Work Text:
Connor, per usual, tensed up when Aveline slid her hand through the crook of his arm, gloved fingers stroking the roughspun cotton of his shirt. He was taller than her, and so it made it difficult for her to rest her head against his shoulder, but she still managed to do so as they walked down the street. Her skirts brushed along the dirt roads (and she would never tell him how much she hated the dirt and smells of New York, but an irritation had been birthed inside of her when she had to dress like the perfect lady), their steps in sync as they trailed behind their current quarry.
It wasn’t necessary, this closeness. They could have easily followed the man without the need to look like lovers out for a stroll. But Aveline liked to have fun, whether she was hunting or whether it was slowly breaking down her fellow assassin’s walls.
A lovely shade of red brushed across his cheeks. He cleared his throat. Glanced at her. At the back of the fat man who had been stealing freedmen from the North and bringing them South. At her. His dark brow furrowed; it looked like a hairy caterpillar.
A smile tugged across her face. She looked up at him from beneath her lashes. “Dear Connor, what is it?”
“Do we need to walk like this?” If he could squirm away from her touch, he would. She tried very hard to not let her smile grow into a cruel grin.
“You walk too fast,” Aveline told him. Her lashes fluttered, and she rubbed her cheek against his shoulder.
If she could put him in finer clothes, would he wear them? Did it truly matter what he wore? No, to both. But her skin would thank her.
He blinked. Once, twice. “You never have trouble keeping up.” When he looked at her again, a sweeping gaze that took in her attire without seeing her, his mouth tugged into a deep frown. “It’s the dress.”
Aveline was used to drawing the male gaze. There had been a time when it made her uncomfortable, when she was still just a girl and men would leer at her without caring who she was. Not that that had ever changed. Well dressed, well educated, well mannered. It did not matter beyond her pretty face and her less-than status to the men who were most eager to grab at her. But when she had met Agaté, that had changed. She had learned how to harness the stupidity of men and use it to her advantage.
Connor Kenway was not typical nor stupid. He was hard-headed, singularly focused, and perhaps a dash of too-good-for-this-world, and he had never looked at her that way.
It was a little sad how much she wished she could get him to look, just once.
It was a little sad to be in love with a blind man.
“It’s not the dress,” Aveline argued. “You’re too eager, and we are an odd couple in a sea of white.” With her free hand, she swept it to indicate the people also milling about. “I don’t want it to be another Virginia incident.”
Connor sighed. “That was not my fault.”
“I disagree.”
“You always disagree.”
“Your temper got the best of you.”
The look he gave her almost made her laugh, but she didn’t want to draw attention with it. Still, she flashed her teeth at him in a brief grin. Her anger, out of the two of them, was far worse. He could have his outbursts, but he could also maintain his composure much better. She was gunpowder surrounded by fire; he was merely a cannon.
“Perhaps,” he agreed, voice gruff.
“I like when you’re agreeable,” she purred.
He didn’t reply, but his stony stare at their target spoke volumes. He was, as she wanted, very uncomfortable.
It could be simple, Aveline thought, to just tell him her jumbled and confused feelings. While she knew love, she had never felt it for someone else romantically before. She found herself attracted to dear Gérald, of course, but that was - convenient, perhaps? He was her friend, her confidante. It would make sense for the two of them to cement their relationship with marriage. But when did she ever do things that were convenient or simple or just make sense? Love was the sad undercurrent that ran between Mother and Father, pulled apart because of duty. Love was the doting nature of her father, never letting her feel alone or unwanted. Love was Madeleine, raising a daughter that was not her own.
Love was pain. It was a dagger to the heart, and she wasn’t sure she had ever had the desire to feel it herself.
So what was it that made her believe that she could be in love with Connor?
Their target turned a corner. Connor turned and began leading her down an alleyway that would spill out onto the next street.
“Remember,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, “we must follow him to the men he’s stolen.”
Connor nodded.
A rat scurried in front of them and into a rotting pile of something Aveline didn’t want to know what. The sooner they were out of the alley, the better off they would be. She was used to certain awful smells (her nose wasn’t delicate by any means), but something about this city made everything feel like slime had covered her skin.
It was just rather unfortunate that they moved onto the street in front of the despicable George Mason. He stared at the two of them, an odd pair of Indian and African. Maybe he could see it in their eyes, the depth of darkness that came with taking so many lives. Maybe their existence screamed Assassin. Whatever the case was, it was as though this fat, ruddy-colored man knew who they were and what they wanted.
His neck disappeared beneath the collar of his jacket until he was nothing more than a large head on top of an equally large body. Comical, if they weren’t in a precarious situation. He could alert guards, and they would lose this opportunity. Aveline couldn’t chance that. She couldn’t let anyone else lose their freedom.
It was a split second decision.
With a giggle on her lips, she slipped her arm away from Connor’s, her fingers twisting into the collar of his shirt as she pulled him closer. His body had gone rigid in confusion, his feet not quite sure where he was going. Her back hit against the building next to them. She only hoped that Connor would understand.
She tried to not think about how much she had thought of doing this. It had been slightly more romantic in her pragmatic mind, but maybe-- No, it was too much to hope for that he would just know. Connor Kenway knew about killing and justice and running a homestead.
He did not know how to sift through feelings.
He smelled of the sun and sweat. He smelled of the land, as if he had been born from it instead of from his mother. His mouth was as stiff as the rest of his body as she pressed her lips against his, pulling him closer, closer. He was warm and awkward, her skirts too wide for them to fit comfortably together. Her fingers moved, sliding to the back of his neck. The soft fuzz of his hair brushed against her fingertips.
“Kiss me,” she told Connor, her lips brushing against his as she spoke, breath mingling. Her hand was a guide, bringing him to her.
In a kinder world, he would melt into her kiss and find his own passion for her, tucked deeply inside of her.
Connor kissed her, but they were soft and quick pecks, as if he were a chicken eating feed. His face had become a shade of red that didn’t quite have a name yet. His hands trembled and rested on her upper arms, sometimes squeezing her muscles too hard.
Aveline wasn’t an expert, but it was painfully obvious that he had no idea what he was doing.
Her free hand came to cup his cheek, thumb brushing along his skin. He was looking at her, taking her in. She stared back at him, breathing the word “relax” in the space between them.
A hand came to rest on her shoulder, his fingers making soft, circling patterns on her bare skin. A soft noise escaped her. It was so random, so innocuous. It was enough to make him kiss her a little harder, his lips staying in one place against her own. There was promise here. It was strange, but desire still pulsed inside of her body.
What made her believe she was in love with him?
That she would kiss him like this and still want to be with him.
She pulled away, still holding him close. Could he see what she felt?
“He’s moving again,” she murmured.
His lips parted as if he were going to say something but silence had always been his strongest suit. His hands dropped from her body like lead weights. But he didn’t move away from her touch, didn’t immediately get back on track.
“Is this something we should talk about?” he asked her. “Do you want flowers?”
“What?”
“Women like gifts.”
“Connor-- we should… Mason is getting away.”
He glanced over his shoulder, frowning deeply. She let him go because if she kept touching him, she might not have stopped. Flowers.
“We will talk about this.” It sounded like a threat but felt like a promise.
She smiled at him, a quirky twist of her mouth. “You’re quite adorable.”
“Don’t.” But he smiled softly back at her.