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Connor crashed into Haytham’s estate with a bang, staggering past furniture and pushing through doors before slowly and painfully dragging himself up the staircase. Blood oozed from the wounds in his shoulder, throat and thigh, staining his robes and dripping onto the carpeted floor.
He had to reach his father. He had to make sure he was all right.
At last he made it to the landing at the top of the stairs, pausing for a moment to grip the railing and catch his breath, knuckles white with the effort of keeping himself upright.
He heard someone running and forced his head up to see who it was.
Haytham appeared from the darkened corridor, his face filled with concern as he took in Connor’s appearance.
“What happened?” he demanded.
“Mercenaries,” Connor choked out. “All dead.” He smiled briefly, rueful, as he pressed a hand to his neck and saw it come away bloody. “They were difficult.”
“Can you walk?” Haytham asked.
Connor nodded. However as he let go of the railing, his knees buckled beneath him, and he lost consciousness before he even hit the floor.
Haytham cursed and crouched by him, painfully aware he wasn’t able to move Connor himself. Brushing the Assassin’s blood and sweat-stained hair from his face, he stood and called for one of his servants to fetch a doctor.
When Connor came to, he found himself in a bed. Haytham’s bed, he realised, recognising the room.
“Are you all right?” his father asked from where he was seated by the bed.
Connor thought about it. “My head hurts,” he admitted.
Haytham nodded. “Yes, you have a concussion,” he explained. “On top of everything else. You’re lucky to be alive.”
Connor’s lips quirked. “So I have been told.”
“I don’t know what you’re smiling about,” Haytham said gruffly, but Connor saw his lips twitch in response.
“Thank you for caring for me,” Connor said sincerely. “I-... I am sorry for the trouble.”
“It was no trouble,” Haytham said dismissively. “The doctor did all the work.”
Connor rolled his eyes, shifting closer so he could grab a fistful of Haytham’s coat and drag him closer. Once Haytham was within range, he kissed him, feeling his father’s surprised intake of breath against his mouth before he was kissing back.
Connor felt Haytham’s relief and affection bleed into the kiss as it deepened, and couldn’t help smiling as the Templar drew back.
“Thank you,” he said again, firmly.
Haytham looked a bit dazed. “I-... you’re welcome,” he replied.
Connor refused to be confined to bed rest, but reluctantly agreed to be careful until he was fully healed.
About a week after the altercation with the mercenaries, Connor returned to Haytham’s property for a visit.
Haytham looked him over appraisingly as he opened his bedroom window so the Assassin could climb through. “You look tired,” he said accusingly.
Connor snorted. “No doubt.” His muscles ached, and his wounds had been paining him for all that they were healing.
Haytham closed the window, then returned his attention to his son. “When was the last time you bathed?” he asked pointedly. “You look as if you’ve been rolling in mud.”
“Stop it,” said Connor sharply, uncomfortable with his father’s fussing.
Haytham sighed. “If you’re not going to take care of yourself, then someone else is going to have to,” he said reasonably, and to Connor’s utter horror he turned on his heel so he could ring for a servant to attend him.
“What are you doing?” Connor demanded.
Haytham raised an eyebrow. “Calling for a bath. If you think I’m letting you on any of my furniture like that, let alone my bed, you are sadly mistaken.”
Connor frowned at him, but did not reply.
After the tub was brought up and filled with steaming hot water, Connor reluctantly stripped off and let himself sink into the bath.
It was a relief to feel clean again if he was being honest with himself – not that he’d ever admit it to Haytham.
He let himself soak for a while before starting to soap himself clean, ignoring the Templar who had returned to the book he’d been reading before Connor had arrived.
To Connor’s annoyance, his arms were quite stiff, and sharp pain shot through them if he tried to bend them too much.
Haytham glanced up at Connor’s hiss of pain as he tried to wash his back, and set his book aside once more.
“Oh stop hurting yourself, you stubborn fool,” he said, but there was no heat in his voice. He knelt by the bath and rolled up his sleeves. “Give me the soap.”
“What?” Connor twisted to try and look at his father but quickly gave up as his neck was jolted painfully. He sighed, and offered the soap to the man behind him.
A warm hand rested lightly on one of his shoulders, encouraging him to lean forward, and then he felt the bar of soap being drawn carefully across his back, mindful of his many bruises and scratches.
Connor sighed and closed his eyes, deciding to enjoy this odd brand of tenderness, rare as it was.
They sat in peaceful silence for a time, broken only by the occasional splash of water.
A soap-slick hand gently worked its way across Connor’s back, rubbing in the suds and easing his tired muscles. All too quickly it was gone, and the Assassin couldn’t help exhaling at the loss.
“We’d better wash your hair too,” Haytham murmured by his ear.
Connor could only nod in agreement, too tired to argue.
Ducking his head beneath the water to wet it, Connor settled back against the edge of the bath, closing his eyes again as he felt his father’s clever fingers untying his braid and setting the coloured beads aside for later. Those same fingers combed through the rest of his hair, untangling the knots before beginning to rub soap into the strands to wash it.
Connor couldn’t help exhaling in quiet pleasure as he felt fingertips massaging his scalp, and Haytham chuckled in response, indulging him longer than was necessary to clean him.
“All right,” Haytham said at last, letting his hands drop. “Rinse it out.”
Connor obeyed without thought, slumping back down in the tub to let the water wash out all the soap and dirt and blood that had previously matted it.
When Haytham decided that he was clean, he wrapped Connor in a large towel that had been warmed by the fire and dried him off.
“Go and sit by the fire,” he ordered, soon coming to kneel behind him so he could comb his wet hair out and redo his braid.
“Are you satisfied?” Connor asked, amused.
Haytham smirked at him, leaning in to press a kiss to Connor’s cheek. “You’ll do I suppose.”
“I am relieved,” his son replied dryly, then turned so he could kiss Haytham properly.
Warm and comfortable by the heat of the fire, Connor was content to curl up in Haytham’s loose embrace, breathing in the familiar scent of him.
The Templar looked down at him in fond exasperation, letting him rest against him for a while before coaxing him up so he could get into bed.
Making sure the covers were tucked around Connor properly, Haytham sat by him and stroked his mostly dry hair until he fell into a deep sleep.