excitement as well as nervousness and fear. His dark eyes flicked around the landing before he spoke with the most timid voice Haytham had ever heard. “Um… Haytham Kenway?”

“That’s what it says on the fence.” Haytham conceded sharply as he crossed his arms. Even with the affirmation the boy stayed silent. “Well?” The boy’s eyes snapped up to his. “Who are you? Why is it you are here, on my doorstep?”

Delayed comprehension seemed to dawn on the boy as he finally realised his prompt for an introduction. “Oh! Right.” He nibbled his bottom lip and readjusted the strap to the duffel bag he was carrying but still did not answer. This kid was beginning to get on Haytham’s nerves. “I…I’m your son.”

Haytham had witnessed enough practical jokes in his life to know when he was being laughed at and promptly slammed the door in the boy’s face.

He couldn’t understand it but there was something keeping him rooted to the spot. A nagging thought in the back of his mind telling him to stay. Haytham allowed himself to glance outside through the peephole. The boy was shuffling in his spot and shifting his weight between his feet. In his hands was something Haytham couldn’t quite see but the boy’s attention seemed solely upon it. The boy took a deep breath, leant down, and slipped it under the door.

Curious, Haytham picked it up carefully. The paper was old and weathered, like it had travelled the world twice over and had lived to see better days. He held it tentatively in his fingers and gently unfolded it. A pain shot through his chest as recognition dawned upon him.

He hadn’t seen this picture in years, nearly two decades, yet it was like being thrust back in time. Memories of silky black hair, a smile that lit up her eyes and crinkled her nose, of sun kissed skin and a copious spattering of freckles. Of laughter, tears, and midnight kisses. Of mornings spent wrapped up together and sweet nothings and promised whispered on sugary breaths. Of the only woman he had ever loved and ever would love.

The force hit Haytham like a blow to the chest and it took an eternity to calm himself. He couldn’t be. Caught between hesitation and undying curiosity, Haytham leant back to the peephole. The boy looked so much like her, and yet so much like him too that it once again stole the breath from his lungs.

He had a son. He had a son. Nothing in his life could have prepared him for this. Many years ago he had resigned himself to a life of solitude. After many failed attempts at romance he realised he would never be able to move on from Ziio and any thoughts of starting a family were lost. Now that his blood was here, he had no idea how to feel.

When he reopened the door the boy, his son, was sitting solemnly on the floor, playing with the zip of his bag. He perked up at the sound of the door.

“What did you say your name was?”

The boy pulled himself off the ground with a tiny smile. “Everyone just calls me Connor.”

Haytham stepped backwards and opened the door further. “Well then, Connor, you had best come inside.”

--

Assassin's Creed (c) Ubisoft
Art (c) Kiaraz