Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Unit 53A, respond to an unconscious male lying supine at 200 Hudson Yards, 1001 New York. Patient is on the first floor of the parking garage,” the automated voice echoed through the station. The tones jarred Connor out of a light nap, the sound familiar but still unwelcome.

He rubbed his face and pushed himself out of the recliner, stretching as he headed toward the waiting ambulance in the bay. The station was unusually quiet - most crews were either out on calls or making their nightly grocery runs. Connor’s partner, Andres, met him halfway, coffee in hand, and the two climbed into the rig.

Sliding into the passenger seat, Connor pulled his hair back into a ponytail, securing it out of his face before adjusting the Toughbook on the dashboard. The call details were sparse, nothing more than a location and the vaguest description of the situation. His brow furrowed. “Fantastic,” he muttered under his breath.

Connor picked up the radio, his voice steady despite the irritation creeping in. “Central, Unit 53A. Do we have any additional information on the patient?”

“Negative, 53A,” came the clipped response from a woman on the other end. “The caller disconnected immediately after providing the location.”

Connor sighed and leaned back in his seat as Andres flipped on the lights and sirens. “Great. Blind rescue. Love those.”

Andres smirked but didn’t comment, weaving through traffic as they sped toward the scene. Connor stared out the window, the faint hum of adrenaline creeping in as it always did when the tones dropped. He’d been a paramedic for a year now, living a dream that had been forged in tragedy.

The smell of smoke and the roar of flames from years ago still haunted him. He could hear his mother’s voice, desperate but steady as she urged him to run, her words echoing even now. The fire that consumed their home and his mother had burned more than wood - it had burned itself into his heart. It was the night everything changed, the night he swore never to stand helplessly by again. Becoming a medic wasn’t just a career; it was his promise to her.

As they approached the parking garage, Connor snapped himself out of the memory, shaking his head. No room for distractions. The scene came into view - a dimly lit structure with shadows pooling in the corners. Andres slowed the rig as they entered the first level, the sirens echoing eerily against the concrete walls. Connor tugged on his blue gloves as the ambulance rolled to a stop. His eyes scanned the area, taking in the faint outline of a man sprawled on the cold cement. Blood pooled beneath him, glinting under the harsh fluorescent lights.

“Shit,” Connor muttered as he opened the door, stepping out into the cool night air.

Connor crouched near the patient, his gloved hands hovering as he assessed the scene. The man was middle-aged, dressed in a blood-soaked suit, his chest rising and falling shallowly. A dark stain spread beneath him, but Connor couldn’t immediately tell where the blood was coming from. He reached for the trauma shears on his belt, ready to cut away the fabric and find the source.

“Hold up,” Andres said, glancing over his shoulder toward the parking garage entrance. “We should wait for PD to secure the scene.”

Connor hesitated, glancing around the dimly lit garage. Shadows danced in the fluorescent glow, and every creak and echo felt like a warning. Andres was right. If the assailant was still nearby, they’d both be screwed. As if on cue, the sound of squealing tires and flashing red-and-blue lights filled the garage. A police cruiser skidded to a stop near the ambulance, and two officers stepped out, hands hovering near their holsters.

“Medics, hang back until we clear the area,” one of them barked, their voice sharp and commanding.

Connor stood, stepping back reluctantly as the officers moved in, their flashlights cutting through the darkness. He narrowed his eyes, uncertain if he should continue to comply because this man was quite literally bleeding out, but decided it was best to listen. The tug of desire to help pulled harshly at his heart, though his feet led him back to the ambulance, where he and Andres stood, leaning against the box. The harsh beams illuminated the blood trail smeared across the cement, leading toward a set of stairs in the corner. The officers exchanged glances before one spoke into his radio.

“Unit 45 on scene. Unconscious male with significant blood loss. No sign of the suspect. Requesting additional units to secure the perimeter.”

Connor’s jaw tightened as he watched the officers sweep the area. Every second felt like an eternity. The man on the ground didn’t have time for waiting games, but protocol was protocol.

“All clear,” one officer called out after a tense minute. “Area’s secure. Medics, he’s all yours.”

Connor didn’t waste a moment, dropping to his knees beside the patient as Andres brought over the trauma bag. With practised hands, Connor cut away the man’s shirt, pushing the blood-soaked fabric aside to assess the injuries. His eyes scanned the man’s pale chest and abdomen, quickly identifying the sources of the bleeding. Three gunshot wounds on his torso. He ignored them momentarily as he performed a rapid head-to-toe assessment to ensure he did not miss anything critical that needed to be corrected immediately.

“Andres, grab vitals,” Connor said, pressing gloved hands over two of the wounds to slow the bleeding. The dark, steady flow of blood pooled beneath them, thick and unrelenting.

Andres nodded, quickly wrapping the blood pressure cuff around the man’s arm and pressing the button for the cardiac monitor to take a blood pressure reading. “BP is 80/50. Pulse 142 and thready. SpO2 at 89%.” He relayed the numbers as Connor leaned closer to the patient’s chest.

The sound of air escaping drew Connor’s attention, a telltale sucking sound from a chest wound. He snarled in frustration, holding pressure with one hand while reaching out with the other. “Occlusive dressing,” He demanded.

Andres slapped the dressing into Connor’s outstretched hand. With efficiency, Connor cleared the area of as much blood as possible using gauze, then secured the dressing over the wound, taping down three sides to allow air to escape without collapsing the lung further.

“Let’s roll him,” Connor instructed, and together they carefully turned the man onto his side. Two exit wounds greeted them, both oozing dark blood. Andres packed the wounds with gauze, applying firm pressure as Connor secured them in place.

“Alright, let’s get him loaded.”

Working in unison, they moved the man onto the stretcher, securing him with straps and ensuring the trauma dressings stayed in place. They loaded him into the ambulance and Connor reached for the radio to contact the hospital, his voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through him. Connor wiped sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his uniform, his gloved hands slick with blood despite changing gloves twice. The steady beeping of the cardiac monitor was a small comfort, though the man’s vitals remained far from stable.

“BP is holding at 80/50,” Andres called from his seat, adjusting the flow on the bag-valve mask as he delivered precise ventilations. “Pulse is still 142, weak and thready.”

Connor grimaced, eyeing the blood-soaked dressings covering the man’s torso. The makeshift occlusive dressing over the sucking chest wound seemed to be doing its job, but the other injuries continued to ooze, staining the stretcher beneath him. Time wasn’t on their side. Connor cursed under his breath as he leaned closer to assess the man’s airway. The rhythmic rise and fall of his chest was faint and irregular, and dark streaks of blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. Connor reached for the suction catheter in the trauma bag, connecting it to the machine in the unit as Andres held the bag-valve mask ready.

“Suctioning the airway,” Connor said, turning the unit on. The sharp hum of the suction filled the ambulance as he guided the Yankauer catheter into the man’s mouth, clearing blood and ensuring the pathway was as open as possible. A gurgling sound accompanied the removal of each blockage, but the man’s breathing remained shallow.

“I don’t like this,” Connor muttered, setting the suction aside once the airway was relatively clear. “Bag him for now. I’m prepping for intubation.”

Andres nodded, positioning the mask securely over the man’s nose and mouth while squeezing the bag in measured intervals. “SpO2 is holding at 91%, but barely,” Andres reported, glancing at the monitor.

Connor grabbed the laryngoscope and an endotracheal tube from the trauma kit. He tilted the patient’s head back slightly, opening the airway further and inserted the blade of the laryngoscope. Blood still pooled in the back of the throat, partially obscuring his view of the vocal cords.

“Suction again,” Connor ordered and Andres handed him the catheter. With one hand holding the laryngoscope and the other controlling the suction, Connor cleared the blood as much as he could.

“There,” he murmured, catching a glimpse of the cords. Without hesitation, he inserted the ET tube, guiding it through the opening and into the trachea. Once the tube was in place, he withdrew the laryngoscope and inflated the cuff to secure it.

“Check placement,” he said, stepping back slightly as Andres attached the bag-valve mask to the tube.

“Breath sounds equal,” Andres confirmed, listening to the patient’s chest with his stethoscope. “No sounds over the stomach.”

Connor glanced at the monitor, relieved to see the capnography waveform indicating proper placement. “ET tube secured,” he said, taping it in place with a tube tamer. “Keep ventilating. Let’s keep him stable long enough to get to the hospital.”

With knowing movements, he established an IV in the patient’s antecubital fossa, thanking whatever paragods were out there that he was able to get an IV going there. He adjusted the flow on the IV line, letting the saline drip faster in an attempt to boost the man’s perfusion.

“Keep him on the BVM,” Connor said, his voice calm but edged with urgency. “We need to maintain those sats.”

“SpO2 is up to 96%,” Andres confirmed. Connor breathed a sigh of relief. 96% was good.

Connor grabbed another set of gauze and applied firm pressure to one of the chest wounds, his hands steady despite the adrenaline coursing through him. “Stay with me,” he muttered, more to himself than the unconscious patient.

The rig swayed as Andres navigated the city streets, the sirens wailing above the hum of the equipment. Connor reached for the radio and pressed the transmit button.

“Central, Unit 53A en route to NY Presbyterian with a critical trauma patient. Male, approximately 50, multiple GSWs to the chest. BP 84/58, pulse 139, SpO2 96% on BVM at 15 liters. Two large-bore IVs running NS wide open. Patient has a GCS of 3. ETA, six minutes.”

He set the mic aside and leaned over the patient again, checking the man’s pupils. Equal but sluggish. Not ideal.

“This guy’s hanging on by a thread,” Andres mumbled, as if he read Connor’s mind, although he had his eyes on the road.

“And we’re not cutting that thread,” Connor replied firmly.

He glanced at the cardiac monitor again, the erratic rhythm a stark reminder of how precarious the situation was. The man needed a trauma surgeon. Connor could only buy time.

As the rig turned into the hospital bay, Connor secured the IV lines and ensured the dressings were in place. “Let’s move,” he said as they stopped, pulling the stretcher out and rushing toward the trauma team waiting at the doors.

Connor delivered his report to the trauma team as they wheeled the stretcher inside, stepping back as the team took over. The weight of responsibility shifted off his shoulders, but the tension lingered in his chest. He let out a shaky breath, wiping a bloody glove across his forehead in a futile attempt to clear the sweat.

Andres paused beside him, silent but present, as Connor slid down the wall and rested his arms on his knees. The adrenaline that had carried him through the call ebbed away, leaving him drained and overwhelmed. He stared at the polished floor beneath him, his breaths coming slower as he tried to steady himself. The man was in the hands of the hospital now. There was nothing more to be done. Connor had ensured he’d made it this far. It was enough.

After a few moments, Connor nodded to himself, pulling his gloves off and letting them drop into the nearby biohazard bin. He pushed himself to his feet, his movements stiff but resolute. “Let’s get those signatures,” he said, more to himself than to Andres, who gave him an understanding nod.

As they walked back to the ambulance, Connor couldn’t shake the image of the man’s face and blood-soaked shirt. Calls like this stuck with him, no matter how many he ran. Something about this one, though, left an ache in his chest. Shaking his head, he climbed into the rig, forcing himself to focus. There wasn’t time to dwell. The next call awaited.

Chapter Text

It had been a couple of weeks since Connor had found that strange man lying in a pool of blood in the parking garage. He had been on countless calls since then, each one demanding his focus, but his mind kept flickering back to him. He never dwelled this long on a patient. Even after the debriefing that night, when he and Andres returned to the station exhausted, Connor couldn’t shake the man from his thoughts.

Did he survive?

Who was he?

Did what I do even make a difference?

The questions clung to him like a shadow. He sighed, stepping into a cool shower, hoping the water would wash the unease away. But as he stood there, watching the streams swirl around his feet, his mind betrayed him. The water darkened, turning red. Blood swirled in lazy spirals down the drain, and an eerie gasping sound filled the air. His heart raced as his surroundings began to warp. Blood clots formed in the water, running alongside his feet. He tried to step back, to break free from whatever had him rooted in place, but his body wouldn’t listen.

A strangled gurgle broke the silence, and it took him a horrifying moment to realise it came from his own throat.

Move!

A knock on the bathroom door jolted him back to reality.

“Connor?” A voice called from the other side, and he exhaled shakily, his shoulders slumping.

“Yeah?” he managed, his voice cracking, as if it didn’t belong to him. Distorted. Disconnected. Dis-

“It’s me. Kanen. You forget I was bringing breakfast?”

Connor closed his eyes, pressing his forehead against the cool tile. Of course. Kanen. He’d completely forgotten his best friend was coming over this morning. Another deep breath. “Be right out.”

He finished his shower quickly, letting the water calm the lingering heat of his daydream. He had nightmares recently, ones where he lost that patient, over and over again, in different ways. Sometimes the stranger would code in his ambulance. Sometimes Connor would watch him get shot, unable to do anything. Sometimes he would run back to the ambulance in the parking garage, trying to get the trauma bag, but couldn’t get the doors unlocked. It was a repetitive nightmare, but different scenarios every night. He never was this shaken up by a call. Part of him wondered if he would benefit from therapy, but he didn’t know if he could make time to sit down with a shrink.

He sighed and turned off the water, drying off, but taking his time leaving the bathroom. He leaned back against the counter and looked over his hands, recalling how they were covered in blood, so much blood. Remembering that his best friend was waiting for him, pulled on a black muscle shirt and white joggers. He left to go find out where Kanen went to and found him in the kitchen, pulling out two plates of breakfast burritos and setting some coffee cups on the counter.

“Saved your ass again,” Kanen said without looking up, tearing open a packet of hot sauce. “What would you do without me?”

Connor let out a weak laugh, using a small towel to dry his hair. “Starve, probably.”

“Definitely.” Kanen glanced up and frowned. “You good? You look like you’ve seen some shit this morning.”

Connor hesitated, then leaned against the counter with a sigh. “It’s…nothing. Just a call from a couple weeks ago.”

Kanen gave him a look. “Bullshit. You don’t get hung up on calls. What’s going on?”

Connor bit the inside of his cheek, wrestling with himself. He knew Kanen wasn’t the type to push, but he also wouldn’t let it go if he thought something was actually wrong. Finally, he sat down, wringing his hands anxiously, leaning back with a heavy sigh. Where to begin? Kanen might not have been in the medical field, but he was a social worker, so he had seen his fair share of bad things.

“There was this guy,” he started. “Multiple GSWs, parking garage, middle of the night. He was lying in a pool of blood, barely holding on. We did everything we could, but I…I don’t know if it was enough. I keep seeing him, you know? Like he’s stuck in my head.”

Kanen listened quietly, his face unreadable. “You did everything you could, right?”

Connor nodded. “Yeah, but—”

“No buts. You did your job. You’re not the Creator, Connor. You can’t save everyone.”

“I know, but this guy…” Connor trailed off, shaking his head. “I don’t know what it is about him. There’s something about him, Kanen. Something I can’t shake.”

Kanen studied him for a moment, then pushed one of the burritos toward him. “Eat first. Overthinking on an empty stomach makes everything worse.”

Connor chuckled despite himself, the corners of his mouth twitching up. “Yeah, yeah.”

Even if Kanen didn’t always know what to say, Connor was grateful for his childhood friend’s steady support. Kanen was a grounding presence, always making sure Connor ate, rested, and took care of himself, especially after particularly rough calls. But that didn’t stop Connor from wanting to sit around and dwell on the situation. He wanted to ruminate, replaying the call over and over in his mind, taking apart every decision he’d made. Could he have done something differently? Something more?

“Are you going to eat that, or are you just going to stare at it?” Kanen's voice cut through his thoughts.

Connor sighed and reached over, poking halfheartedly at the food. “I’m eating.”

Kanen raised an eyebrow, gesturing with his fork. “That’s not eating. That’s making the burrito feel bad about itself.”

Connor shot him a look but reluctantly picked up the burrito, taking a small bite. It wasn’t that it tasted bad, he just couldn’t focus on it. Across the table, Kanen was scrolling through his phone, oblivious to Connor’s spiraling thoughts. For a moment, Connor wished he could shove the images in his head aside just as easily as Kanen swiped through memes.

But instead, his brain looped back to the call. Maybe if he’d defied the police and moved quicker. Maybe if he’d started interventions sooner, or…Fuck. Did it even matter? The guy could be alive. He could be dead. Connor didn’t know. All he knew was that he’d done enough to get him to the hospital, but had it been enough?

Kanen’s voice pulled him out of his head again. “What about this call is bothering you so much? You’ve seen plenty of people get shot before. How is this different?”

Connor sighed, wrapping the food with Saran wrap. Kanen followed him into the bedroom and he glanced at his friend, who had made himself comfortable on the edge of the bed, scrolling his phone again. “I don’t know,” he said quietly, shaking his head. He tugged on his work pants with a sigh. “There’s just something about him. Something I can’t put my finger on.”

Kanen looked up, setting his phone aside. “You think you knew him?”

Connor hesitated, his hand hovering over his belt buckle. “No. It’s not that. It’s more like…I don’t know. Like I should know him. Like he’s familiar, but he’s not. Does that make sense?”

Kanen gave him a long, thoughtful look. “No. But I think you’re losing it, buddy.”

Connor snorted despite himself. “Thanks for the support.”

Kanen had given him a ride to work, dropping him off in front of the station. “Have a good shift, pookie,” Kanen teased, leaning over to try and kiss him playfully.

Connor rolled his eyes, pushing him away with a smirk. “Get out of here, before I punch you in the face,” he quipped, earning a dramatic gasp and a loud cackle from Kanen.

“Love you too, bestie,” Kanen shot back before racing out of the parking lot, leaving Connor shaking his head. He lingered for a moment, watching the car disappear around the corner, then turned to head inside. As much as he appreciated Kanen’s antics, his thoughts still felt heavy, clouded by the events of the last couple of weeks.

The station was alive with its usual rhythm: dispatch chatter humming faintly through the air, the murmur of conversations in the lounge, and the clank of a coffee mug being set too hard on a counter. He clocked in, trying to shake off the unease lingering in his chest.

The morning calls came quickly. The first was an elderly patient with chest pain, straightforward and routine. Connor worked through the motions with practiced ease, offering reassurance and following protocol without much thought. The second call was even less stressful: a teenager involved in a minor fender bender, uninjured but shaken, with anxious parents who insisted on transport “just to be safe.”

By the time they returned to the station, the day felt like it was finally settling into something manageable. Connor and Andres spent time debriefing, exchanging jokes, and catching up on station gossip. These moments of camaraderie were Connor’s favourite part of the job, the calm between the storms.

“You cooking tonight?” Andres asked as Connor stood to stretch.

“Yeah, I guess so,” Connor replied, cracking his knuckles. “Not like anyone else ever volunteers.”

Andres chuckled. “You’re the only one who can make something edible out of station leftovers.”

Connor snorted but didn’t argue. He was halfway to the kitchen when the tones dropped, sharp and commanding, cutting through the relative quiet. He froze mid-step, the sound making his pulse quicken as his body instinctively prepared for action.

“Unit 53A, respond to 200 Hudson Yards, 1001 New York, for a 50-year-old male complaining of chest pain, shortness of breath, and a cough.”

Chapter Text

Racing through the streets of New York City, Connor and Andres were running through differentials with each other. Their first thought was a heart attack, given that the patient was older. Chest pain was the golden ticket - the symptom that made them assume. Knowing that there were always different variables at play, they discussed other ideas.

“Possible aortic dissection? I mean, they didn’t mention any back pain, but who knows,” Andres offered as he slowed down to clear an intersection at a red light.

“Mmm, maybe. It could happen, but let's think horses, not zebras,” Connor answered, looking at the information on the Toughbook. “COPD could be an issue, given the man’s age.”

“Yeah, or maybe he’s just having a panic attack,” His partner added, slowing down once more as they approached a towering building that looked like it belonged in a superhero movie.

A giant sign with a futuristic looking font read “Abstergo” on the front of the building and he wondered if he had seen this building before. Certainly he had, maybe he ran a call or two here, but nothing seemed to stick out to him about it. Connor raised an eyebrow, but slipped on gloves anyway and hopped out of the unit. Andres followed after turning off the siren, leaving the lights flashing. Connor pulled out the stretcher and Andres grabbed the front of the stretcher, tossing on the cardiac monitor and airway bag, leaving Connor to lead them to the building.

As the front doors slid open, they were met by what appeared to be a secretary and a security guard. Connor gave a brief nod of acknowledgment and followed them to the elevators, listening intently as they relayed information to the duo. He braced against the stretcher as Andres collapsed it, watching as the elevator slowly descended its shaft.

“The man’s name is Haytham Kenway. He’s the CEO here,” The man explained confidently and Connor noted a faint accent, but he could not place the country.

Connor nodded and allowed Andres to go head first into the elevator when the machine dinged and the doors slid open with a slight woosh. “Tell me more. What happened? What was he doing before the pain started?”

“Well, he wasn’t doing much of anything, really. He was just getting ready for a meeting in ten minutes when he felt pain in his chest. He’s sitting in his office, I will need to let you in. Security purposes and all,” The assistant explained and he wondered how the man was able to stay calm in a stressful moment.

“Got it. Anything else?” His attention was drawn to the numbers, climbing higher and higher, watching them lazily roll from twenty-four to twenty-five to twenty-six. He was glad he wasn’t afraid of heights, because it seemed like they were not stopping anytime soon. “Is he on any medications? Blood thinners?”

“He was prescribed Oxycodone, Cephalexin, Ativan, and was told to take Aspirin, but between us, he is taking none of them. He’s, well, stubborn.” The assistant said with a light laugh and Connor shifted, wondering if the patient was recently in the hospital for something.

“Any recent hospitalisation?” He inquired, not taking his eyes off the numbers which were now in the forties.

The assistant cleared his throat and Connor glanced over at the older man. “Ah, well, he was shot a couple weeks ago. Three gunshot wounds. They barely saved his life.”

Connor froze and he heard Andres inhale sharply, mind racing with the implications of this call. Was it that man he took care of recently? Certainly, people were shot all the time, it was New York City, but this all seemed rather coincidental. His grip on the stretcher tightened as he tried to keep his thoughts steady. Coincidences happened, sure, but this? He swallowed hard and forced himself to focus.

“Three gunshot wounds,” Connor echoed, more to himself than anyone else. “And he’s back to work already?”

The assistant gave a sheepish shrug. “Mr. Kenway isn’t the type to take it easy. He checked himself out of the hospital the moment they said he was stable enough to walk.”

“Of course he did,” Andres muttered under his breath, earning a faint smirk from Connor.

The elevator dinged softly as it reached the fifty-second floor, and the doors opened to a sleek, modern office space. It was all glass, steel, and muted tones, stark contrast to the chaotic energy Connor was used to in the field. The assistant led the way down a long hallway, their footsteps muffled by plush carpet.

“His office is just at the end here,” the assistant said, gesturing toward a heavy set of double doors. “He insisted on not calling 911 at first, but when his breathing worsened…” The man trailed off, clearly uncomfortable.

Connor exchanged a glance with Andres, starting to consider if this was a pulmonary embolism, given his recent hospital stay and trauma. If it really was the same man, he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to be right or not.

The assistant swiped a keycard and pushed the doors open, revealing an office that could only belong to someone as powerful as a CEO. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a breathtaking view of the city below, but Connor’s eyes were immediately drawn to the man sitting at the edge of a massive mahogany desk.

Haytham Kenway.

His shirt was undone at the collar, his typically sharp appearance disheveled. One hand gripped the desk for balance, the other pressed against his chest. His hair was slightly unkempt, as if he was running his hand through it in order to maintain some sort of control. His face was pale, a fine sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead, but his piercing gaze locked onto Connor the moment he entered. He was taken aback by the knowledge that this, indeed, was the man they treated less than a month ago. The man he was inexplicably drawn to, who he couldn’t stop thinking about.

“Mr. Kenway,” he said, quickly developing a professional tone. “Let’s get you checked out.”

Haytham gave a faint nod but didn’t move, looking as pale as Connor had last seen him, his breathing shallow and labored. Andres set the monitor down and began attaching leads to the patient’s chest, while Connor crouched beside him, opening the airway bag. Andres placed the blood pressure cuff around his bicep and the pulse ox on his finger, pressing the NiBP button. He listened to the hum of the machine beginning to constrict the cuff before turning his attention back to his patient.

“Can you tell me what you’re feeling right now?” Connor asked, keeping his tone calm and steady.

“Pressure,” Haytham replied, grimacing. “And…it feels harder to breathe.”

“Any dizziness? Nausea?”

Haytham hesitated. “Some dizziness, yes. No nausea.”

Connor nodded, his mind already ticking through possible causes, trying to confirm or deny what he had suspected moments ago. The assistant had mentioned shortness of breath and a cough earlier, and now with the chest pain and recent medical history, his earlier suspicion of a pulmonary embolism surged to the forefront.

“Let’s get an IV started,” Connor said to Andres, who handed him the necessary supplies without hesitation. He worked quickly, finding a vein and securing the line as Haytham watched him with an inscrutable expression.

“You’ve done this before,” Haytham remarked, his tone laced with faint humor despite the situation.

“Once or twice,” Connor replied without missing a beat. “Now, let’s get you downstairs.”

As they prepared to transfer Haytham to the stretcher, Connor couldn’t shake the feeling that their paths were crossing for a reason. Whatever that reason was, he had a sinking suspicion this wouldn’t be the last time. He tried to reach out to help Haytham sit down, but was waved away with a grumble. The man was definitely stubborn, that much was certain. Connor turned his attention to Andres who was moving the stretcher up and preparing to secure the straps.

“Vitals?” He questioned, assisting with the straps and sliding up the rail, then pulled his pen out of his pocket to write on his glove.

“Blood pressure is 92/54, heart rate is 122, oxygen is 88%, respirations 28, BGL is 132,” Andres explained confidently and Connor wrote the information down.

“There…there is a second…way out of here,” Haytham gasped out the words and Connor grimaced, pulling out a non-rebreather mask to hook up to oxygen.

“No, I don’t…w-want any o-oxyen.”

“Mr. Kenway, you are struggling to breathe. I suspect this might be a pulmonary embolism, but I will leave that for the doctors to decide. Oxygen will help. If you don’t want this mask, I can offer a nasal cannula, but it might not be enough.”

“Fine,” Haytham said with a wave of his hand and Connor raised an eyebrow, but bit back a response.

“Thank you,” He replied, connecting the tubing to the portable oxygen tank.

He slowly inched his way up to six litres per minute and chuckled softly at Haytham’s reaction to air being forcefully blown into his nostrils. “The mask would have been better,” He said amusingly, earning a glare from the older gentleman.

“This is fine,” Haytham grumbled and tried to adjust himself to sit more comfortably on the stretcher.

“Suit yourself,” Connor said with a shrug and followed the assistant out of the office.

The assistant led them a different way out of the building at Haytham’s request, the man likely wanting to hide his condition from his staff. Connor was curious to know if it was because of pride or embarrassment or both. They passed a few workers who averted their gaze and he felt Haytham shift on the stretcher, likely uncomfortable with being seen in this state. Andres stayed quiet for the rest of the walk to the ambulance, but opened the doors of the back of the ambulance for Connor and helped him guide the stretcher inside. Haytham appeared slightly impressed by the ease at which Connor lifted him into the ambulance, but his expression shifted back to unreadable as Connor climbed in the back.

“Since you got vitals inside, I am good to go. Thank you, Andres,” He said to the EMT who nodded and shut the doors with a slam, walking around to the driver’s seat.

Connor grabbed his Toughbook and opened it up, ensuring the information presented belonged to the correct patient. “Now, I usually sit behind the stretcher in the Captain’s chair, but I worry about you losing consciousness.”

While there was some truth to those words, what he really wanted to say was that he felt some inexplicable pull to this man, and for some reason he needed to stay close. “Why don’t you tell me what happened before you started feeling this way? Also, can I put the mask on you, now? Your oxygen levels are worrying me.”

Haytham rolled his eyes but nodded anyway and Connor switched him over to a non-rebreather at fifteen litres per minute. The man seemed to relax a little and he breathed a soft sigh of relief. He listened as Haytham went over the morning, confirming that he was getting ready for the meeting that the assistant mentioned. After going through OPQRST and SAMPLE, Connor checked the IV to ensure it was still flowing. He wanted to ask Haytham where he was from, although the accent was definitely British. Tabling the personal question, he worked on his report, occasionally glancing up to check on him. He rolled his eyes when he saw that Haytham had pulled out his phone, but he didn’t say anything.

When they rolled up to the hospital and Andres parked, Connor stepped outside and stretched, enjoying the cool autumn air. Wordlessly, he pulled the stretcher out of the ambulance and Andres walked with him to the emergency room doors. He typed in the code on the keypad and waited as the doors wooshed open, cold air escaping. He looked back at Haytham to ensure the man was still doing alright, then headed to the nurse’s station. He had called report along the way and was met by a middle aged nurse who directed him to room four. He lined up the stretcher with the bed and offered to pull Haytham over, but the man scooted himself onto the hospital bed without answering. Of course, why did he bother offering? He connected the non-rebreather to the oxygen tree in the room and set up the leads to the cardiac machine in the room, while Andres switched him over to the hospital’s blood pressure cuff and pulse ox.

They weren’t waiting long until multiple nurses from different areas of the emergency room and a doctor filed in behind them. He gave report and stepped aside to allow them to do their job and take over patient care. He continued to glance over at Haytham who was watching him intently, unable to pull himself away completely from the bright eyes of the CEO. Andres had left with the stretcher and as Connor finished giving report, he turned back to face the man on the bed.

“I hope you feel better, Mr. Kenway. Please do better at listening to the doctor and nurses. Also? Take your medication as prescribed,” He arched an eyebrow and rolled his eyes when he was waved off dismissively.

“Noted,” Haytham replied mildly, and Connor ducked out of the room without another word.

He sighed and walked off toward the EMS lounge, hoping to find something to eat and work on his narrative. This was quite the experience. How did he manage to run two calls on Haytham Kenway? It didn’t make sense. He punched in the code to the EMS lounge and gave a brief hello to Andres, then went to the fridge to find food. He pulled out a veggie and hummus wrap, checked the expiration date, and got a Vitamin Water from the fridge. He sat at the table and went to work, though he found it hard to focus. Giving up, he turned his attention to his phone, bringing up Kanen’s contact.

“You’ll never guess who I just transported to the hospital.” He sent a quick text and pressed save on the narrative to work on it later.

“Who? The president? A Kardashian? Elon Musk?” Kanen’s reply was instant and Connor shuddered at the mention of Elon Musk.

“Absolutely not. Thank god. No, the man from a few weeks ago.”

“Gunshot guy?”

“Jesus, Kanen. Yeah, him.”

“That’s strange. It’s like you two were meant to be. Did you kiss him?”

“Literally, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

“You didn’t say no.”

“Goodbye, Kanen.”

Connor turned off the screen and shoved his phone into his pocket, grumbling about Kanen's nonsense. The Toughbook followed, and he cracked open his drink, taking a few slow, measured swallows.

Andres had made himself scarce, probably heading back to the ambulance or going to the restroom. Connor was left alone with his thoughts and that was always dangerous. How many more problems could one man get himself into? Connor exhaled slowly, pressing his palms flat against the table. Haytham Kenway was just another patient, wasn’t he? A name and a face he should have filed away and forgotten, like countless others. But this was different.

He shook his head, standing to toss the half-eaten wrap in the trash. Whatever this was, it would sort itself out. He had a job to do. For now, all he could do was hope the CEO would stay out of trouble long enough for Connor to stop worrying about him. He leaned back in his chair, staring at the fresh fruit on the table that looked…less than fresh. There was something about Haytham Kenway that stuck with him, like a puzzle he couldn’t solve. He shook his head, trying to dismiss the thought, but the unease lingered. He couldn’t help but feel like their paths had crossed for a reason, one he wasn’t sure he wanted to uncover.

Chapter Text

They were written in the stars long before they even knew the sky existed.

Connor had hoped the weight on his chest would ease now, knowing his patient was still alive. A pulmonary embolism could kill quickly if not treated in time, and he'd done everything he could - administering Heparin and stabilising the man. Haytham. The name lingered in his mind like an unfinished thought. Had he done enough? This was the part of EMS he hated most: handing off the patient to the hospital and never knowing what came next. Unless, of course, their name appeared in the news, or worse, in an obituary. Connor shuddered at the thought, pushing it aside.

Two days had gone by since that call, that chance meeting, and Connor was growing antsy. He tried his best to distract himself by spending his day off with Kanen, but no matter what he did, his thoughts still lingered on Haytham. His next strategy was to throw himself into work and try to lose himself in his calls, although none were particularly interesting.

Connor stepped out of the ambulance bay, the sun low on the horizon, painting the parking lot in hues of orange and pink. Dawn. The distant hum of traffic mixed with the soft breeze, but his thoughts were loud, insistent. He tugged at the collar of his uniform shirt and glanced at the coffee in his hand, now cold. His chest felt tight, an odd mirror to the memory of Haytham’s labored breathing.

“Connor!” Andres’ voice startled him, and he nearly spilled the coffee. He turned to see his partner jogging up, a playful grin on his face. He wasn’t used to the energy from his partner, though he assumed the older man hyped himself up with energy drinks to get through the day.

“You good? You’ve been zoning out all day,” Andres said, leaning against the rig and crossing his arms. “Missed half the conversation with dispatch earlier.”

Connor hesitated, then shrugged. “I’m fine.”

Andres tilted his head. “You sure? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. What’s going on?”

Connor sighed, tossing the cup into a nearby trash bin. “It’s nothing.”

“Doesn’t sound like nothing to me.” Andres stepped in front of him, blocking his path. “Come on, man. Let’s talk about it. You know we can’t keep this inside, not in our line of work.”

Connor frowned but didn’t deny it. “I just… I keep wondering if he’s okay. It’s hard not knowing.”

Andres shot him a puzzled look. “He?”

Connor sighed and ran a hand through his hair, pulling through the tangles he didn’t get out with the brush this morning and tying it up. “The patient from the other day. With the PE? He’s the same one that got shot.”

Andres’ features softened and he walked around so he could stand in front of the young medic. “You’re worried about him, huh? I get it. Seeing him twice like that, nearly dying in our ambulance. What about him is making this difficult? You’ve dealt with many sick, injured and dying patients before.”

“I don’t know, it’s like, like this all was supposed to happen. Fate? I guess? I don’t really understand it, but I keep being drawn back to him, no matter how much I try to ignore it,” Connor shoved his hands into his pockets and leaned against a pole next to the ambulance bay.

“Well, I don’t know much about any of that, but what I do know is, you are a great medic. You’ve been through a lot in your young life, more than anyone should have to go through. If you can’t get this guy out of your head, maybe it means something, something worth checking out?” Andres offered with a small smile.

Connor opened his mouth to reply but was interrupted by the dispatch radio crackling to life. “ALS Unit 53A, respond to 8th and Maple for a possible stroke.”

“That’s us,” Andres said, already climbing into the driver’s seat. He glanced back at Connor, who was still standing there, lost in thought. “Hey. You coming, or should I call dispatch to send your ghost instead?”

“I’m coming.” Shaking off his hesitation, Connor slid into the passenger seat, opening the Toughbook and bringing up the information for the call.

As the ambulance roared to life, the lingering image of Haytham’s pale face flashed in his mind. Connor clenched his jaw and focused on the upcoming call, trying to push the thought aside. They drove through the streets, lights flashing and siren wailing, weaving between cars and pedestrians as they headed toward the location. Pulling up to what appeared to be a grocery store, Connor tugged on gloves and looked around to see if he could see anyone in distress. A person ran toward their box, waving their arms, shouting for help.

“Here we go,” Connor sighed and stepped out of the ambulance, meeting the person.

“Please help! It’s my mother. She started slurring her speech and can’t talk right. Come on!” The man shouted, desperation dripping from every word.

Connor raised an eyebrow and was met by Andres with the stretcher, cardiac monitor, and airway bag. They hurried inside and he felt his heart drop, for some reason wishing it could have been Haytham so he could see the man again. He scolded himself for hoping it would be him, understanding it was a rather messed up thought. Haytham was safe in the hospital. He told himself as he slowed down behind the man who was running between the aisles.

Upon reaching the patient, he offered a small smile and kneeled down in front of her, positioning himself to the side so he wouldn’t appear imposing or overwhelming.

“Hi there, my name is Connor and this is my partner, Andres. We are with FDNY. Your son was telling me you’re having difficulty speaking? Well, we are here to take care of you and see what’s going on. Andres is going to check your vitals, okay? That way we can see what’s going on inside,” Connor snapped back into paramedic mode, running through the basics of the call.

“S’nice me-me…y’ou,” The woman said and Connor narrowed his eyes slightly, glancing over at Andres.

The son clutched his mother's hand, his voice trembling. "She was fine this morning, but then she started slurring her words. Please, do something." Connor nodded, his voice steady, but firm.

“Can you do me a favour? Can you smile at me and show your teeth? Like this?” Connor grinned wide to show the patient what he was expecting.

The woman attempted, although he noted the right side of her face was drooping.

“Beautiful smile, ma’am. Thank you. Now, can you hold your hands out like this? Like you are holding a tray of food?” He held out his arms to show her and as she mirrored his movements, the right arm drifted downward. “Try to keep them still, okay?”

“Good job. You’re doing good. I want you to grab my fingers and squeeze as hard as you can,” He held out two fingers on both hands and she grabbed them, squeezing hard. Her right grip was relatively weak compared to the left.

“Okay, well it looks like you could possibly be having a stroke. I know it’s scary, but we are going to get you to the hospital as fast as possible, ok? You’re in good hands. I am going to put these stickers on your chest and then Andres and I will help you onto the stretcher. Your son will come along, he can ride in the front. We will take good care of you,” Connor placed a 4-lead ECG onto the woman and stood up, assisting her with Andres’ help to the stretcher.

Once strapped in, they headed to the ambulance and he listened as Andres relayed the vitals to him. Nothing he said indicated anything other than a stroke and with the blood glucose level being 91, it wasn’t hypoglycaemia. As Andres loaded the woman into the back of the ambulance, he established a 12-lead ECG and an IV in her arm. Within minutes, they were racing back up the streets of New York. NewYork-Presbyterian Hospital was only minutes away.

The woman's eyes flickered open briefly, her gaze unfocused. It brought him back to reality, grounding him in the moment. "Ma'am, you're doing great," He reassured her, moving to sit next to her from the Captain’s chair. "We're almost there."

Once they arrived, Andres helped him pull the patient out of the back of the ambulance and they wheeled her inside. Connor paused for a brief moment as his stomach twisted, a ghostly echo of that night two days ago. The blinding fluorescents above the emergency room doors flickered, just like they had when he first arrived with Haytham. The same triage nurse - tall, with round glasses perched low on her nose - was stationed at the intake desk, and the familiarity sent an uncomfortable chill down his spine. He let out a shaky breath and approached to find out what room they were taking her to. She pointed down the hall and he nodded his thanks, heading in the direction she said.

The scent of Sanicloth was overpowering, sharp and sterile. It clawed at his mind, dragging him back to Haytham's pale face on the stretcher as he struggled to breathe. His hands, steady now, he remembered trembling as he secured the straps around Haytham's chest that night. The woman's faint smile as they rolled her into the room triggered something deep in Connor's chest. It wasn't the same as Haytham's grimace, but the vulnerability was identical. A life clinging to the edge, relying on him to make the right decisions. The weight of that moment crushed him all over again.

As the team took over and began their assessments, Connor stepped back, hands clasped tightly behind his back. He told himself it was relief, that he'd done his part and could move on, but the gnawing pull in his chest argued otherwise. It wasn't just the patient he was handing off; it was the same gnawing feeling as that night. That something, or someone, was slipping through his fingers.

Exhaling deeply, he told Andres he would meet him back at the ambulance in a bit, and that he had something to take care of. Andres gave him a knowing smile and headed to the ambulance with the stretcher. His feet pulled him in the direction of the triage nurse; it was as if someone else was making him move, his steps a faint echo in his mind.

Connor hesitated near the triage desk, his feet rooted to the spot. What if Haytham didn't want to see him? What if he wasn't even awake? His pulse quickened at the thought, but before he could reconsider, his legs carried him forward, as if on autopilot.

“Do you need something, sir?” The nurse asked, arching her eyebrow at him.

Connor realised he was staring. “Sorry. Uh, I was wondering if you could tell me, uh, where a patient is?”

“And you are?” She seemed incredibly unamused by Connor asking prying questions.

"Nephew of Haytham Kenway," he said, forcing the words out as smoothly as he could manage.

His heart pounded in his chest, though he wasn't sure if it was from the lie or the thought of seeing Haytham again. The nurse's skeptical glance made his ears burn, but she didn't question it further.

“Right. Nephew of Haytham Kenway,” She echoed with a sigh and opened up something on her computer. “Room 13 in the MICU. I assume you can find your way there?”

Connor gave a short, brief nod. “I can. Thank you, Miss…?”

“Adams.”

“Oh, like Samu-.”

She cut him off with a sigh, waving him away. “Yes, like Samuel Adams. Goodbye, nephew of Haytham Kenway.”

Connor shrugged and made his way toward the elevator. As the elevator doors slid shut, his thoughts swirled. What was he expecting to find in Room 13? Gratitude? Closure? His hands fidgeted at his sides, his mind circling the same thought over and over. Haytham had almost died, and for some inexplicable reason, that mattered more than it should. He rested his head against the elevator wall, listening as the machine climbed the floors, shuddering as it reminded him of how they ascended the imposing Abstergo tower. It dinged, signalling they were at the correct floor and he stepped out carefully, looking left and right, before exiting.

The hallway outside Room 13 was quieter than he expected, the faint hum of machinery the only sound. Connor paused, his hand hovering over the door, ready to knock, but the weight of uncertainty was pressing down on him. He took a steadying breath, willing his nerves to settle. He swallowed down his feelings of uncertainty and knocked, only opening the door when he heard a voice telling him to come in. He slid past the door and stood in front of it, looking around until his eyes landed on the tall, older British man with grey hair and bright eyes. He looked older than he really was and Connor felt like the room sucked the air from his lungs. Breathtaking.

“Ah, the boy from the ambulance,” Haytham said as he fully came into the room.

“Uh, yeah, sorry. I just…I don’t know. I wanted to see how you were doing?” He scratched the back of his head awkwardly. “I took you to the hospital when you got shot and then again…,” He trailed off, looking toward the man in the bed.

“Luckily I survived,” Haytham replied, adjusting himself in the bed.

Connor nodded and shifted his weight so he stood more on his left side. He pushed his hands into his pocket and looked toward the floor. “Yeah, I wasn’t sure you were going to make it,” His voice was quiet and he found himself taking a couple steps toward the bed.

Silence filled the room before Connor decided to break it again. “My name is Connor, by the way. Well, it’s actually Ratonhnhaké:ton, but everyone calls me Connor cause they can’t pronounce it. Connor Davenport.”

Haytham made a sound which seemed a cross between annoyance and curiosity. “Connor. Well, as you probably know, I’m Haytham Kenway. CEO of Abstergo Industries. You’re lucky you caught me, I was just arranging to be brought to a more…private hospital, since my assistant seemed to have forgotten.”

Connor nodded and crossed his arms over his chest, feeling incredibly awkward. “Oh, a private room? Makes sense, given you’re probably pretty wealthy.” He grimaced at his words and sighed quietly, internally kicking himself for saying that. Changing the subject, he addressed the introduction. “Yeah, I know who you are, Mr. Kenway. What uh, what happened anyway?”

“Why was I shot?” Haytham raised an eyebrow and Connor looked away again. He seemingly ignored the remark about his apparent money. “Probably because the men who robbed me thought I shouldn’t be alive to come after them.”

“Well they missed your vital organs,” Connor breathed and Haytham chuckled lightly.

“I suppose they did,” Haytham remarked and Connor smiled slightly.

“I’m sorry it happened. I’m glad you’re okay,” Connor rocked back onto his heels.

Haytham tilted his head ever so slightly to the side. “Why the concern for a stranger?”

“I-I…well. I…uh,” Connor flushed as he stumbled over his words. “I just was curious…because…cause I saved your life…twice. And we crossed paths….twice. And I care about people a lot,” He stammered and gestured up and down on himself, indicating toward his uniform.

Connor took a deep breath when Haytham didn’t respond, feeling a little uncomfortable at being stared at. Analysed. “Uh, here, take my number? Just…you know, just in case you decide to have another emergency.” Connor hastily scribbled his number down on a strip of paper he pulled from his pocket.

“Another emergency? Hopefully not. Just leave it on the table over there, Connor,” The way he said Connor’s name sent shivers down his spine and a hot heat down to his groin.

“Right…,” He murmured, doing as he was told. “Well, get better, Mr. Kenway. Don’t uh, get shot, again,” As he spoke his radio went off, the dispatcher rattling off details of a person in cardiac arrest. He jumped at the sound and his hand flew to his hip to turn it down. “Sorry about that. I uh, guess I should go. Take care.”

He stumbled out of the room as Haytham watched him and took a deep breath of air once the door closed behind him. Smooth way to give someone your number. Connor thought as he made his way outside. He hoped Haytham would call. For non-emergency purposes, of course.

Connor stepped out into the fresh morning air, the cool breeze brushing against his flushed face. He ran a hand through his hair, letting out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. The weight in his chest hadn’t disappeared, but it felt…lighter, somehow. He looked down at the ambulance where Andres was waiting, his partner giving him a wide grin.

“Everything good?” Andres called out as Connor approached.

“Yeah,” Connor replied, his voice steady but his thoughts still a mess. “Let’s go.”

When they pulled out of the hospital parking lot, Connor couldn’t help but glance back at the towering building, his gaze lingering on the floor where Room 13 was hidden behind layers of glass and steel. He shook his head, trying to clear the images that replayed in his mind: Haytham’s sharp, analytical eyes, the slight smirk on his lips when he said his name.

It doesn’t mean anything, Connor told himself, but deep down, he wasn’t so sure. There was a gravity between them that he couldn’t explain, a pull that made no sense and yet felt inevitable. He shifted in his seat, glancing down at the mini notebook he ripped the strip of paper from to write down his number.

The dispatcher’s voice crackled to life once more, and Andres hit the siren. “Another day, another call,” Andres muttered, shooting Connor a quick smile.

Connor nodded, refocusing his mind. The streets blurred past the window, the city waking up around them, but his thoughts lingered behind, somewhere between Room 13 and the sound of Haytham Kenway’s voice.

Chapter Text

Connor jogged up to the station, his coffee cup clutched in one hand and his backpack slung over his shoulder. The early-morning run had gone longer than planned, leaving him barely enough time to shower, throw on his uniform, and grab coffee before hustling to work. He glanced at his watch. Three minutes to spare. Perfect.

Except something wasn’t right.

The parking lot was crowded with cars, tents, and people milling about. A banner fluttered overhead, reading, Community Day: Celebrating Our Heroes. Connor slowed, his brows furrowing as he took in the scene. There, parked outside the ambulance bay like it owned the place, was a shiny new rig that gleamed in the morning sunlight.

“What the hell…?” He muttered, adjusting his backpack as he made his way through the crowd.

Kids were laughing, climbing in and out of the ambulance under the watchful eye of Katie, his supervisor, who was chatting with a few parents. Coworkers stood around handing out coffee and doughnuts, while someone fiddled with a portable speaker blasting upbeat pop music. Connor ducked around a balloon arch and jogged up to Katie, who turned to him with a smirk.

“Nice of you to show up, Davenport.”

“What’s all this?” Connor asked, gesturing to the chaos around them. “And…” He pointed to the rig, baffled. “When did we get that?”

Katie crossed her arms, clearly enjoying his confusion. “Community day. We’re showing off the new ambulance. Donation from some bigwig. I guess you didn’t check your email?”

“Donation?” Connor blinked, turning back to the rig. “From who?”

“Some CEO. Abstergo Industries.” Katie shrugged and turned her attention back to the children and the new box truck.

His stomach flipped. Haytham.

Connor froze for a moment, the name echoing in his head. He hadn’t heard from Haytham in weeks - six, to be exact. Not a text, not a call. Just silence, which Connor had taken as confirmation that whatever had sparked between them that night was one-sided.

But this?

Connor’s gaze drifted back to the ambulance, its flawless exterior reflecting the morning sun. He took a slow sip of his coffee, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Huh,” he muttered, shaking his head as he walked closer to the rig.

It was impossible. And yet…it wasn’t.

Connor ran his hand along the side of the new rig, inspecting it with a mix of awe and appreciation. No rust hiding under a hasty paint job, no duct taped upholstery, and no finicky doors that needed to be kicked just right to open. It was pristine, a world apart from the battered ambulances his station relied on in this poverty-stricken corner of New York City.

Out of the corner of his eye, a flash of movement caught his attention, someone in a high-class business suit, with long grey hair neatly tied back. His breath hitched, but when he turned, the figure was gone. He frowned, shaking his head.

“Great. I’m hallucinating Haytham now,” He thought with an annoyed sigh, running a hand through his damp hair.

“What’s up with you?” A voice startled him, and Connor spun around, scowling at Andres standing a few feet away with a lopsided grin.

“Why do you always do that?” Connor muttered.

“Do what?” Andres tilted his head innocently.

“Sneak up on me like that.”

Andres shrugged. “Hey, just checking to see what’s going on with my bestie.”

Connor scoffed. “Kanen is my bestie. You…you’re just…well, you’re Andres.”

“I think I can be okay with that,” Andres replied with a wink and a smirk and Connor waved his hand dismissively. Straight men.

Andres was dragged off by a small child, leaving Connor to take the opportunity to slip inside the ambulance bay. He glanced at the party guests milling about, debating whether he should start handing out coffee or disappear entirely. Before he could decide, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out and frowned at the unfamiliar number.

Unknown Caller.

Connor rarely answered calls from unknown numbers, preferring to let them fall into his voicemail graveyard. But something tugged at him, an inexplicable feeling urging him to pick up.

“Hello?” He said cautiously.

“Good morning, boy.”

Connor inhaled sharply at the unmistakable British accent. Haytham.

“H-Haytham? Hi,” He stammered, his eyes darting around the bay as though his earlier hallucination might materialise.

“I see your station is enjoying the new ambulance,” Haytham remarked, his tone steeped in intrigue.

Connor blinked, confusion knitting his brows. “Huh? What? How do you…”

“Look up.”

The command was firm and Connor’s head snapped up on instinct. His gaze landed on Haytham, standing poised on the second-floor landing, his piercing eyes locked onto Connor.

Connor grinned despite himself, his heart pounding as he hung up the phone. Without thinking, he bolted up the stairs. By the time he reached the top, his lungs were burning, and he paused to catch his breath.

“You…you didn’t have to do this,” Connor managed, still grinning through the ache in his cheeks and the soreness from his morning run.

“Of course I didn’t,” Haytham replied smoothly, his tone as composed as ever. “But I had to thank the man who saved my life. Twice.”

Connor rubbed the back of his neck, his grin softening into something shy. “I-uh, wow. Okay. I mean, that’s amazing. Our stuff isn’t the greatest,” He admitted, moving toward the railing to look down at the crowd. The joy of Haytham’s unexpected generosity warmed him in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time.

“I can tell,” Haytham remarked dryly, joining him by the railing.

Connor turned, half-laughing. “It’s that obvious, huh?”

“Just a bit,” Haytham replied with a faint smirk. He stepped closer, the gap between them shrinking until Connor could feel the older man’s presence looming.

“Uh? Haytham? What are you doing?” Connor’s heart raced as his blush deepened, his hands twitching at his sides.

“Your collar is messed up,” Haytham said, his voice low and steady. He reached out to fix it, his fingers brushing lightly against Connor’s neck.

Connor swallowed hard. He hated people touching him, their touch always feeling like needles piercing his skin, but for some reason, Haytham’s didn’t even make him flinch. “Oh, uh, thanks? And, uh, thanks for the ambulance too.”

“You can thank Abstergo,” Haytham said, his smirk deepening ever so slightly.

“Well, thanks, Abstergo.”

Haytham straightened, his posture calm yet commanding. “I have to head out, meeting in an hour.”

“Oh! Okay, don’t let me keep you,” Connor replied, trying to sound nonchalant, though his hands had buried themselves in his pockets to hide his nerves.

Haytham hesitated, his gaze appraising. “Maybe you’d like to join me for dinner sometime, Connor?”

Connor blinked. “Uh. Oh. Oh. I mean, yeah, I’d like that,” He laughed lightly, ducking his head with a shy smile. He didn’t think Haytham remembered his name.

“I’ll text you with more information. See you then, boy,” Haytham said, his words carrying an air of finality as he stepped back, yet his gaze lingered just long enough to make Connor’s stomach flip.

“See you,” Connor breathed, releasing a shaky exhale. He stood frozen at the top of the stairs, watching Haytham descend with the same air of authority he seemed to carry everywhere. As he disappeared into the crowd below, Connor leaned back against the railing, his mind reeling from the encounter.

Why did Haytham calling him boy make his heart race and his stomach churn with butterflies? It was ridiculous, like he was a teenager with a schoolboy crush. He knew the dynamic between them was complicated, and a small part of him wondered if pursuing this was entirely appropriate. But Haytham was no longer his patient and the thought lingered like a forbidden temptation.

With a heavy sigh, Connor shook his head and descended the stairs, forcing himself to rejoin his crew. He busied himself with the mundane tasks of the day, anything to avoid dwelling on the enigma that was Haytham Kenway.

He made his way to the coffee station, intent on refilling drinks for the partygoers. As Connor reached for the pot, his hands remained steady, but his mind wandered. Haytham’s voice lingered in his thoughts, smooth and deliberate, distracting him from the faint hum of laughter and chatter around him. He didn’t notice the coffee overflowing until it spilled onto his hand, the hot liquid jolting him back to the moment. With a sharp hiss, he set the cup down and shook his hand, grabbing a nearby rag to wipe it off. He stared at the reddened skin on his bronze hand and muttered a quiet curse under his breath before cleaning up the mess.

The man who he was getting the coffee for chuckled in amusement and asked, “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, guess I’m not cleared to handle coffee after all,” He replied with a small smirk and dumped out a bit of the coffee before handing it to the person.

“Careful, Connor. That coffee station is not going to pass inspection,” A coworker quipped as they walked by and he grimaced, brushing off the smart ass comment.

Connor stepped away from the coffee station, flexing his hand to ease the lingering sting. The party buzzed on around him, laughter, clinking cups, and the faint hum of conversation. It all blurred together, like background noise he couldn’t quite focus on. He moved to join his crew, nodding politely as someone passed him with a plate of cake, but his mind stayed elsewhere.

“Connor, you’re up,” Someone called from across the room, snapping him out of his thoughts. He turned to see Andres waving him over. “We’ve got a call.”

“Right,” He muttered, shaking off the mental fog as he followed Andres toward the ambulance.

The party faded behind them as they climbed into the rig, the familiar scent of antiseptic and worn leather grounding him. Connor busied himself with checking supplies, grateful for the distraction. He partly wanted to try out the new ambulance, but the station still needed to show it off and he didn’t know if he would be assigned to it in the future. The call was straightforward, a routine transport for a woman with a minor injury. Connor and Andres worked seamlessly, their rhythm honed by over a year of partnership. But even as they drove back to the station afterward, his thoughts kept drifting to Haytham: the way he spoke, the weight of his gaze, the dinner invitation that hung in the air.

“You good, man?” Andres asked, glancing over at him as they pulled into the ambulance bay.

Connor hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. Just tired.”

Andres didn’t push, and Connor was grateful for it. He helped clean and restock the rig before grabbing his things and heading home, the exhaustion of the day settling heavy in his chest. By the time he unlocked the door to his apartment, the familiar scent of sage and cedar greeted him, a subtle reminder that Kanen had likely been burning herbs earlier. His friend had been staying with him the last couple days and would stay the rest of the week, leaving on Thursday. Connor kicked off his boots and found Kanen in the kitchen, stirring something on the stove.

“You’re back later than I expected,” Kanen said, turning to offer him a small smile.

Connor shrugged, leaning against the counter. “Had a late call. Some lady sprained her wrist. Anyway, there’s something I want to talk to you about.”

Kanen’s brow furrowed slightly, but he didn’t press. He set the spoon down and gestured to the table. “Go on. Let’s sit.”

Connor cleared his throat as he sat down, unsure where to begin. Kanen already knew about his interactions with Haytham, but Connor had been careful to keep things vague - no names, no unnecessary details. With a heavy, dejected sigh, he leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms.

“So, there’s this guy…” He began, only for Kanen to cut him off with a teasing grin.

“Oh, a guy? Do you like this guy? I was starting to think you were asexual or something,” Kanen said, leaning forward with mock curiosity.

Connor groaned, dragging his hands down his face. “Okay, first of all, I don’t even know what I am, so let’s not start with the labels. And second, there’s nothing wrong with being asexual.”

Kanen raised his hands in mock surrender. “I know that. Dang, Connor, don’t bite my head off. I was just joking.”

“Sorry,” Connor muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s just been a long day. Anyway, this guy. You remember that patient I had?”

Kanen blinked. “Connor, you’ve had a lot of patients. You’re gonna have to narrow it down.”

Connor gave him a pointed look. “The patient. The one who got shot a few weeks ago.”

“Ohhh, the old man?” Kanen said, nodding in recognition.

Connor groaned again, louder this time. “Jesus, Kanen, he’s not even sixty.”

Kanen smirked. “Alright, fine. The middle-aged man. What about him?”

“He showed up at the station today,” Connor said, his voice quieter now, almost as if he were testing the waters. “He…his company donated an ambulance to the station. A really nice one, too.”

Kanen’s eyebrows shot up. “Whoa, that’s huge. Was it a “thank you for saving my life” situation or something?”

Connor shrugged. “I guess. But that’s not all.” He hesitated, his eyes dropping to the table. “He, uh, invited me to dinner.”

Kanen’s jaw dropped, and he pointed a dramatic finger at Connor. “You’re telling me this dude got shot, donated an ambulance, and now he’s wining and dining you? Is he hot?”

“Oh my god,” Connor muttered, burying his face in his hands. “Can you not?”

“What? I’m being supportive! And I mean, you’re blushing, so…”

Connor peeked through his fingers, his ears burning. “I mean…yeah. A little.”

Kanen’s grin widened. “Haha, I knew it! Did you say yes?”

Connor nodded, leaning back in his chair. “Yeah, he said he’d text me the details.”

Kanen clapped his hands together. “Ooo, mysterious. I like him already.”

“Alright, enough,” Connor said, standing and heading toward his room before stopping mid-step. He felt his pulse quicken when he noticed a new notification. Sure enough, it was Haytham. Perfect timing - it was as if the man was listening to their conversation. He opened the text and inhaled sharply at the words, half expecting Haytham to no longer be interested in him.

“Good evening, Connor. I’ve made a reservation for 7:30 Saturday night at Le Jardin. I’ll send a car to pick you up at 7. Let me know if this is inconvenient and I can adjust.” The text read, sending Connor’s mind racing through about thirty different responses before settling on one.

Le Jardin? Expensive. He thought as he typed his answer. “Yeah, sounds great. I can get a ride though, don’t worry about that.” He hit send and exhaled slowly, leaning against the door frame of his bedroom. As much as he tried to ignore it, the thought of seeing Haytham again sent a strange thrill through him, one he wasn’t ready to unpack just yet.

“Was that the guy?” Kanen asked as he approached, leaning against the other side of the door frame.

“Haytham? Yeah,” Connor said with a sigh, nearly losing himself in thought once more.

“Oh, so he has a name, does he? Haytham, huh? Sounds fancy. You better tell me all about your romantic escapades later. I demand full details,” Kanen teased, shooting him a grin as he retreated to the living room.

Connor shook his head and walked to his bedroom, sitting down on the edge of his bed. He couldn’t take his eyes off the messages, even though Haytham hadn’t yet responded. Connor’s chest tightened as he reread the words. Haytham’s confidence was unnerving—he made it all sound so simple, so easy, while Connor’s thoughts churned with uncertainty. He would have to find an outfit good enough for a fancy French restaurant. He didn’t own anything that screamed “fancy French restaurant,” and the thought of showing up under dressed made his stomach flip.

Luckily, Kanen could drop him off and he wouldn’t have to worry about public transport, or accepting a car ride from Haytham. Connor didn’t want to take too much from someone he barely knew. There hadn’t been a response yet, so he tossed his phone onto the bed and headed to the bathroom for a shower, trying to clear his head. It was only Monday after all and he had to get to Saturday evening. Five days. Five long days to over-analyse, second-guess, and agonise over every possible outcome. Connor shook his head, willing himself not to spiral just yet. Maybe the water could wash away his worries, even if only for a moment.

Chapter Text

Nordstrom Rack. Luxurious clothes for cheap, or so he hoped. Connor sighed as he stepped into the brightly lit building, the glare of artificial lighting making the place feel as sterile as a hospital. He felt completely out of place, but tomorrow's dinner with a CEO demanded something better than joggers and a band t-shirt. Haytham Kenway probably expected polished suits and effortless charm, neither of which Connor had in his wardrobe. Men's section. Perfect.

He made a beeline for the tops, scanning the racks with a furrowed brow as he tried to figure out what shirt would be "good enough." A suit was out of the question - he wasn’t the type to show up anywhere in one unless absolutely necessary. There had to be something appropriate but still his style. After sorting through several options, he settled on a fitted black long-sleeve shirt. Pairing it with navy blue slacks, black dress shoes, and a simple, thin belt, he felt like he’d found a look that would work. At checkout, the total made him pause. $190. It was nothing to a CEO, but for Connor, it was a small fortune. "Fuck it," He thought, sliding his credit card into the machine. He exhaled in relief when it went through, giving the cashier a small nod of thanks before shoving the receipt into the bag and heading out.

Kanen had gone home the night before, but that didn’t stop Connor from heading to his apartment after buying the clothes. His shift today had been an easy one, so he felt at ease stopping by without needing to decompress from a stressful day. He also had tomorrow off, which he was looking forward to, though anyone who knew Connor knew he wasn’t exactly the “relaxing” type. His version of unwinding would likely involve an early morning run, a gym workout, and then a day of errands before finally coming home to shower and get ready for dinner.

Haytham had eventually responded to his earlier text, lightly insisting on sending a driver to pick him up. Connor, however, didn’t want to impose and knew Kanen would insist on dropping him off anyway. His friend was protective to a fault and would undoubtedly want to check out the place himself, just to ensure Connor wasn’t about to be “kidnapped” by some wealthy white man. Connor initially thought the idea was absurd but couldn’t entirely dismiss it. Kanen’s concerns weren’t unfounded, too many Indigenous people had gone missing without a trace. He thought back to the sixteen-year-old gay boy from his tribe who had vanished two years ago, dismissed by police as a “runaway prostitute.” His name was Ayonwá:tha. The memory made Connor glower, a prickle of rage spreading through his body. He’d like to think his status as a first responder might afford him more concern, but he wasn’t white-passing, and that thought lingered ominously in his mind.

Connor stopped in front of Kanen’s door, memories flooding his senses from when he knocked on the MICU room six weeks ago. A quiet sigh left him as he shook the thought away, hand feeling heavy, as if it was wrapped in lead. He straightened himself and knocked, then walked in. While it didn’t entirely matter if he knocked or not with Kanen, if he saw a closed door, it was the polite thing to do. He set his bag of clothing down on the couch and wandered the apartment, looking for his friend. He spotted him in his bedroom, lying upside down as he played video games. He smirked and shook his head before walking over and getting in his face.

“Does the world look better upside down?” He questioned with a raised eyebrow.

“Connor move. I’m trying to reach Danbury’s office. They’re gonna detect me,” He whined, trying to shove Connor out of the way.

He laughed and sat down next to him, watching Kanen guide his character around. Connor couldn't remember the name of the avatar, but he was playing Red Dead Redemption 2. He waited a few more minutes before swiping the controller out of his friend’s hands and standing up, holding it above his head.

“Hey! Now I’m detected!” Kanen protested, rolling over and pushing himself up, trying to grab the controller.

“Should have stuck to the shadows, man. Work from the dark. Serve the light,” Connor said with an all-too-serious tone, then broke out in laughter again.

“What does that even mean, you freak? Give it back!” Kanen shouted with a high pitched voice, crawling off the bed and approaching Connor who backed up. Kanen lunged for the controller, but Connor held it just out of reach, grinning like a madman.

He shook his head and set the controller down next to the television. “No. Now come on, I need you to tell me if I wasted like $200 on this outfit.”

“Oh, the dinner with Haytham?” Kanen said with an eyebrow wiggle. “Are you going to kiss him? Maybe a little mouth action?” He made a gesture with his hand, indicating he was referencing a blow job.

Connor groaned, throwing his head back dramatically. “Oh my god, stop. I don’t even know the guy. It’s probably not even like that. He’s just being nice or something,” He said with a shrug, walking out of the bedroom with his friend following. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

He pulled the clothing out of the bag and draped them over the back of the couch for Kanen to look at, watching as his friend bent over to closely inspect the fabric.

“Why are you so weird?” Connor raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned against a bookcase.

“Why do you dress like a gay man?” Kanen retorted, straightening up and shooting Connor a look of amusement.

Connor sighed and pushed himself up off the bookcase, crossing the room to grab the clothes. “Probably because I am into men?”

“But only Haytham.”

“More than just Haytham.”

“Bro, when was the last time you went on a date or even kissed another person?”

Connor opened his mouth to protest, but Kanen did have a point. He never really thought about who he liked and didn’t like, but he never did imagine himself with a woman.

He shifted awkwardly, the weight of Kanen’s words pressing just a little too hard. “When was the last time you kissed anyone, huh? Pretty bold for someone with Dorito dust on their shirt.”

Kanen snorted. “Right. But I’m not the one having dinner with Haytham Kenway.”

Connor rolled his eyes, grabbing the clothes and heading toward the bathroom. “You’re insane.”

“And you’re deflecting!” Kanen called after him, laughing as the bathroom door clicked shut.

He sighed, staring at his reflection in the mirror. Kanen’s words lingered in his mind, uncomfortably close to the truth. When was the last time he’d felt genuinely interested in someone? Hookups were easy, fleeting distractions, but they left him feeling emptier every time. Relationships? He hadn’t managed to keep one alive past eight months. Maybe he just didn’t know how to connect. Shaking the thought away, he pulled off his shirt and grabbed the one he planned to wear tomorrow. Sliding it on, he watched his reflection again, his muscles shifting under the snug fabric. For a moment, he hesitated. Did this even look right? Did he look right? He frowned, tugging at the hem and turning slightly to inspect the fit. It was definitely snug, but not too much to restrict movement.

He rummaged through the drawers after finishing the rest of his outfit, the memory of leaving a pair of earrings behind months ago lingering in his mind. Sure enough, tucked in the back of a drawer, he found the turquoise studs. A small smile tugged at his lips as he popped them in - just the right touch to complement tomorrow’s look. He had a sleek looking watch that he received as a gift a couple years ago back at his apartment that he could use to complete the ensemble. Stepping back to admire his reflection, he hummed softly, satisfied with the result. Confident he looked the part, he headed out to find Kanen, silently hoping his friend had run out of smart-ass remarks, for once.

“Whoa, okay, daddy vibes for real,” Kanen declared through a mouthful of food.

Connor grimaced, shaking his head. What part of this screamed “daddy”? “Does it look good? Maybe good enough to impress a CEO?”

Kanen paused mid-chew, his eyes widening. “Wait, hold up. Kenway is a CEO?” He exclaimed after swallowing and, horrifyingly, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

Connor swallowed back bile. Disgusting. “Please, for the love of hygiene, use a napkin next time, Kanen. And yes, I’m pretty sure I mentioned that he’s a CEO.”

“It’s fine, I have a washer,” Kanen said breezily, brushing off Connor’s glare. “And no, I don’t think you told me that.” He wandered over, circling Connor like a buzzard inspecting a fresh kill. “Intriguing.”

“Don’t call me intriguing. That’s weird,” Connor huffed, yanking the shirt off and retreating to the bathroom to change again.

“But you are! At least, your ass is in those pants and, damn, daddy, those pecs!” Kanen shouted after him with a wink.

Connor groaned, shaking his head as he shut the door firmly behind him. He undressed and slipped back into his usual clothes, carefully folding the nicer outfit before carrying it to the guest bedroom he was staying in. Kanen’s apartment was modest, a cozy two-bedroom his family covered so he wouldn’t have to deal with roommates. Friends came and went, but Connor was the only constant, just as he’d been since they were kids. Setting the folded clothes on the dresser, Connor removed his earrings and placed them neatly on top before wandering back to Kanen’s room to watch him game.

The rest of the night passed easily enough. They played video games, demolished the pizza Kanen ordered, and chatted about the past week. Connor’s thoughts inevitably drifted back to tomorrow’s dinner, the nerves curling tighter with each passing hour. Kanen offered his usual brand of encouragement by joking that Connor should cut off Haytham’s shirt with trauma shears again like he had the first time the two met. The pillow Connor launched at his face earned a triumphant laugh. Around 1 a.m., Kanen was passed out on top of the controller, leaving Connor to shut off the console and retreat to his room. He sat on the edge of the bed, his phone glowing faintly in the dark as he scrolled aimlessly, occasionally pausing to stare at Haytham’s texts. The tight knot of uncertainty twisted in his stomach, but he told himself it would be fine. It had to be.

Chapter Text

The following day blurred together in a haze of routine, the hours crawling by as Connor tried, and failed, not to think about the dinner. By the time the sun dipped low and cast warm light across the city, he stood in front of the mirror again, putting on once more the outfit he’d meticulously prepared the night before. The turquoise studs gleamed in his ears and the watch clasped snugly around his wrist. For a moment, he stared at his reflection, taking in the unfamiliar sharpness of his appearance. It felt strange, like wearing a costume, but it would have to do.

"Well, this is it," He muttered to himself, brushing imaginary lint off his shoulder. He grabbed his phone and wallet, walking out of Kanen’s apartment. Taking a deep breath, he forced his nerves aside and climbed into his friend's car.

Connor adjusted his shirt for what felt like the hundredth time as he stepped out of Kanen’s car and onto the sidewalk in front of Le Jardin. The restaurant’s understated elegance struck him immediately - a canopy of twinkling lights framed the entrance, with neatly trimmed hedges guarding the glass doors like sentinels. He hesitated, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, the sharp click of a passing woman’s heels snapping him out of his daze. Kanen had lectured him the entire way there on how to stay safe and to call him immediately if anything felt off, to which Connor brushed him off.

Pulling out his phone, he double-checked the address Haytham had sent. This was the place. No turning back now.

Connor took a deep breath, silently running through the tips he’d picked up from a late-night YouTube rabbit hole: Hold your fork like this, not like that. Always taste the wine before agreeing to it. Napkin on the lap as soon as you sit. It all swirled together in his head, threatening to drown out the sound of his own footsteps as he pushed through the doors.

The soft murmur of conversation greeted him, paired with the faint clink of glasses and the aroma of something rich and decadent. A host, impeccably dressed in a tailored suit, offered a warm smile. “Good evening. Do you have a reservation?”

Connor’s brain froze for a second before the words tumbled out. “Uh, yeah. Kenway. Haytham Kenway.” He winced at how stiff he sounded, but the host nodded, scanning the guest list before motioning him to follow.

As they wound through the restaurant, Connor couldn’t help but feel like every eye in the room was on him. He tugged at his sleeves, silently reminding himself not to fidget. His dress shoes felt heavy against the polished floors and he hoped his outfit wasn’t as out of place as it felt. You’re fine. He told himself, though his heart told a different story, thrumming loud enough that he was sure the entire restaurant could hear.

“Right this way,” The host said, stopping at a secluded corner table where Haytham already sat. The man exuded effortless confidence, his posture perfect, a glass of wine resting elegantly in his hand. He looked up as Connor approached, a small, knowing smile tugging at his lips.

“Ah, Connor. You’re right on time,” Haytham said, rising to his feet. “Please, have a seat.”

Connor managed a small nod, sliding into the chair as gracefully as he could manage. The host handed him a menu and disappeared, leaving him alone under Haytham’s watchful gaze. For a moment, the hum of the restaurant faded, replaced by the sound of his own heartbeat thundering in his ears.

“First time here?” Haytham asked, his voice smooth and low.

Connor swallowed hard, willing his voice to remain steady. “Yeah. It’s…nice.”

“It is,” Haytham agreed, his smile widening ever so slightly. “Relax, Connor. You look like you’re expecting a trial rather than dinner.”

Connor let out a nervous laugh, feeling heat creep up his neck. “You’ll have to forgive me. This isn’t exactly my usual kind of place.”

“Well,” Haytham said, his tone warm and inviting, “Consider this a chance to expand your horizons.”

Connor offered a small smile, his eyes drifting to the older man’s wrist. The elegant watch caught his attention - navy blue face with a black border, matching leather strap, and delicate cursive script inside. “Breitling?” He asked, recognising the brand from similar watches he’d seen on his patients.

Haytham arched a brow, tilting his head ever so slightly. “Hm, yes. You’re familiar with it?”

“Yeah, I mean, I’ve seen a few patients wearing watches like that,” Connor replied, his voice a little unsteady. “And no, we don’t steal from our patients,” He added quickly, laughing nervously as he rubbed his hands on his slacks.

Haytham smirked, his gaze unwavering. “I didn’t think you would.”

“Oh. Right,” Connor said, shrugging as he glanced down at the napkin. His YouTube lessons came back to him, and he unfolded it, placing it neatly over his lap. “It’s just a thing people seem to assume sometimes.”

Haytham didn’t respond, his expression unreadable as he watched Connor. The paramedic shifted slightly, his gaze wandering over the man’s outfit. Everything about Haytham seemed sharp and intentional - the crisp white button-down, the open black jacket, the tailored navy slacks Connor had glimpsed earlier when he stood. Even the thin black belt with its gold buckle looked impossibly expensive, not to mention the polished dress shoes that gleamed under the low lighting. Haytham’s hair was tied back, much like Connor’s own. Connor fidgeted with his own belt, feeling under dressed despite his best efforts.

“See something you like?” Haytham’s voice broke through his thoughts, the thick British accent slicing through the ambient noise of the restaurant. Connor’s face flushed as he quickly brought his hands up to cover it.

Shit. He’d been caught staring. “Uh, no,” he stammered. “Just admiring you...uh, your clothing,” His voice cracked slightly at the end, making him wince internally.

Haytham snorted softly, his amusement evident as he reached for the wine bottle. “Would you like some?” He offered, holding up the bottle.

“Sure, thanks,” Connor said, grateful for the distraction. He picked up his glass after wine was poured and sipped, the rich taste momentarily distracting him from his embarrassment.

The waiter arrived shortly after and they placed their orders, Connor ordering something vegetarian friendly and Haytham, the Carre d’Agneau. As the server stepped away, Connor busied himself studying the tableware, still feeling the weight of Haytham’s amused gaze on him.

Haytham took a sip of his wine, his sharp eyes never quite leaving Connor. “So, tell me, what compelled you to become a paramedic?”

The question caught Connor off guard, and he paused, his glass halfway to his mouth. He set it down slowly, his guarded expression returning. “I guess I’ve always wanted to help people,” He said with a shrug, his voice carefully neutral.

Haytham narrowed his eyes slightly, sensing there was more to it. “A noble pursuit,” He remarked, his tone light but probing. “But surely there’s more to the story.”

Connor hesitated, his gaze dropping to the pristine white tablecloth. He toyed with the edge of his napkin, considering his words. “My mother died when I was young,” He said finally, his tone clipped, like he was trying to shut the door on the topic as soon as he’d opened it. “It made me want to do something where I could help people. Be there for them when it mattered.”

Haytham’s expression shifted, the teasing glint in his eyes softening into something unreadable. “I see,” He said simply, his voice gentle but not full of pity. He didn’t push further, leaving the moment to settle between them.

Connor, grateful for the lack of prying, cleared his throat and glanced at his plate. “Anyway,” He said, trying to lighten the mood, “Why’d you choose your line of work? Other than, you know, the whole ‘wealth and power’ thing.”

Haytham chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “Ah, yes, the trifecta of success. Me, wealth, power. I’d be lying if I said they weren’t part of the appeal. But if you must know, I’ve always enjoyed the challenge. Strategy, negotiation - it’s like chess, really. Only the stakes are far more satisfying.”

Connor raised an eyebrow. “You’re comparing business deals to chess?”

“Why not? It’s a game of foresight, patience, and knowing how to read your opponent. Much like this conversation, wouldn’t you agree?” Haytham smirked, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

Connor let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “If this is chess, I’m definitely losing.”

“Not at all,” Haytham replied smoothly. “You’re just playing by different rules.”

The waiter returned, interrupting the moment with bringing their entrées. Connor took a deep breath, the brief lull giving him a chance to collect himself. He hadn’t expected the dinner to feel like a mix of interrogation and banter, but somehow, it wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

As Connor poked at the artful arrangement of vegetables on his plate, Haytham interrupted his thoughts again. “You don’t eat meat?”

Connor glanced up, momentarily caught off guard. “Uh, no. I’m vegetarian.”

Haytham’s lips curved into a faint smile. “Any particular reason? Or do you just enjoy being difficult at restaurants?”

Connor smirked, his fork hovering over a perfectly roasted carrot. “A bit of both, probably,” He said, his tone wry. “But mostly, it’s because of my heritage. I was taught to respect the land and nature. Killing animals for food just…doesn’t sit right with me.”

Haytham tilted his head slightly, his expression thoughtful. “Interesting. Is that a cultural tradition?”

“Yeah,” Connor said, shifting in his seat. “My mom’s side. She taught me a lot about living in balance with the world around us.” He paused, glancing down at his plate. “After she passed, it felt like something I could hold onto.”

Haytham studied him for a moment, his expression unreadable. “A honourable philosophy,” he said softly. “And one not easily adhered to in this world.”

Connor shrugged, suddenly self-conscious under Haytham’s gaze. “It’s not a big deal. Just something that makes sense to me.”

“On the contrary,” Haytham said, his voice taking on a teasing edge again, “It’s quite the feat. Resisting the lure of a perfectly cooked steak, for instance, must require an impressive amount of willpower.”

Connor snorted, the corners of his mouth twitching up. “Not really. I never cared for it much, even as a kid.”

“Ah,” Haytham said, raising his glass in mock salute. “A man of principles.”

Connor rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the small smile tugging at his lips. “Something like that.”

Their playful banter continued throughout the evening as they ate and Connor enjoyed their conversation. He found himself laughing and having more fun than he would have initially thought. Haytham had finished his food before Connor did, the younger man taking his time as he was caught up in talking. It was refreshing to not have to rush through a meal - something his career had prepared him to do. He never knew when he could finish his food before the next call dropped. He enjoyed the dinner and when the waiter came around offering dessert, they both declined, having been satisfied with their meal. The waiter set the checkbook down and before Connor could grab it, Haytham had it in his hands.

He huffed, narrowing his eyes at the movement, wanting to see the total so he could split the cost in half. “How much? So I know how much to pay.”

Haytham scoffed, pulling out a credit card, setting it inside the checkbook and placing it down on the table. “Nonsense. I can cover dinner. I didn’t ask you to come to thank you for saving me, although not dying seemed like a good deal.”

“Oh? So what was this about?” Connor asked, leaning back in his chair, watching the older man.

“Have you never been on a date before, Connor?” Haytham asked, a brief look of disbelief crossing his features before it was gone, replaced with a more neutral expression.

Connor raised his eyebrows, clearing his throat before answering. “Uh, yeah, of course I have. I just-...”

“Just what, boy?” Haytham was amused, watching Connor shift uncomfortably in his seat.

“I…why?” He frowned, pushing the last scraps of food around on the plate before setting the fork down.

“Why have you been on a date before or why did I ask you out on one?” Haytham snorted and Connor waited to answer the question as the waiter cleared the table and grabbed the checkbook.

Connor nodded his thanks to the server, then turned his attention back to the CEO. “Why did you ask me out on one?”

“Curiosity,” Haytham replied mildly, finishing the last of the wine in his glass.

“Oh,” He breathed, frowning at the idea that Haytham was only interested in him because he was curious.

“If you’re so insistent on contributing, Connor, I might have…other ideas.” Haytham’s tone dipped slightly, the words carrying a weight that made Connor’s pulse quicken.

“What does that mean?” He questioned, shaking his leg under the table.

“It means, boy, that I’d like to invite you over to my apartment one day,” Haytham replied smoothly, watching Connor’s reactions to his words.

Oh my god. Connor thought, his interest piqued. “I, yeah, okay,” He said softly, forcing his leg to settle. What did that mean? Was this a casual invitation or something more? Haytham’s calm confidence made it impossible to tell and Connor wasn’t sure if he was excited or terrified - or both.

“Perfect. Would you like a ride back to your apartment?” Haytham said as he stood up and Connor inhaled, impressed yet again by the older man.

“No, it’s okay, my friend Kanen is going to pick me up,” Connor replied, standing up as well, awkwardly pushing his hands into his pockets like he usually did.

“Alright, keep in touch,” Haytham replied with a wink and Connor sighed, looking around the restaurant before back at him.

“I will, thank you for the dinner, Haytham. It was more than kind,” Connor replied, ignoring the buzzing of his phone in his pocket. Kanen was likely blowing up his phone for details and safety updates.

“It seems your attentions are wanted elsewhere. Your phone has been buzzing half the evening,” Haytham pointed out and Connor smiled sheepishly.

“Sorry about that, Kanen is weirdly persistent,” He laughed lightly, turning to walk with Haytham to the entryway of the restaurant.

"It’s quite alright, boy. Next time I might have you a bit more…preoccupied,” Haytham said with a tone that made the young paramedic shiver. “Have a goodnight.”

“You too, Mr. Kenway,” Connor breathed, watching as the man exited the restaurant, following only a few seconds after.

“Call me Haytham.” Before Connor could respond, the CEO was being driven away in a sleek, black Bentley Continental GT.

Kanen pulled up right after, honking his horn obnoxiously and rolling the window down. “Oh my god, that was Haytham Kenway? Spill, now.”

Connor shook his head and climbed into the front passenger seat, staring wistfully in the direction that Haytham’s car had gone. It seemed the man did have a private driver, which made sense, given the fact that he was incredibly rich. A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he thought about the older man, wondering what he had meant about a visit to his apartment. He considered where Haytham could live and what kind of apartment this really was. With his experience in the medical field and running 911 calls constantly, he knew what kind of homes belonged to people with money, and he was curious to find out more. Kanen pulled away, rattling off an endless amount of questions that Connor barely answered, mind spinning with questions about the man who somehow managed to make him feel both seen and completely unmoored.

Chapter Text

Connor sighed, eventually giving into the bombardment of questions as Kanen became more insistent. He loved his best friend’s chaotic nature, it was the perfect balance to Connor’s solitary personality. Sometimes, however, he wished the man would calm down for a moment. As they pulled up to Connor’s apartment complex, Kanen locked the doors.

“Okay, you’ve been ignoring me this whole ride. You’re going to talk to me before I let you leave,” Kanen pouted, crossing his arms in mock indignation.

“You know I can just unlock the car, right?” Connor replied, raising an eyebrow, unimpressed.

Kanen stammered, then huffed a response. “Don’t do that, you’ll break my heart.”

Connor noticed a whine in his response, so he kicked his feet out and got comfortable. “Fine. What do you want to know?”

“Tell me all about your date!”

Connor sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, annoyance building. He had to force himself to relax, lest he blew up at his friend. Date? Was it really a date? Haytham called it that. He wanted it to be that. But was it?

“It was just dinner, it wasn’t a date.”

Kanen laughed and threw his hands up in the air, unbuckling his seatbelt in order to face Connor. He tucked a leg underneath him and grinned at the young man beside him.

"Yeah, sure. Just dinner. Just dinner at a French restaurant with a rich-ass British CEO who, let’s be real, was probably flirting with you the entire time.”

Connor pressed his lips together, choosing silence instead of violence.

Kanen groaned dramatically. "You're killing me, man. Was it at least good? Did he, like, seduce you over crème brûlée or whatever the hell rich people eat?"

Connor huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "We just...talked."

Kanen raised an eyebrow, suspicious. "Talked about what?"

Connor hesitated, thumb running absently over the stitching on his pants. "Why I became a paramedic. Why I don't eat meat."

Kanen gasped, clasping his hands over his mouth in a dramatic way. "Wait, he asked you personal questions?"

Connor blinked at him, brow furrowing. "Yes? That's what people do during dinner, Kanen."

"No, that's what people do on dates." Kanen wiggled his eyebrows, causing Connor to grimace. "Dude, he's into you. I mean, come on, he even texted you after, didn't he?"

Connor's silence was answer enough.

Kanen let out a gleeful, victorious laugh. "Ohhh my God, he totally did. What did he say?"

Connor sighed, reaching for his phone, debating for half a second before reading it aloud. "I hope you made it home safely, Connor. Until next time."

Kanen slapped the dashboard like he had just witnessed a plot twist in a telenovela. "Until next time?! Bro, that's rich old-man-speak for 'I can't wait to see you again.'”

Connor rolled his eyes and crossed his arms, staring out the windshield, feeling defensive over Haytham. “He’s not old and you’re annoying.”

"I'm just saying, this man is trying to wife you up." Kanen scooted closer. "You gonna let him?"

Connor opened his mouth, then closed it. He didn't know how to answer that. Because, deep down, he wasn't sure he would say no. Kanen poked his bicep and Connor recoiled, not wanting to be bothered.

"C'mon, loverboy. Let's get inside before you start daydreaming about calling him “daddy” or some shit."

Connor groaned, sincerely debating homicide. He didn’t know what was up with Kanen and calling people “daddy” lately.

The following morning, he returned to work, Haytham fresh on his mind. He went through the motions of starting his shift, the usual pre-shift routine at the station was predictable. The coffee was disappointingly weak, a briefing blurred together with every other morning, and the familiar weight of his gear settling on his shoulders. He welcomed the monotony. It kept his mind busy, kept him from thinking too much about Kanen’s teasing or the way Haytham’s name had stuck to the inside of his head like an echo.

By mid-morning, the rush had slowed, and Connor and Andres found themselves outside, leaning against the rig in the station’s parking lot. The sun was too bright, the air too dry, and Andres had taken to tossing a crushed water bottle at the dumpster like he was planning on joining the NBA.

"Alright," Andres said, missing the shot. "Seriously. How much do you hate me?"

Connor glanced at him, unimpressed. "That depends. Why?"

Andres grinned way too wide. "Because I put in for time off next month, so you might get partnered with John for a few shifts."

Connor exhaled sharply through his nose. "You’re the worst."

"Hey, come on, you and John could use some bonding time," Andres teased, throwing the bottle again. Missed, again. "Maybe you’ll even warm up to him."

Connor gave him a blank stare.

"Or, maybe you’ll commit a felony. Who’s to say?" Andres shrugged, finally getting the bottle into the dumpster on the third try.

Connor narrowed his eyes and opened his mouth, but before he could respond, the automated voice announcing calls rang throughout the station. “Unit 53A, respond to 200 Hudson Yards, 1001 New York, for an emergent call.”

Connor froze.

His stomach tightened instantly, his brain short-circuiting for a second. Abstergo.

He barely heard Andres confirm the call with dispatch. His movements felt too stiff, too slow as he ran toward the ambulance.

His mind was already there, already imagining the worst.

Haytham.

He climbed into the passenger seat, spinning around the Toughbook as usual, hands shaking as anxiety creeped in. Andres shot him a few concerned glances. “Hey, you good?”

“Yeah,” Connor replied, although his voice felt disconnected from himself.

He tapped his fingers anxiously against the Toughbook, thinking about his next move. He needed more information. Picking up the mic, his hand hovered over the button for a second, stomach twisting. Did he even want to hear it?. “C-Central,” He paused, taking a steadying breath when he realised his voice was shaking. “Central, Unit 53A. What do we know about this patient?”

“Not much, Unit 53A. The caller didn’t say.”

Great. A repeat of the first time he met Haytham. This was not making him feel any better. He considered texting the older man to make sure he was okay, but he didn’t want to come across as needy or annoying. His leg was shaking and he only stopped when Andres told him off for shaking the ambulance as they drove toward their destination. He grumbled and muttered something under his breath before turning his focus to the road ahead.

He was frustrated that they had stopped and he was going to question Andres about it, when he noticed they were stuck in traffic. Andres had shut off the sirens, but kept the lights going, so they wouldn’t scare anyone. No need to inadvertently cause a car accident while trying to get to their current emergency. Connor tensed, jaw tightening as he willed people to move out of the way. Couldn’t they see the giant ambulance behind them with flashing lights?

“If you tense any further, I am afraid you might explode. Then I will have to clean the ambulance of bits of Connor and I’m not entirely sure how much I want to do that,” Andres commented without looking over, trying to decide on how best to maneuver through the gridlock of cars.

“I’ll be sure to explode neatly then,” Connor muttered, although he relaxed slightly, the jest making him feel more at ease.

Connor exhaled sharply through his nose, shifting in his seat as the ambulance inched forward - too slow, not fast enough. The feeling of ease dissipated as quickly as it came. His fingers hovered over the screen of his phone before he unlocked it, eyes flicking to his last text thread with Haytham. No new messages. He knew it was irrational, but something inside him clenched at the silence, his thumb twitching over the keyboard before he forced himself to lock the screen again. He couldn’t text him. Not now.

Connor clicked his tongue in frustration as the ambulance crawled forward, the sea of cars barely parting despite the flashing lights. This was taking too long. He gritted his teeth, trying to breathe through the spike of anxiety clawing at his chest.

Finally, he grabbed the radio. "Central, Unit 53A. We're gridlocked on West 34th Street and 10th Avenue, need a reroute."

There was a pause before dispatch responded. "Stand by, Unit 53A. We can divert a closer unit if needed."

Connor’s pulse slammed against his ribs. "No." It came out too sharp, too fast. He took a breath, gripping the radio tighter. "Negative. We are already en route. Just…just send us the alternate route."

Andres gave him a look but didn’t say anything.

A crackle of static. "Copy, Unit 53A. Stand by for reroute."

Connor barely heard them. His free hand curled into a fist on his knee, his leg bouncing once more as he flicked his phone screen on again. Still nothing from Haytham. He didn’t know why he expected to see something, but it didn’t stop the spike of disappointment. He swallowed hard. He didn’t know what he would do if the patient was Haytham - and he wasn’t there.

Andres let out a frustrated breath, tapping his fingers against the wheel as they sat in the unmoving traffic. The radio snapped again, dispatch feeding them a reroute - and of course, it was a mess.

“Central wants us cutting through Hell’s Kitchen,” Andres muttered, already flipping on the siren again. “Buckle up, this is gonna be a pain in the ass.”

Connor braced against the door as the ambulance lurched into a turn, diving off the main avenue into narrower side streets lined with brick buildings and double-parked cars. The wail of the siren bounced off the walls, making everything feel tighter, more suffocating.

“This is stupid,” Connor gritted out, his foot tapping anxiously. “There has to be a better way.”

“Yeah? You wanna get out and carry the rig on your back?” Andres shot back, wrenching the wheel to avoid a garbage truck parked like the driver had given up on life.

Connor didn’t respond. He was too busy trying not to vibrate out of his skin. What was that about him exploding? Because at this rate, it seemed inevitable.

Chapter Text

The shift of momentum pushed Connor forward slightly as Andres brought the rig to a stop, the low rumble of the engine the only thing cutting through the static in his brain.The gentle sway of the ambulance settling made Connor snap back to reality, whether he was ready for it or not, they were here.

“Central, 53A is on scene.” Andres’ voice was steady, but Connor caught the slight shift in his posture, bracing for whatever they were about to walk into.

No one was running or panicking outside, so he figured he could write off anything to do with a weapon. Connor sighed and looked up the face of Abstergo’s tower, wishing he could take the elevator back up to that office and see for himself if Haytham was okay. Andres was by his side with the stretcher, raising an eyebrow at the young paramedic.

“I’m getting worried about you, man. Were you a pigeon in your last life?” His partner’s teasing brought Connor back to reality and Connor shot him a glare.

“I’m fine, let’s go.” Connor rubbed his face, trying to scrub away any irritation.

“You sure?” Andres asked, more serious than he should be as he looked up to where Connor had stared. “You looked ready to roost up there.”

Connor shook his head in annoyance and shoved past his partner, grabbing the front of the stretcher and pulling it toward the entrance. As they entered, everything seemed business as usual. He was still suspicious, but while he was looking around, a worker approached.

“Oh thank god you’re here! He’s right this way,” The woman seemed nervous, which didn’t help Connor’s own nerves any.

He?

His hands felt clammy inside the nitrile gloves wrapped around them and his chest felt tight. It felt like he was walking down a corridor to his own death, his legs filling with lead with each step. The walls were closing in around him, or were they breathing? He wasn’t entirely sure. Panic welled up inside as they approached two giant double doors.

He was trying to rationalise with himself that if it was Haytham, there would be people running around and he likely wouldn’t be behind these doors. Nothing quelled his anxiety. The double doors swung open and the thoughts swimming in his mind were quickly replaced by the chatter of people in a cafeteria. Connor inhaled sharply and tried to keep himself calm while they were led to a far off space in the room. His eyes honed in on a short, stocky man who had his hands to his throat, standing up, back against the wall.

It wasn’t Haytham.

Without a word, he pushed the man up off the wall and wrapped his arms around the man, performing abdominal thrusts until the object was dislodged. It felt strange slipping into his routine, it was like muscle memory took over and he was watching from somewhere above the scene. Silently, he traded places with Andres who got vitals before the man refused transport. The voices in the room sounded foreign, like a swarm of bees replaced the people inside.

“I’ll be right back. Bathroom.” Connor’s voice didn’t sound like it belonged to him as he pushed his way through the throng of people crowding and cheering.

He felt lightheaded and dizzy, the air in the lobby feeling thick and too warm as he shoved through the double doors. Fluorescent lights flickered in his vision, making the edges of the world feel too sharp, too bright. People turned to stare, some subtly, others not bothering to hide their curiosity. He was painfully aware of it.

A paramedic standing in the middle of a sleek, high-end entertainment company must have looked strange. He stuck out like blood on marble. The only thing that made his presence make sense was the ambulance parked outside, its lights still flashing in the distance. He swallowed hard, scanning the lobby like he was searching for an exit in a burning building.

There. The men's restroom. He didn't think, just moved. The second he stepped inside, he checked the stalls - quick, efficient. Empty. Good.

His knees nearly buckled with relief as he shoved the door shut behind him. He gripped the sink with shaking hands, staring at the mirror in front of him. His breath came too fast, too shallow, his chest tightening like a vice had wrapped around his ribs. He forced himself to take a breath - deep, slow. Calm down. He told himself, mentally berating himself for his behaviour.

Nothing worked.

The face in the mirror didn't look like his. Flushed skin, wide eyes, lips slightly parted like he was just realising he forgot how to breathe. A stranger. He felt detached from himself, like he was watching someone else fall apart. It took two, maybe three gasps before the tears began to fall.

His shoulders trembled. His vision blurred, but he still couldn't look away. His knuckles turned white where they gripped the sink, his whole body shaking with every ragged breath.

He was so fucking stupid. Why had he let himself spiral like that? Why had he even let himself think, hope?

His breath hitched. He dropped his head, trying to steady himself, but the moment his eyes left the mirror, his whole body felt like it was collapsing inward.

Andres tapped his fingers against the stretcher, glancing toward the bathroom door again. It had been...what? Five minutes? Longer? Connor wasn't exactly the "disappear mid-shift" type, and it didn't sit right with him. Something was up.

He let out a slow breath, rolling his shoulders. Maybe Connor just needed a minute. Maybe he was having a moment, and it wasn't Andres' business.

...Or maybe it was.

Yeah. No. Fuck it. It was.

Time to overstep.

After knocking briefly on the door and being told off, he scanned the lobby, eyes landing on the massive front desk and the neatly-dressed receptionist typing away behind it. Good enough. He walked over, planting his hands on the counter.

"Uh, could you get the...the guy in the fancy office, please?"

The woman barely looked up, unimpressed. "You mean Mr. Kenway?"

Andres snapped his fingers. "Yeah. That one."

The receptionist blinked. "He's in a meeting."

Andres gave her his best "this is an emergency" face. "Cool, but like, I'm a paramedic, and I think this might be an emergency."

Her expression didn't change. "You think this might be an emergency?" She raised an eyebrow. "Aren't you 911? Shouldn't you know if there's an emergency?"

God, he hated corporate people.

Andres exhaled through his nose. "Oh my god, literally just send him down? Or I'll just go get him myself."

The receptionist stared at him for a long moment, her expression making it painfully clear that this was above her pay grade. “Fine," She sighed, grabbing the phone.

Andres tapped his fingers against the counter impatiently as the receptionist very slowly picked up the phone.

"Mr. Kenway," She said, her voice bored and professional, "There’s a paramedic in the lobby insisting you come down here."

A pause.

Haytham’s voice came across the phone, dry and slightly irritated at being called. "I thought I said don't bother me unless the building is on fire. Is the building on fire, Mrs. David?"

The receptionist closed her eyes like she was deeply regretting her life choices. “No, sir, but the paramedic seems quite insistent."

There was another pause, then -

"Just deal with it…," Haytham stopped mid-sentence. His brain clicked into place.

Wait.

He knew a paramedic.

Andres watched as the receptionist listened to whatever Haytham was saying on the other end, then hung up.

"He's on his way," She sighed.

"See? That wasn't so hard." Andres grinned and patted the counter before turning toward the elevator like he hadn't just bullied a corporate secretary into escalating an emotional crisis to an executive.

The elevator dinged, and out stepped Haytham Kenway, looking mildly irritated yet completely composed. His gaze flicked over the lobby before settling on Andres, who was already waving him over like this was a casual conversation.

"Mr. Kenway," Andres greeted, tone far too relaxed for the situation at hand. "I don't know if you remember my colleague, but I think he's upset, and it might have something to do with you?"

Haytham stared at Andres, raising an eyebrow and responded with a sigh. "You think?"

Andres shrugged, completely unbothered by the growing impatience radiating off the executive. "Well, he went into the bathroom after saving some guy from choking, and now he's been in there for a while, and considering you were the first person we dealt with at this location..." He tilted his head, far too pleased with himself. "Yeah, I think."

Haytham's brow twitched. Clearly, this was not what he expected to be dealing with today. “And why, exactly, are you dragging me into this?"

Andres didn't even hesitate. "Because, my dude, I am an EMT, not a therapist, and I feel like he might actually listen to you. He kind of saved your life twice now. Also, you were in a meeting, and I wanted to see if I could interrupt it for something dumb. Mission accomplished."

Haytham sighed again, pinching the bridge of his nose before heading off toward the bathroom. If this is who he thinks is in there, he should open the door to find Connor Davenport - the man he was intrigued by.

Connor's breath was still too fast, too shallow, but he couldn't seem to slow it down. His pulse pounded in his ears, drowning out everything except his own spiraling thoughts. He knew he needed to get it together. He was a paramedic. He had handled life-or-death situations, pulled people back from the brink, made impossible calls without breaking down. But here he was, coming apart in Abstergo’s bathroom over nothing.

Except it wasn't nothing.

Except it felt like his whole fucking world had tilted, and now he was sinking under the weight of emotions he didn't know how to name.

There was a knock at the door and someone pushed it open. Connor’s head hung, eyes closed, shoulders slumped. He wasn’t sure why this was affecting him so much - it probably had to do with his adrenaline crashing. He worried about Haytham the entire time up until patient contact was made, but it was all for nothing. Haytham was likely somewhere in the upper floors of the building, nestled safely away in an office room, not even aware of what was happening downstairs.

“Go away Andres. I’m fine,” Connor managed to say all at once, sniffling and wiping his nose on the back of the glove he did not yet remove.

Grimacing at the action, he peeled off the gloves and tossed them into a nearby bin, leaning against the counter once more.

“Yes, because crying in a corporate bathroom is the very definition of “fine”.” A thick British accent made his head snap up and he caught the gaze of Haytham Kenway.

The older man was standing behind him in a light grey tailored suit, a dark blue tie, hair pulled neatly back out of his face. Connor swore his heart stopped momentarily. Haytham was leaning against the wall, arms crossed comfortably over his chest, analysing Connor’s breakdown.

He could already feel himself spiraling further. Now Haytham was going to think he was pathetic, that the apartment invitation was completely off the table, that who in their right mind would want to be around someone who breaks down over something so simple?

Haytham's gaze didn't waver and that just made it worse. Connor's breathing was still erratic, and he had no clue if he'd just been asked a question, if he was supposed to be saying something - what was happening? Why couldn't he get a grip?

He watched as Haytham crossed the room, coming up behind him. He held his breath the best he could, unsure what was happening, a few hiccups escaping. Haytham slowly, hesitantly, reached over and placed a hand on his shoulder in what Connor could only assume was an attempt at comfort. Connor stared at it in the mirror, wondering why he wasn’t recoiling at the touch. He hated touch, despised it, always feeling as if someone stuck a branding iron to his skin. But this…felt different somehow. The sobs picked up again, harder this time, because he didn’t know this is what comfort felt like. He didn’t know this was what he needed.

Before he could stop himself, he turned, pushing himself into Haytham’s arms. He buried his face into his chest and cried, holding onto the man’s jacket as if he let go, Haytham would slip into nothing. He felt the man stiffen, but slowly put an arm around him and rested his hand on Connor’s back.

Connor's breath hitched as he tried to pull himself together, but it was useless. The sobs had already started, and now they had a mind of their own, wracking his body in uncontrollable shudders. He hated this - hated how raw he felt, hated that he couldn't just shut it down, hated that it was Haytham witnessing it.

He expected the older man to recoil, to pry him off with some sharp remark, to remind him that this was inappropriate and unprofessional. But instead, Haytham remained where he was, posture still stiff, but unwavering.

A hand rested on Connor's back, not forceful, not distant, just there. The weight of it sent another wave of emotion crashing into him, and he squeezed his eyes shut against Haytham's stupid expensive suit, humiliated by how weak he felt.

”This is ridiculous,” He thought, trying to force himself to calm down. But he couldn’t bring himself to push away. Haytham’s presence grounded him in a way he had never felt before. He didn’t know how to process this. For the first time in longer than he could remember, he felt like someone was steadying him instead of the other way around.

Haytham sighed, a slow exhale above his head, and then he shifted his grip. His hand slid from Connor's back, around his side, fingers pressing just firm enough to remind him I'm still here.

Connor pulled back slightly to take a breath in hopes of stopping the tears, but they still freely flowed. “S-sorry, I just…thought I lost you, too.” It was said so quietly that he wasn’t sure if the older man picked it up. He was being too vulnerable.

“Mm,” Haytham murmured, holding him slightly tighter. “Not so easily, boy.”

He felt safe, for the first time in a long time, and he didn’t know what to do with that information. They stood in the bathroom for a little while longer until Connor’s sobs became sniffles and his grip on Haytham eased some.

As he pushed himself back, staring at the floor, the weight of what just happened hit him like a train. His face burned. His stomach churned. Oh, god. He just had a full-on breakdown in the middle of Abstergo, clinging to Haytham Kenway like his life depended on it.

Connor inhaled sharply, laughing awkwardly as he wiped at his face. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry, I should... I should go. I’ll uh, call you? Or not. You probably want nothing to do with me now. Oh, and I ruined your…your shirt."

Haytham's gaze flicked downward, as if only just now noticing the damp patch on his expensive suit. He looked vaguely amused. Connor wished the floor would swallow him whole.

"Oh, no, I expect a call," Haytham said smoothly, adjusting his cuffs. "After all, how else would we make arrangements for our next date?"

“I uh…I…wh-…” Connor stammered, a light blush on his cheeks as he tried to process the words.

Haytham raised his eyebrows. “Unless,” He mused, tilting his head slightly. “You’ve changed your mind?”

Connor opened his mouth, closed it, then shook his head quickly. “I…huh? No uh, I mean. I haven't changed my mind. No.” Connor cleared his throat, watching as Haytham smoothed out his shirt and jacket.

Haytham hummed, smoothing out his jacket. "Very well, then. And don't mind my clothing," He narrowed his eyes slightly and adjusted his jacket. “I have plenty to change into, if needed." He stepped forward, placing a hand lightly on Connor's lower back. "Shall we?"

Connor barely registered being guided out of the bathroom until they were standing back in the hallway, where Andres was waiting with a shit-eating grin. He sniffled, ducking his head immediately. Andres didn't say a word. He didn't have to. Connor could feel the sheer amount of smug amusement radiating off his partner. The young paramedic huffed in indignation. He was never going to hear the end of this. Haytham excused himself back to his meeting, and Connor watched him leave, shoulders tight with lingering embarrassment. At least the hallway was empty. At least no one had been around to witness his meltdown. At least he could pretend, just for a moment, that he wasn't as pathetic as he felt.

Chapter Text

Connor didn’t have much time to dwell on what had transpired at Abstergo, not with another call already dropping. The tones blared through the ambulance, sharp and urgent, making him hiss through his teeth. Andres’ fingers tightened around the steering wheel, his shoulders bunching up. Connor didn’t even have to look to know he was irritated. They had two hours left on shift, just two. And yet, here they were, getting sent back out. The sun had begun its slow descent, stretching golden light across the city skyline, and Connor let out a sharp exhale. It was late. It had been a long shift. He hoped, for once, that whatever call was coming in would be simple. He should have known better.

“Central to Unit 53A, respond priority one to I-495, eastbound lanes near Exit 31. Multiple vehicle collision, possible mass casualty incident. Be advised - reports of a commercial bus involved, multiple ejections. Fire and PD en route.”

Andres and Connor exchange a quick look - both serious now. They definitely were not getting out on time.

Connor grabbed the radio, his heart already pounding, flipping the lights and sirens on for Andres.

“Copy, Unit 53A responding, en route,” Connor responded, pulling out a pen to chew on the cap.

"Copy, 53A. Be advised - scene still developing. Expect heavy entrapments, possible fatalities. Dispatching additional units now. Will update with triage reports."

Adrenaline flooded Connor’s veins. The sirens wailed, a shrill scream against the hum of the city, lights flashing against glass and steel as they weaved through traffic. His fingers drummed anxiously against the console, heart hammering against his ribs. This one was going to be bad. Neither of them spoke as they sped toward I-495, but the silence wasn’t comfortable, it was anticipation, stretched tight like a wire ready to snap. Connor ran through every scenario he could think of. Entrapments. Ejections. Mass panic. He had trained for this, knew the protocols inside and out, but training was different from reality. This was his first mass casualty incident. And while he knew he could handle it, he had no way of knowing what it would do to him. A voice cut through the radio static.

"Unit 53A, be advised - fire reports multiple vehicles involved. Heavy entrapment. Bus confirmed overturned. At least thirty injured, unknown fatalities. PD requesting additional resources on scene."

Thirty.

Connor swallowed hard, flexing his fingers as he rolled his shoulders, keeping himself loose. He couldn’t freeze. Couldn’t overthink. The freeway entrance loomed ahead, red brake lights in the distance glowing like embers in a dying fire. Then, as they crested the overpass…

Smoke.

Thick, black clouds billowing from crumpled metal, twisting upward into the dimming sky. The flashing strobes of emergency lights painted the wreckage in chaotic color. And in the middle of it all? The bus. It was on its side, windshield shattered, jagged metal biting into the concrete. Shadows moved inside. People. Trapped.

"Jesus Christ," Andres muttered, gripping the wheel. "Welcome to the big leagues, rookie."

Connor didn’t respond. He was already reaching for his gloves. Connor hit the pavement before the rig had fully stopped, his boots crunching against broken glass as he yanked on the gloves. The air reeked of burning rubber and gasoline.

"Who's in charge?" He barked, scanning the scene.

A NYPD officer turned, face tight with stress. "That’d be you, apparently. Welcome to the shitshow." He gestured toward the wreckage. "Bus is unstable. We've got people trapped inside, multiple ejections.”

Incident Command. It hit him all at once. This was his scene.

"Alright," Connor exhaled, pushing down the nerves. "I’m taking command. Here’s what I need."

After issuing commands to police and fire, Connor turned toward the scattered bodies on the ground, Andres close at his heels. No time to hesitate. No time to think. Andres veered right to the nearest patient, while Connor moved left, gripping the triage tags so tightly the thin plastic bit into his fingers.

He knelt beside an older man, his gut already telling him this wasn’t going to be a save. Fingers pressed to the carotid, nothing. He leaned in, listening, waiting, praying, but there was no breath, no rise of the chest. Still, he tilted the head back, just in case. Nothing changed. Connor exhaled sharply through his nose, ripped off a black tag, and secured it to the man’s wrist. No resuscitation in an MCI. No second chances.

Move. Next patient.

Every single patient outside the bus wore a black tag around their wrist. Ten. Ten lives gone. Ten people who wouldn’t make it home tonight. Connor swallowed hard, his stomach twisting violently. He was sure he was going to vomit right there on the asphalt, but he clenched his jaw and forced it down.

Breathe. Keep moving.

The acrid stench of smoke and burning metal filled his lungs, making each inhale burn. Fire crews worked furiously to smother the flames, but the air still carried the scent of something worse: melted rubber, scorched upholstery, burned flesh. Connor exhaled sharply, shaking his head. He couldn’t focus on that. He glanced down at the torn-off tags in his hand. Ten. His knuckles went white around the stack. No time to process. He turned toward the bus, its twisted metal shell resting on its side. He couldn’t enter yet. Wouldn’t be able to. Not until fire finished stabilising the wreckage and extinguishing the flame. Not until they started pulling out the living. Or whatever was left of them.

Connor didn’t do well with fires, which was the deciding factor in not becoming a firefighter. Ever since he lost his mother many years ago, he found it difficult to be around open flames. The most he could tolerate was a campfire. He felt anxiety creeping up and he did his best to quash the feelings, trying to put his focus back on the scene, back on his patients. He lost sight of Andres long ago, but noticed the man standing several yards away, watching the bus in the same way Connor was. He wanted to continue standing there, but an ear-piercing scream cut through the chaos and his attention snapped to a woman exiting the bus with the help of a firefighter.

“Please, my husband! He’s still in there. His name is Dominic. He’s forty-two. He’s wearing a black shirt and blue jeans with white shoes. He…I convinced him, told him to come on this trip with me. We…we were going to the Ponocos for our anniversary. Twenty years together. Oh, we never did have any kids…please sir, promise you’ll find him?” The lady was in distress and Connor wished he could console her, but the man she was describing matched the description of the first man Connor found.

Connor’s stomach dropped. He already knew the answer. Still, he reached out, pressing two fingers to her pulse. It was thready but there - she hopefully wouldn’t code any time soon. A deep gash ran along her temple, blood dark against her greying hair. But she wasn’t focused on her own pain. The first patient he’d found, the one he’d tagged black. Dominic. The man had a name. There wasn’t time to process, not now. He slipped on a red tag onto her wrist, gently explaining what it was for.

He nodded tightly. “We’re doing everything we can.”

Then, without another word, he stood and flagged down the nearest firefighter.

"She needs to know," He muttered, low enough that she couldn’t hear. "Her husband's gone. He was the first patient I found. He’s over by the back of the bus, near the tires."

The firefighter hesitated, but Connor was already walking away. He heard it before he reached the next patient. The scream. Gut-wrenching. Raw. The kind of sound that buried itself under your ribs and stayed there. Connor’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t.

He walked around to the other side of the bus, where the door would be if the bus was sitting upright. He said a quick prayer in Kanien'kéha before getting distracted by a young male, around Connor’s age, sitting off to the side, appearing disoriented. He slowly approached, noting that the man's chest rose and fell rapidly, eyes darting around like a trapped animal.

Connor knelt beside him, hands up, non-threatening. “Hey, I’m here to help. My name is Connor. Can you tell me your name?”

The patient mumbled something, voice thick with pain.

Connor leaned in closer. “Say again?”

A string of Spanish, fast, frantic. Shit. Connor caught a word here and there - something about pain, something about getting up. But not enough. No time for a translator. No time for anything but fixing this.

“It’s okay,” He said, voice soft, hands steady. “I got you. Just…”

The patient flinched violently. Connor had just reached forward to check their airway when a fist slammed into his face. Crack! His vision exploded into white-hot pain. Something warm gushed down his lips, salty, metallic. His teeth sank into his lower lip. Connor staggered back, blinking, disoriented, pulse hammering in his skull.

"Whoa, whoa, hey!" Andres was already there, grabbing the patient’s arm.

A firefighter ran up, watching the chaos unfold. "Tranquilo! Él está aquí para ayudar!"

Connor barely processed it. He just touched his face, wincing. Blood dripped off his chin. His nose hurt like hell. "You've got to be fucking kidding me," He muttered.

Andres looked him over, grimacing. "Yeah, you’re done. Let’s go."

"The hell I am." Connor snarled, trying to push past his partner.

"Dude. Your nose is literally sideways.” Andres stepped in front of him and placed a hand on his shoulder, raising an eyebrow.

“You've got to be fucking kidding me! I'm supposed to be out there! I'm Incident Command! Let me go, let me help. These are my patients and they need me." He was getting frantic, wanting to throw himself back into the fray, shrugging off Andres’ hand and moving around him.

"Stand down, Davenport. You aren't going anywhere but the hospital. Now sit your ass down before I make you.” The commanding voice of his supervisor, Katie, reached his ears before he saw her.

Connor clenched his fists, breathing hard through his mouth, because breathing through his nose was not an option.

"Katie, I can still work…"

"I said stand down."

Her tone was sharp enough to slice through his adrenaline-fueled defiance, but it was the look in her eyes that did him in. The rare flicker of concern beneath the command. Fuck.

Andres nudged him toward the waiting stretcher with entirely too much amusement. "C’mon, don’t make me carry you."

Connor groaned, loudly, like a petulant child, and flopped onto the stretcher in the worst mood imaginable. He crossed his arms over his chest as other medics who arrived on scene strapped him in and wheeled him to the ambulance. He glared at a news reporter who was watching him from a couple feet away, hoping that his expression would tell them to fuck off, but they kept the camera on him. He was lifted into the ambulance, doors slamming shut behind him, and a paramedic he didn’t recognise was attempting to push gauze against his nose. He pushed them away with a huff, hating being touched, but it also stung a little.

“Mr. Davenport…,” The man began, narrowing his eyes at the young paramedic.

“Connor,” He corrected, grimacing at the situation he found himself in.

“Connor,” The medic started over, sitting next to him on the bench. “I need to stop the bleeding. It looks like your nose might be broken.”

“No shit. I’ve got it. Just give me the gauze,” He held out his hand and the medic reluctantly gave it to him.

Connor pressed it to his nose with a hiss, closing his eyes, the adrenaline slowly seeping away. Sirens wailed and they were off. He ignored the medic saying he was going to go chart from the captain’s chair, grumbling to himself about the fact that he was torn away from his patients. He was certainly the worst patient.

Chapter Text

Connor hated being the patient, especially in a hospital, surrounded by staff who treated him like he was on death's door. Being a paramedic made it worse. The moment they found out, they acted like he'd been shot, stabbed, or dropped dead from cardiac arrest. It was a broken nose. That was it. He grumbled under his breath as they wheeled him into the emergency room, squinting against the blinding overhead lights. The medics had slapped an unnecessary oxygen mask on him mid-route, which he promptly pulled off. They’d also jammed an IV into his hand, far less delicately than he would have handled it himself. He could have placed it better.

Luckily, as he transferred himself to the bed and waved off the medics, one of the nurses stepped in, chasing off the rest of the staff so she could get the information she needed. At least someone had sense. The bleeding had finally stopped, but his chin, chest, and arms were still streaked with drying blood. The medics who brought him in hadn't bothered to clean him up - not that he would have let them. They could have at least handed him some gauze soaked in sterile water so he could do it himself. But they weren't his crew. They weren't his people.

A man with registration came to ask his standard questions before the nurse could ask her own. Connor sighed, not wanting to deal with the bureaucratic nightmare that came with his legal name. He shifted uncomfortably on the bed, reaching over and pulling up one of the railings.

"Social Security number?" The man didn't even look up from his screen.

Connor gritted his teeth. Choosing to defy the man and the hospital in general, he glared and replied. "I don't have one." He did have one, he just refused to give it.

That finally made the man look up.

"Excuse me?"

Connor exhaled sharply through his mouth because his damn nose was broken and repeated, "I don't have one."

The registrar blinked, clearly thrown. "Well, you need to have something. We can't process you without a valid…”

"April 4th, 2004," Connor interrupted, ignoring the actual question and giving his date of birth instead. Maybe it would make the man move on. It did not.

“Name?” The dreaded question.

“Ratonhnhaké:ton,” He answered with narrowed eyes.

The registration man glanced over at him as if he didn’t believe Connor’s answer. “How do you spell that?”

Connor spelled it out slowly for the person, already irritated by the situation.

“Last name?”

“I don’t have one of those either.”

Another pause and the registration man seemed fed up with him at this point. “You need to put something. Everyone has a last name.”

“I really don’t. Put Ratonhnhaké:ton twice.”

“That’s not how this works.”

“Then make something up, I don’t really care. Leave me alone.”

“Sir.”

“Jesus Christ, just put Davenport and no, I’m not spelling it for you. Satisfied?”

He heard a low sigh from the man as he typed out the given name and moved onto the rest of his questions. The nurse stood nearby, amused, as she inspected his face. He wanted to push her away, but was too busy focusing on the tension in the room.

“Get better soon, Mr. Davenport,” The registrar said, thoroughly annoyed by Connor as he left the bay.

“It’s Ratonhnhaké:ton,” He called after him.

The nurse introduced herself as Lily Carter and wrapped a blood pressure cuff around his arm, taping the pulse ox to his finger.

“Okay, Davenport. Let’s get through this so I don’t have to fight you to stay still,” Lily fixed him with a pointed look and he huffed.

“Ratonhnhaké:ton.”

“I hope you know I can’t say that.”

“Fine, just call me Connor.”

“You always this pleasant when people are trying to keep you alive?”

Connor rolled his eyes and flinched when she poked at his cheekbone. “My life was never in danger.”

“Alright, I get it. You’re a paramedic. I empathise, I really do, Connor. You're annoyed, you're in pain, and bureaucracy sucks. But I'm not the one making the rules, so work with me here, yeah?"

Connor shrugged, pulling back his hand so she could examine his face properly.

“I’ll try to keep the poking and prodding to a minimum, but no promises. Are you in pain anywhere else besides your nose? Are you feeling lightheaded? Nausea? Any new pain that wasn't there before?” She rattled off a whole list of questions and while Connor knew she had to, he was still fairly annoyed by the entire situation.

“No, no. I’m fine,” He rested his head back against the bed.

“Your oxygen is sating a bit low, I’d like to put you on oxygen, are you ok with that? What happened out there? Did you come from the bus accident?”

Connor grumbled about the oxygen, but reluctantly agreed, knowing she was just trying to do her job. “Yeah, uh it wasn’t pretty.” He didn’t want to go into detail, trying to forget all the dead bodies he saw. Some charred beyond recognition. It made his stomach churn.

“Alright, well you could have inhaled smoke. Let me examine your throat, ok?” She grabbed a penlight from her scrubs and raised her eyebrow at him, waiting for permission.

He rolled his eyes but still opened his mouth, tolerating the exam with what little patience he had left.

“Hm, all clear. Let me know if you’re feeling any swelling. Well, I’m going to give you a non-rebreather because you’re at 88%. You sure you’re not having any shortness of breath or chest tightness?”

Connor shook his head and narrowed his eyes. She crossed the room to the supplies in a drawer, digging through it before she found the NRB. Lily plugged it into the oxygen tree behind him and handed him the mask, indicating that he could put it on himself. His nose ached and he didn’t want to irritate it further, so he filled up the bag and held the mask by his face.

“Alright, the doctor will be in as soon as he can. Hopefully he can get here before the first patients arrive from that accident. I hate fire, so I’m glad I didn’t see that,” She murmured the last part and he gave her a sympathetic look, eyes travelling to the burn scars on her neck.

He traced over the familiar burn scars on his palms as he showed them to her. He didn't say anything, he didn't need to. Lily just nodded, understanding more than words could explain.

As she moved to the curtain, she gave one last nod. “If you need anything, you know how to reach me.”

Haytham found himself in the executive lounge, seeking a moment of solitude and refinement while he wrapped up last-minute reports. The endless bureaucratic nonsense scrolled across his screen, but his focus was on something far more important, his tea.

A specific kettle waited for him, steeping a rare Da-Hong Pao Oolong, one of the most expensive teas in the world. The smooth, refined taste, devoid of bitterness, was something he appreciated. Not that he’d mind a touch of bitterness, he was used to it. The tea was locked away in his office, valued at $1.2 million per kilogram. He indulged sparingly, but tonight felt slow. Too slow. The time on his laptop read 19:00.

He took a measured sip, letting the rich, roasted notes settle on his tongue, savouring the way it lingered. The hum of a television played in the background, a dull drone of news reports he had no interest in. Some upper-level employees gathered around the large flatscreen, murmuring amongst themselves, but he paid no mind. Nothing on the news concerned him.

Until…”We’re following breaking news from the scene of a major accident involving a bus on the I-495, eastbound lanes near exit 31. Emergency crews are still working to assist victims…”

Haytham exhaled through his nose, bored already. Traffic accidents were not his concern.

“Moments ago, a paramedic on scene was reportedly assaulted by a patient…” His head snapped up.

“….unclear on the circumstances yet, but witnesses say the medic was struck in the face before being forcibly removed from the scene by his own team.”

His entire body stilled.

“We’re going to try to get a closer look…ah, there. You can see the injured paramedic now, being loaded onto a stretcher.”

The mug was forgotten. The tea, meaningless.

Haytham moved.

A few unfortunate employees found themselves in his way. He pushed past them with a single word.

“Move.”

His tone was low, clipped, absolute. They obeyed immediately.

He reached the front of the crowd just as the camera zoomed in.

Connor.

He was alive, but his face was a mess. A broken nose, gauze pressed haphazardly against it. Blood on his uniform. A pissed-off glare that left no doubt in Haytham’s mind that he was conscious and furious.

Haytham studied the markings on the ambulance, committing the details to memory in a single glance.

By the time the camera cut away, he was already dialing. He turned sharply, abandoning the tea, the laptop - everything except what mattered.

“I need the location of that paramedic.” His voice was calm, controlled, but the edge beneath it was unmistakable. “Now.”

He reached for his jacket, already heading toward the elevators. By the time Abstergo’s front doors shut behind him, he had an answer.

NYU Langone Health’s Tisch Hospital.

Without hesitation, he relayed the name to his driver. The 2025 Aston Martin Rapide AMR pulled into Manhattan’s chaotic streets, moving with purpose, just as he did. The ride was silent but charged. Haytham sat in the backseat, fingers drumming once against his knee before stilling. He did not fidget. He did not rush. But his patience was razor-thin. Every red light, every slow-moving vehicle, was an irritation he barely tolerated.

Twenty minutes.

That was all it took before the sleek dark grey Aston Martin came to a smooth stop in front of the emergency room doors. The second the tires stilled, Haytham stepped out, shrugging on his jacket in one fluid motion. His fingers brushed over the fabric of his button-up, adjusting, straightening, fastening the buttons of his jacket with practised ease.

By the time the automatic doors slid open before him, he had already composed himself. Measured steps. Even breath. A glance around - sharp, but unhurried. He found the registrar’s desk easily. The woman behind the computer barely looked up at first. Haytham gave a small hum before stepping forward, resting one hand lightly on the counter.

“Good evening.” His voice was smooth, deliberate, British accent thickened just enough to draw attention without effort. “My name is Haytham Kenway. Where might I find a Mr. Connor Davenport?”

The registrar finally looked up. Her gaze flickered over him, his posture, his suit, the effortless way he carried himself.

She hesitated. “Are you related?”

Haytham offered the smallest of smiles, the kind that could mean anything.

“Mr. Davenport is expecting me.”

She looked uncertain, typing the name into the computer. “I don’t see any listed visitors…”

Haytham cut her off, leaning in slightly, voice dropping to something lower, quieter. His smile faded, replaced by an unreadable expression, calm, but undeniably dark.

“You can either direct me to him, or I will find him myself. I assure you, I am quite capable.”

She swallowed. “Sir, I really can’t…”

A soft chuckle. His smirk returned as he rested both hands lightly on the counter, gaze steady.

“Would you prefer I speak to hospital administration instead?” His tone was almost polite, but there was nothing optional about the question. “I would hate to waste their time over a simple request.”

The woman glanced around, clearly weighing her options. A long pause. Then, a quiet sigh of defeat” “He’s here in the ER. Bay six.”

Haytham inclined his head slightly. “Thank you. I will make sure you do not lose your job over this.”

With a wink, he was gone. The double doors swung open before him, and he strode into the emergency room proper like he belonged there. His gaze swept across the room, taking in the chaotic hum of the ER. The scent of antiseptic, blood, and overworked exhaustion clung to the air. Nurses and doctors moved with practised efficiency, too preoccupied to notice an impeccably dressed man in a three-piece suit walking in.

Haytham barely glanced at them, his focus already on finding what he came for. A quick scan of the directional signage told him where he needed to go. As he walked, he unbuttoned his jacket, shrugging out of it smoothly and draping it over his arm. Bay 6 was in sight. The curtain was partially open. He didn’t hesitate.

Connor. A mess, but still Connor

The young paramedic was leaned back against the bed, looking both exhausted and irritated. His black hair, usually neat, was an absolute disaster: disheveled, strands clumped together where drying blood had matted it against his forehead and cheek. A few stray locks curled at his temple, sticking slightly to the sweat on his skin.

His nose and cheekbones were swollen, purple, bruised, and unforgiving in their discolouration. His lower lip had a large split, blood covering his chin, neck and chest dramatically. A dark smear of dried blood streaked across his jaw, partially wiped away but still visible.

One hand loosely gripped a piece of gauze, dabbing absently under his nose, while the other held a non-rebreather mask to his face. The hiss of supplemental oxygen was barely audible over the murmur of the ER.

He looked somewhere between “pitiful” and “endearing.” Miserable, sure, but still Connor. Even beaten, bruised, and stuck in a hospital bed, there was something stubbornly unyielding about him. Then he saw Haytham.

Connor blinked. Froze. His brows furrowed slightly, confused, disbelieving.

In a voice hoarse from injury and sheer bewilderment…

“…What are you doing here?”

Chapter Text

"I could ask you the same, boy," Haytham replied smoothly, arching his brow as if Connor was a curiosity instead of a person.

Connor huffed, shifting his gaze to the stark white sheet covering his lap. A copper sheen had begun to bloom across the fabric, stark against the sterile linen. He exhaled sharply, then lifted his head, only to wince at the sudden, searing pain that shot through his skull. He hissed through his teeth.

How and why was Haytham standing in the emergency room, mere feet from him?

"I think that's obvious," Connor muttered, his glare sharp beneath furrowed brows. His shoulders tensed, muscles coiling despite the aching protest of his body.

"Oh, is it now?" Haytham mused, a hint of amusement slipping through his tone. "I do believe I was watching you get loaded into an ambulance after being assaulted on live television." He tilted his head ever so slightly. "Do be more careful next time."

Connor wasn't sure if that was meant as an insult or if it was sharp words masking something dangerously close to concern. He couldn’t stop the irritated laugh that bubbled up, a low chuckle filling the otherwise busy emergency room.

“Me? Be careful?” His chuckle turned into a sickening noise of discontent. “That’s rich coming from you, considering the first time I met you, you were literally bleeding out in my arms.”

Haytham looked momentarily taken aback at Connor’s harsh tone, then composed himself with a slow inhale. “Well, if you’d rather I not be here, I do have other, more interesting things to be doing than dealing with a rude paramedic.”

Connor sighed and adjusted himself on the bed, pulling a knee up to his chest. Haytham certainly had a point. “I’m sorry, it’s just been a long day.”

“Clearly.” Haytham checked his watch with a small smirk and leaned against the wall, indicating that he wasn’t going to be leaving unless asked.

“You…you didn’t have to come here. You don’t even…,” he cut himself off and took a shaky breath. Care? He couldn’t say that because what if he was wrong? Haytham clearly cared or else he wouldn’t be here and Connor had no idea how to process that fact. Someone cared about him outside of Kanen? It didn’t make sense.

Haytham watched him with an amused look, that smirk returning to his face. “Didn’t have to? Perhaps. But yet, here I am.”

Connor studied the CEO, noting how he leaned against the wall, his shoulders relaxed, his facial expression almost neutral. He was curious as to what other emotions lied behind that expression, but he kept the question to himself. Haytham was pristine as always, hair tied back in what seemed to be his signature style, clothes pressed and clean. It was the same outfit from earlier and Connor vaguely wondered how he managed to keep it looking nice. The shirt was obviously changed since he stained it with his tears earlier, but the tie remained the same.

“There are far worse sights than you bleeding on a hospital bed, but I can’t say I care for this one.”

Connor’s heart lurched at the words and he met the older man’s gaze to make sure he heard it right. His thoughts felt sluggish, tangled in exhaustion and the throbbing ache in his skull. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, much to Haytham’s apparent amusement.

Before he could formulate a response, someone else pushed open the curtain. He shot them a glare that could kill a man but the woman regarded him with an unimpressed look. “R..Rato…Ra…” She questioned, attempting to say his name and looked at him apologetically.

Connor sighed and nodded, slowly pushing himself off the bed and grabbing the IV pole to pull along with. He wanted to protest and say that he could walk just fine, but the world shifted beneath him and he reluctantly sat in the chair.

“It’s Ratonhnhaké:ton,” He corrected, adjusting himself into a more comfortable position in the wheelchair.

Haytham watched for a moment, before crossing the room and sitting down in a chair next to the bed, legs crossed. He pulled out his phone and scrolled, seemingly making himself comfortable. Connor had no idea what to make of that. As he was going to ask, he was pulled out of the room and pushed out of the emergency room doors and into the hall. Connor gave one last glance over his shoulder, making eye contact with Haytham as the other looked up, and let out another shaky breath as the doors closed behind him.

As Connor shifted onto the CT bed, a nurse entered the room with a bright, if somewhat insincere, smile. Connor's eyes rolled in response, his discomfort with the nurse's demeanor evident.

"Good evening, sir," the nurse said, introducing himself as Jordan. "I'm here to disconnect your IV for the scan. Can you confirm your name and date of birth, please?"

Connor clicked his tongue but obliged, hoping to avoid another mispronunciation of his name. "Ratonhnhaké:ton, April 4th, 2004."

Jordan scanned Connor's bracelet, his smile faltering for a moment before he regained his composure. "All set. I'll disconnect the IV and be on my way." With a final, forced smile, Jordan departed, leaving Connor to wonder why he couldn't have simply disconnected the IV himself.

When Connor returned from testing, Haytham was in the same position as before. Exhaustion was seeping into his bones as the weight of the day settled on him. He was desperate for sleep, eyes heavy and a yawn making them water, but rest was not in the cards. He gave Haytham a small smile and acknowledged his presence with a nod when the CEO looked up, shifting back onto the bed. He was grateful for the older man’s presence.

“Surprised you’re still here,” He said, tugging a fresh blanket that staff must have brought up around his chest.

“Why wouldn’t I be? I did not come all this way for nothing, boy.” Haytham responded, only looking up from his phone at the end of his sentence.

Connor worried his lower lip for a moment, stopping only when a metallic tang reached his tongue. “I just, didn’t know you cared,” he replied softly, taking the time to examine the thread count on the sheet.

Haytham scoffed and set his phone down on his leg, regarding the young paramedic. "You'd be surprised what I care about, boy," he said, his voice low and even.

Connor turned his attention back to Haytham, meeting his piercing, bright eyes. They looked at each other for a few moments as he contemplated those words, trying to figure out how to respond appropriately. When he found the right thing to say, the curtains were shoved open with a woosh and his focus was brought to a man in a white coat entering the room. Doctor.

“Good evening, sir. Let me just check your hospital bracelet…ah, good. Right person! My name is Dr. Delgado and it looks like you fractured your nose,” This doctor spoke too fast and with too much energy.

Connor was shaking his leg in bed, not responding, more anxious than anything about the possibility of needing his nose reset. He looked over at Haytham who was watching the doctor with interest, eyebrow quirked.

“The nurse is going to come in a moment and give you something to take the edge off while I reset your nose. It’s going to suck, I won’t lie. Try not to hit me,” the doctor said with a light laugh and Connor grimaced.

As if on cue, Lily Carter made her way past the curtain and fixed him with a smile. “Sorry dude, this part is the worst. I’m going to push some morphine.”

“I don’t need any morphine,” Connor said with a grumble.

“Oh, I assure you, boy. You will want something for this one,” Haytham’s voice cut off the nurse and doctor before they spoke.

“And you know this how, exactly?” Connor shot back, narrowing his eyes at the older man.

Haytham shrugged, nonchalant. “I may not have had my nose broken before, but I was shot. Trust me on this one and stop being stubborn.”

Dr. Delgado tilted his head with curiosity and looked over at Haytham. “You’ve been shot before?”

“Once or twice,” he replied, thoroughly unamused by the topic.

“Fine,” Connor said through gritted teeth and allowed Lily to push morphine into his IV.

Connor's tense muscles unwound, and a soft sigh escaped his lips as the medication kicked in. He closed his eyes, savoring the fleeting euphoria that washed over him. But he knew it was temporary. Before he could prepare himself, Dr. Delgado's skilled hands cradled his face, and in one swift motion, his nose was reset.

Connor's groan was low and raw, his fingers clutching the sheet as he fought the urge to lash out. Tears streamed down his face, a reaction to the searing pain and discomfort. He gasped, his head tilting forward to let the blood flow freely, the ache throbbing in tandem with his racing heart.

He barely heard the words from the doctor as a wad of gauze was pressed under his nose. He managed to take it from whoever it was and held it there, sighing as the morphine did its job. He tried to get into a comfortable position on the bed while Lily and the doctor left.

"Told you so.” Haytham quipped, his voice closer than Connor expected. Connor huffed, wondering when Haytham had scooted beside him, but his retort died on his lips as a commotion erupted from the ambulance bay.

Loud voices hit him before he could see what was happening. "We've got a burn victim! Twenty-nine-year-old female, approximately 58 kilos...severe burns to thirty percent of her body...third-degree burns with exposed muscle and bone…GCS of 9...coming from the bus accident on the freeway," the paramedic's words spilled out in a rush as the hospital staff scrambled to assist.

Connor's breath hitched, and he held it, transfixed by the scene unfolding before him. The woman's long black hair was matted, and her burns were wrapped in sterile dressings. He swallowed hard, his eyes focused on her as the staff rushed to her side. His mind recoiled, memories forcing their way to the surface. He tensed, his fists clenched, as Haytham's voice cut through the chaos.

"Connor?" But he didn't respond, his gaze still locked on the burn victim.

"Shit! We're losing her! Call a code!" a voice yelled, echoing off the hospital walls.

Connor's gaze remained fixed on the burn victim as a nurse sprinted for the crash cart. The woman's body was swiftly rolled onto her side, a board placed beneath her, and CPR began. A nurse approached with a defibrillator, while another readied a syringe, likely filled with epinephrine. The room spun around Connor, and he instinctively tried to launch himself off the bed to help. But a firm hand on his chest restrained him. He slapped at the hand, desperate to break free, but it held tight.

"Let me go!" Connor shouted, clawing at the pale arm, oblivious to whose it was. "No!"

Haytham's grip remained unyielding as the medical staff paused, hands raised, while the doctor examined the woman. The silence was oppressive, punctuated only by the beeping of machines.

"Time of death, 7:46 pm," the doctor announced, his voice low and somber.

Connor's wail echoed through the hospital, his body shaking as he threw himself back against the bed. He covered his face with his hands, repeating "no" like a mantra.

His words tumbled out in a disjointed, sobbing stream. "She...she was fine! We were...we were sleeping, and...and..." Connor's voice cracked, his body trembling as he tore at his hair, overcome with grief.

The hand moved to his shoulder and Haytham’s voice was quiet, steady, gentle but strong. “It is in the past, boy. This isn't her.”

Connor’s hand crossed to rest on top of Haytham’s as he cried, feeling defeated, knowing he couldn’t do much to protest. The woman wasn’t his mother, but the similarities were striking. His hand slid to the CEO’s wrist and he held on tightly, closing his eyes as his shoulder was squeezed reassuringly. Embarrassment washed over him as he realised he fell apart for a second time today in front of Haytham, but the older man didn’t seem to mind.

The emergency room seemed to not have a break as two more patients were rolled in. Connor’s head snapped up and he watched them be wheeled in, reports given, although the words seemed to blend together. He wanted to see what was happening, but Haytham had stood up and shut the curtain to prevent him from looking.

“Hey! Haytham, w-what the fuck? Move,” He demanded, trying to push himself up again, tears slowly subsiding.

“No.” The word seemed final, but Connor was nothing if not persistent.

“I need to see what’s happening, I need to…”

“What you need to do is rest. Those are not your patients.” Haytham’s words left no room for argument as he returned to his seat next to the distraught, young paramedic.

A blood-curdling scream pierced the emergency department, sending Connor's eyes wide with alarm. He scrambled to react, his mind racing with the need to do something. The sound was all too familiar, violently bringing forth a new memory. He knew the agony that came with debridement - the horribly painful removal of dead tissue. No amount of medication could touch the pain that came with it.

Connor's breathing quickened, his chest heaving as he hyperventilated. The scars on his hands throbbed in sympathy, as if the memories etched into his skin were awakening. Tears streamed down his face once more as he rocked back and forth on the bed, his arms wrapped tightly around his torso.

"Please, make it stop.” Connor begged, his voice cracking with desperation. The scream had stopped, but the echoes of it lingered, tormenting him.

“Connor. Connor, look at me.” Haytham was in front of his line of sight and Connor’s eyes flickered upward to meet his piercing, bright gaze. “You need to breathe. Focus, Connor.”

He felt like he was going to throw up, but swallowed down the bile that threatened to force its way up. It took all his effort to steady his breathing, the morphine amplifying his feelings of lightheartedness. He rested back against the bed, but kept his arms around his body, seeking comfort from himself. Haytham’s presence was a steady anchor and he was grateful to have him nearby.

The curtain was pushed open again and he jumped, sniffling and hastily wiping the tears from his cheeks with the sleeve of his uniform. He glared at the man who entered, remembering him as the registrar from earlier who gave him attitude over his name.

“Well, Mr. April 4th, 2004, you are being discharged. The nurse will be in here soon to check you over and make sure you remain in one piece. Is your father taking you home?” Yet again, the man didn’t look up, but the words sent Connor scrambling.

“F-father? What? Him? No, what? I don’t…I don’t have a father!” He dared not look over at Haytham, though he could sense he was amused by the situation.

“My apologies. Anyway, the doctor prescribed you some NSAIDs and an antibiotic. Here is some paperwork for you to look over for at-home treatment of a broken nose and what to do in case symptoms get worse. Please follow up with your PCP in a few days. Any questions?”

Connor shook his head and accepted the papers, tossing them by his feet for the time being. He already knew how to take care of himself and what to look out for. Haytham snorted with amusement and Connor waved off the registrar.

The next person to come in was the nurse, as predicted. She shot him a worried glance and he sighed, knowing he looked like an absolute mess.

“Don’t worry about it, I’m not in pain,” he said, dropping his arms so she could disconnect his IV.

“Well, you are going to need to rest for a while. Please take it easy, I know that’s easier said than done, especially being a medic. Just promise me? You’re going to be out of work for a few weeks, unless cleared by your regular doctor. Do you have anyone to take you home and keep an eye on you tonight?” Lily explained, her question seemingly directed toward Haytham, although she didn’t look in the man’s direction.

“Uh, no, I was uh, hoping to take the uh, bus? And Kanen…work,” his words were slower than he had anticipated, the morphine knocking him down a peg or two.

“Nonsense, boy. I will take you back to your apartment.” Haytham countered and Connor desperately wanted to protest, but he was far too exhausted.

“And who will watch you? You cannot be alone tonight, Connor. I know you’re more than capable of taking care of yourself, but you’re still high from the morphine and I’d rather someone be there with you,” she said matter-of-factly while removing the IV.

Connor furrowed his eyebrows as he tried to rack his brain for who else could watch him. He supposed he could call Kanen, but his friend was working and he didn’t want to ask him to leave just to take care of him. Plus, he didn’t know Connor was in the hospital to begin with and he really didn’t need a lecture right now.

“I’ll figure it out,” he answered tiredly, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his hand.

“You can stay with me. I have a guest bedroom or the couch, if you would prefer.” Haytham said and Connor looked over with confusion.

He shook his head and opened his mouth to protest, but the look he received made him close it again. “Thanks,” he mumbled, pushing himself up into a better sitting position.

The offer made Connor squirm, memories of the previous invitation to the man's apartment still fresh in his mind. He knew what lay beneath the surface, an invite for something more, but he was still quick to reject any notion that Haytham was into him. Yet, his current state left him little choice in rejecting. As he stood, the room tilted precariously, forcing him to brace against Lily’s extended arm for balance. Nausea washed over him in relentless waves, and he stumbled toward the emesis bag on the wall, his stomach churning with anticipation.

Lily's steady hand guided him to a wheelchair, and he reluctantly accepted her assistance. The private car waiting outside was a sleek, dark grey vehicle that whispered luxury and expense. Connor's eyes widened as he slid into the plush interior, feeling like an outsider in someone else's world. The seatbelt clicked into place, and he let his head fall back against the window, his gaze drifting to the older man seated across from him.

“Shall we?” Haytham asked with a raised eyebrow and Connor nodded, closing his eyes as the car gently lurched forward.

Chapter Text

Connor had drifted off during the ride back to Haytham’s, only waking when the car eased to a stop. He yawned and stretched, muttering a quick apology as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Haytham waved him off without a word.

Only then did Connor really take in the car’s interior.

The lights were low, the temperature perfect. No wonder he’d passed out. The seats were stitched in high-end leather, black at the center and grey along the edges. It smelled new. Not just clean - new, like it had rolled off the factory floor yesterday. Knowing Haytham, it probably had.

He didn’t know much about the man, aside from the fact that he was the CEO of Abstergo Industries, and that he’d donated an entire ambulance to Connor’s station, which said more than enough about his bank account. Connor wasn’t particularly interested in money, but he wasn’t blind to wealth either.

Then, of course, there was that dinner at Le Jardin, a semi-fancy French place where the waitstaff wore gloves and the wine list came in a leather-bound book. Haytham had impeccable taste in clothes and hadn’t let Connor pay, brushing off his protests like it was expected.

Now, standing outside a towering glass-and-steel apartment building, Connor felt vaguely out of place. The kind of place with an actual uniformed doorman and a private entrance tucked away from street view. It didn’t feel like a building so much as a fortress, one designed to keep the world out and the privileged in. Connor had only ever seen places like this during calls, rushing in with gear bags and a trauma kit. This was the first time he wasn’t arriving through the service entrance.

“Come along, boy. Let’s get you inside. Can you walk?” Haytham’s voice met his ears, and he nodded, following him out of the car.

He looked up at the building to see if he could figure out what floor Haytham was living on. He wondered if it was the top floor or somewhere lower. It was like Abstergo’s skyscraper in the way it loomed over the city, dominating the streets and exerting power. Fitting for the man he’d come to…care about, in some quiet, complicated way.

He hoped no one would question why he was covered in blood, but the uniform and bandaged nose would likely answer that before anyone asked.

Haytham greeted the doorman with a respectful nod and led the way to the elevator.

“We take this halfway to the top, walk across the hall, and then transfer to a private lift, the same setup as my office. Security purposes,” Haytham explained as the floor numbers climbed.

Connor said nothing. He had no experience with something like this, more used to climbing up stairs to the second or third floor. The service elevator was different, just enough room to barely fit in a gurney and two people. Any private access he didn’t really pay attention to because he was more focused on trying to reach his patient.

When the elevator chimed its arrival, they stepped inside. Connor leaned back against the cool metal wall; eyes half-lidded. He wasn’t sure if he’d fall asleep again, but exhaustion was sinking deep into his bones.

At some point, he did drift off, because he startled awake with a sharp breath, flashing back to the patient’s hand cracking across his nose. He blinked rapidly, disoriented.

Haytham watched him with a raised eyebrow.

“Sorry,” Connor muttered, rubbing his arm.

“Nothing to be sorry for, boy. We’re almost there,” came the quiet reply.

He wasn’t entirely sure when they transferred to the second elevator, just remembered the soft swipe of a key card, the subtle shift of momentum. Everything blurred together. When they finally reached the penthouse, he waited as Haytham unlocked the door.

Inside was a space that screamed money and status. High, vaulted ceilings. A glass wall overlooking the city. Marble floors so clean they barely looked real. It felt more like a set from an action movie than someone’s home.

But it didn’t feel lived in. The walls were mostly bare, the furniture sparse. No photographs. No plants. A few carefully placed decorations. Sterile, not like the hospital, but something colder. Detached.

“You’ll find the guest room down the hall, first door on the right. Private bathroom. I’ll have someone bring you fresh clothes,” Haytham said, his tone gentler now than had been before, as Connor would break if he spoke too loudly. Maybe that was his own perspective.

“Thanks,” Connor murmured, already halfway down the hall.

“If you’d like, I can order food,” Haytham called after him. “In case you haven’t eaten.”

Connor paused, turning back.

“Haytham, I can’t get the smell of burning flesh out of my nose,” he said, voice low. “I can’t even think about food right now. Thank you, you’ve been more kind than I deserve.”

He didn’t mean to sound ungrateful, but the exhaustion made his tone flat, edged with something unintentional.

“Understood,” Haytham replied simply. “My assistant will bring the clothing. But consider eating something in the morning. I shouldn’t have to remind you, given your profession.”

The way Haytham spoke to him, calm, steady, without pity, eased something tight in Connor’s chest. And that, more than anything, unsettled him.

Instead of pausing to untangle that feeling or even respond to Haytham's words, Connor stumbled forward as if putting distance between him and the older man would resolve the complicated feelings rising to the surface. He followed Haytham's directions and opened the door to the guest room.

Whatever he had expected - it hadn't been this. The room appeared semi-circular with long, navy curtains lining the panorama windows. The lights from the city were flickering outside, offering a surreal view of New York. Stunned, Connor remained in the door frame for a moment, trying to blink away the exhaustion, pain, and the feeling of being out of place. A large bed dominated the room, and a pleasant light on the nightstand illuminated the room as if it had waited for Connor to arrive. Yet, of course, Haytham couldn't have known that the young paramedic would stay over.

With clumsy movements, Connor closed the door and then removed his blood-stained, foul-smelling jacket. As he looked around for a place to deposit it, he could hear distant sounds of a door being opened, and quiet voices.

Then, steps in the hallway, and Haytham's quiet voice, "I will leave some spare clothes in the bathroom for you, it’s the next door on your left. There are some options for you to choose; sleepwear as well." After a short pause, he added, "You can leave your uniform in the bathroom, I will have it cleaned by the morning."

Unsure what to say in the face of this kind of luxury and this kind of consideration, Connor muttered, "Okay, got it. Thanks again."

As Haytham walked away, Connor took a few hesitant steps toward the massive bed in the center of the room. He thought about sitting down, until the smell of soot and burnt fabric hit him like a wave. He recoiled. His hands flew to his shirt, popping buttons as his chest heaved, breath coming in ragged gasps. He had to get it off. If he didn’t, he’d suffocate.

He let the shirt drop to the floor and kicked it away, as far as he could, before backing into the door. But the flames followed. At least, in his mind - they roared in his ears, louder with every second.

He couldn’t escape.

A choked sob ripped from his lungs. He clawed at the door behind him, trying to climb it, to get away from the invisible trauma gnawing at his legs. His hands trembled as they fumbled with his belt. The first time, they failed. The second, he ripped it off, flinging it at the window. The metal buckle cracked against the glass with a sharp clang. He gasped, desperate to ground himself, to remember he was safe.

Screams. Pleas. Cries. All of them swallowed him whole.

A guttural wail tore free from his throat. He threw his head back, the impact against the door sending jarring pain down his spine.

“Connor?” His name, spoken so gently, so full of care, almost brought him to his knees.

It cut through the spiral, just enough. He forced himself to breathe, to contain the grief rising like a tide inside him.

“S’fine,” he managed, the word barely there as he shakily kicked off his boots and stripped out of his work pants and boxers.

He stood there a moment, trembling, staring at the pile of ruined clothes on the floor. His nose throbbed, a reminder of the chaos from only hours ago. His lungs still begged for release, for a full purge of the pain inside him. But Haytham was still just outside the door. Listening. Waiting.

He couldn’t fall apart again.

“Do you need me to come in?” The soft voice came again.

Connor stiffened. He was naked.

“No, no. I’m fine, Haytham. Thank… thank you. Just going to shower and g-go to bed.”

His voice betrayed him - thin, shaking, barely strung together.

“Alright. Goodnight, Connor.”

He listened to the footsteps fade down the hall. A breath shuddered from his lungs. In a nervous rush, Connor threw himself toward a small dresser nestled in the corner, digging through the drawers in search of a towel. His hands trembled still, fingers brushing against soft fabric. He pulled it out and exhaled a sigh of relief, as if he could find all his answers hidden within its threads. He wrapped the towel around his waist, cracked the door open, and slipped into the bathroom. It was going to be a long night.

The door clicked softly behind him, sealing him in the quiet sanctuary of the bathroom. It was spacious, with sleek lines and muted tones - dark grey tiles and a black rainfall shower head glistening under soft lighting. Connor’s gaze landed on the marble countertop, where neatly folded clothes sat beside fresh dressings for his nose. His chest ached as he stared, the sight stirring something raw and unfamiliar. He inhaled sharply, fighting to steady the twist of his stomach and the racing of his heart. Being cared for like this felt foreign, almost unbearable, as if his body didn’t know how to hold the weight of it.

The hot water did little to chase away the chill of flashbacks, but it helped him breathe again. By the time Connor stepped out and dried off, the haze of panic had dulled to a quiet hum in the back of his mind. He redressed his nose, looking in the mirror as the shell of the man he once was stared back at him. He shuddered. He dressed slowly, movements sluggish, then padded back toward the bedroom with damp hair and heavier limbs.

With a soft sigh, he fished his phone out of his pants and settled on the plush bed. One elbow dug into his knee as he checked for new notifications. A text from Kanen came through - routine. Connor hadn’t told him about the assault or the hospital. He promised to call tomorrow, and his friend seemed satisfied. He felt a strange sense of security at Haytham’s, like he was meant to be here. Like this room, this bed, was his.

He didn’t know what to do with that feeling.

A ding signaled a new text message. He expected it to be from Kanen but blinked and furrowed his eyebrows when the name read Haytham instead.

“Take your time. I’m just down the hall if you need anything.”

His eyes burned from exhaustion, and the pull to lay down was stronger than ever. He stared at the words until they blurred into a mess of pixels. Shaking his head, he typed a quick reply.

“Thank you. I need quite a few things, but nothing I think you can help with. Goodnight, Haytham.”

He clicked his phone shut, setting it face down on the dark mahogany nightstand. Before he settled in, he recalled Haytham saying he could leave his uniform in the bathroom, and it would be cleaned for him. With a heavy sigh, he picked up the discarded clothing, checked the window for any cracks, and deposited the items in a hamper in the bathroom. He returned to his room after checking the halls again to see where Haytham went. Crawling under the blankets, he stared out at the New York skyline, the moonlight dancing against the buildings. mocking him. He snarled and turned away from it, climbing out of bed to shut the curtains with a sharp tug. The room was swallowed by pitch-black darkness.

Connor shuffled back to the bed, exhaustion weighing him down.

The rest of the night moved slowly, like a river dragging him under, leaving him with nothing but the echo of his own thoughts. Sleep was a distant dream he couldn’t reach, his mind trapped in a haze of weariness and residual panic. His body ached, but it wasn’t the physical pain that kept him awake - it was everything else. Time crawled by in the darkness, the silence in the room heavy and suffocating, until at some point, Connor’s mind finally shut down and he drifted off.

Morning came too soon.

His eyes flickered open, the early light of dawn beginning to filter in from the cracks between the curtains. He felt stiff, the remnants of yesterday’s trauma still clinging to him, but the warmth of the bed and the quiet of the apartment made it hard to leave.

He glanced at the clock. Early. Too early.

Connor eased into a sitting position, his movements careful, as though shaking off the weight of last night. He stood after a few moments, his feet landing on the cool floor. After changing into dark grey joggers and a white shirt left neatly on the counter - an act that made his chest tighten - Connor laced up his high tops and headed quietly for the door.

He headed toward the front door with the intention of sneaking out before Haytham woke up. Maybe he would go grab some coffee or get some fresh air, just to clear his head.

“Sneaking off so soon?” Haytham’s voice carried over from the dining room table Connor hadn’t noticed before.

Haytham sat at the table, a mug in hand, his shirt unbuttoned and hair damp, framing his face in a way that caught Connor’s breath. His gaze, sharp yet calm, made it impossible to look away, but the open shirt grabbed his attention. Connor’s eyes flickered over the jagged scars marring Haytham’s chest, the remnants of a moment when he’d saved the man’s life. Heat rose to his cheeks, and he quickly averted his gaze. Haytham had set the mug down and was in the process of crossing the room toward the paramedic.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, his voice tight. “I didn’t want to disturb you.”

He wanted to back up, to create more distance between him and the older man but found himself rooted to the spot. Haytham stopped nearby, just close enough for Connor to see him properly, but not too close that it would feel overwhelming. He dropped his gaze and slumped his shoulders, feeling like a teenager who was caught sneaking out.

“Nonsense, you’re not disturbing me. I have been up for a couple hours now,” Haytham’s voice was smooth, and Connor’s head snapped up, confused.

“But the sun…,” he trailed off, trying to figure out why Haytham was up around four in the morning.

He seemed amused by Connor’s remark, a hint of a smile on his lips. “Yes, the sun does rise in the morning, doesn’t it? Fascinating,” he teased.

Connor cleared his throat, struggling to hide his confusion behind his usual mask of indifference. “Right,” he muttered, stuffing his hands into his pockets as if that might ground him.

He looked away, but the tension between them didn’t feel uncomfortable. Instead, it was steady, grounding. It was as if they were meant to stand here together.

“Come now, boy, I’ll give you a ride home,” Haytham said, and Connor could feel his scrutinizing glance.

Before he had a chance to protest, the older man added, “We will find a place to have breakfast on the way.”

Glancing up at the other, Connor opened his mouth to politely decline, but he briefly lost his train of thought when he met Haytham’s bright eyes.

“Humour me, will you?” The CEO said, and his eyes briefly flashed with something Connor hazily recognized as amusement.

His heart throbbed, and he couldn’t even say why. The whole past day was a blur, and perhaps he had thought he could merely run away from facing the fact that Haytham had witnessed him come apart not once, not twice, but three times in the span of less than twenty-four hours. And yet, here he was, staring at the man practically forcing him to spend more time with him.

“O-okay,” Connor heard himself say, watching as Haytham turned, buttoning up his shirt and doubtlessly retrieving his jacket.

Connor gave a short nod and approached the door, hand hovering over the doorknob, hesitation rooting him in place. He ran through a mental checklist, trying to recall if he had everything. His keys. His phone. His - oh. Wallet.

He turned to retrieve the wallet from his work pants, only to freeze when he found himself mere inches from Haytham.

The air shifted, crackling like static. Haytham stood close enough that Connor could feel the heat radiating from him, the scent of his cologne filling his nose. Every thought screeched to a halt; every nerve focused on the man before him.

Haytham didn’t move, his gaze unwavering as it locked on Connor’s face. His eyes dipped lower, just for a second, to Connor’s lips.

Connor’s pulse hammered in his ears, drowning out all reason. His lips parted slightly, breath catching in his throat as his body leaned in, almost instinctively. It would be so easy, a single breath between them. His eyes fluttered shut, the moment poised on the edge of something he couldn’t name.

Then reality snapped back. His fingers brushed the edge of his pocket, and he realized his wallet was there all along.

“Sorry,” Connor whispered hoarsely, stumbling back as if burned. He swallowed hard, fumbling to turn the knob and slip into the hallway. His hands were shaking.

The elevator ride was unbearable. Connor kept his eyes fixed on the polished elevator floor, the ghost of Haytham’s proximity still lingering. He could feel the older man’s gaze, steady and unrelenting, and it took everything in him not to look.

What if he had kissed Haytham? The thought twisted his stomach into knots. Would Haytham have leaned in? Would he have rejected him?

When Connor risked a glance, Haytham’s expression was unreadable, his gaze steady as ever. It was infuriating, maddening and Connor wanted to crawl out of his skin.

This was going to haunt him for the rest of the day. Hell, maybe the rest of his life.

Chapter Text

New York's autumn mornings carried a crispness that seeped into Connor's skin, making him shiver as a sharp breeze blew past his bare arms. He walked toward the car, the early light glinting off its polished, deep-blue surface. The vehicle’s sleek, futuristic design caught his attention, a testament to its luxury. His fingers had barely brushed the passenger door handle when Haytham’s hand appeared out of nowhere, sweeping it open with a practised ease.

Connor blinked, startled by the gesture, but caught himself quickly.

"Thank you," he murmured, his voice subdued as he slid into the seat. The interior was just as striking as the exterior: smooth leather upholstery, a larger than life sunroof and a high-tech dashboard glowing faintly in the early morning’s light. The leather was cold against his legs, and the faint scent of Haytham’s cologne lingered in the enclosed space.

The door shut with a quiet, satisfying thud, and Connor watched as Haytham rounded the car to the driver’s side. His movements were deliberate, almost unhurried, in contrast to Connor's restless thoughts. Shivering slightly, Connor buckled his seatbelt and rubbed his arms, glancing around the interior for a distraction. The faint whir of the dashboard controls drew his attention as Haytham adjusted the settings. A soft warmth spread through the seat beneath him, and Connor relaxed marginally, sinking back with a small sigh. The nearly silent engine set it apart from anything he was used to, the car emitting a soft, electric hum.

“Haytham?” he asked, his voice tentative as he turned to the older man.

“Mm?” Haytham responded absently, shifting the car into drive.

Connor adjusted his seatbelt and shifted to find a more comfortable position. “You’ve done… a lot for me. But I’ve been wondering…” He trailed off, watching the city streets slide by as the car eased into motion.

“Go on,” Haytham prompted, his tone encouraging yet calm.

Connor took a breath, steadying himself. “There’s a place I want to visit on the way home. If it’s not too much trouble, could we stop there? I could give you gas money for the detour,” he added, rubbing his thigh in an unconscious gesture of discomfort.

Haytham snorted lightly, amused. “I don’t need your money, Connor. Where do you want to go?”

“It’s at 189 Garrison Avenue, Brooklyn, NY 11207,” Connor replied, glancing out the window.

“Is it a house?”

Connor nodded, his gaze distant. “It was my childhood home… until it burned down. I think there’s a new one there now,” he said, his voice tinged with melancholy as he leaned his head against the cool glass.

Haytham reached over, resting a hand briefly on Connor’s knee, a gentle, reassuring gesture. Connor stared at the spot where their contact lingered for a moment before Haytham returned his hand to the wheel. The touch was oddly comforting, grounding him in the present even as his thoughts pulled him toward the past.

The city unfolded around them as Haytham guided the car through Manhattan’s winding streets, watching as he navigated morning rush hour with ease. Glass skyscrapers loomed above, their mirrored surfaces catching the early morning light. Connor watched the scenery shift through the tinted windows, his mind caught between the present and the weight of the destination ahead.

As they crossed into Brooklyn, the gleaming high-rises gave way to narrower streets lined with brownstones and aging buildings. The asphalt beneath them grew rougher, and the vibrant hum of Manhattan dulled into a quieter, more subdued rhythm. Connor straightened in his seat, fingers curling in his lap as a sense of familiarity crept into his surroundings.

He hadn’t paid much attention to the voice of the GPS, but perked up when they were getting closer to Garrison Avenue. The streets narrowed further, lined with patchy sidewalks and overgrown trees, whose branches arched low over the road. The quiet hum of the electric motor seemed even more pronounced here, contrasting with the occasional bark of a dog or the distant rumble of the subway.

A corner store came into view, its peeling paint and dim signage just as he remembered it - or close enough. His heart skipped a beat as they rolled closer, the echoes of his childhood drawing him into the past despite himself. The park he played at with Kanen when they were boys was rundown, but everything around it seemed to reflect a wealth he was not used to seeing.

Some things were familiar, but most had changed, familiar landmarks intact while others transformed. A coffee shop now stood where an old laundromat used to be, while a café rested in place of a bodega he and his mother frequented. The changes felt disorienting, as though the borough was trying to scrub away its rougher history.

Haytham seemed to notice the shift, his gaze following the lines of newly planted trees and boutique storefronts. “They’ve been redeveloping this area, I see,” he remarked, his tone neutral but not without a trace of skepticism.

Connor’s jaw tightened slightly. “Gentrification,” he muttered, the word sharp in his mouth. “It’s not ’redevelopment.’ It’s replacing people who cannot afford to stay anymore. Reminiscent of colonialism, I suppose.”

When Haytham turned onto Garrison Avenue, Connor’s breath hitched at the sight of the house standing where his childhood home once had. He almost didn’t recognise the lot. The structure loomed, towering over the modest homes that remained on either side. It was a monstrosity of modern architecture, glass walls framed by steel and concrete, its sharp edges and flat roof screaming excess. Large, rectangular windows looked out over the street like unblinking eyes, offering no warmth, no welcome. The driveway, paved with pristine stone tiles, held a sleek black SUV that seemed out of place as the house itself.

Connor’s gaze lingered on the meticulously manicured lawn, where nothing grew naturally. How could it when the earth was charred over a decade ago? Nothing could grow in the ashes of his childhood home. Strips of artificial turf bordered by neatly scattered gravel stood in place of the grass he played on as a young boy. Even the fence had been replaced by a minimalistic metal design, all clean lines and no character.

It wasn’t just a house, it was a statement. A display of wealth planted like a flag in a place where it didn’t belong.

Haytham parked the car at the curb, turning off the vehicle and leaning back against his seat. Connor stared at the house, his chest tight as memories of a warm, weathered home with peeling paint and creaky floors clashed violently with the sterile elegance before him. This wasn’t his house, the one he knew burned to its foundation long ago. It wasn’t anyone’s house - it felt more like a gallery, meant to be seen, but never lived in.

With a heavy sigh, Connor rubbed his face, trying to reign in his emotions. He exited the car wordlessly and stood on the sidewalk, arms crossed, as he continued to examine the house. A sense of dread overwhelmed him and he tugged at his hair, tightly hugging himself in an attempt to keep the sadness at bay. He wouldn’t break down in front of Haytham, not again. His mother’s screams were a faint echo in the wind and he tensed. He hadn’t heard Haytham exit the car and come up beside him, but he did flinch slightly when his shoulder was touched.

“It’s a strange thing, isn’t it? How the world moves on, building over what was, as if it was never there to begin with,” Haytham’s voice was calm, although there was an air of understanding behind those words.

Connor inhaled sharply, his voice tight. “It doesn’t feel right. It’s like… it’s mocking her. Mocking us.” His attention remained on the house, hoping to see anything familiar.

Haytham didn’t remove his hand and Connor didn’t move away, leaning into the touch a little, relishing in the subtle comfort. “Nothing could erase what happened here, nor could it erase who you are.”

Connor swallowed hard, his eyes darting to Haytham briefly before returning to the house. “But it feels wrong to see it like this. Like nothing matters. Like she didn’t matter.”

“Time doesn’t stop for grief, Connor, but it doesn’t erase it, either.”

“I didn’t save her,” he whispered, more to himself than to Haytham.

“You were a child, Connor. No one could have expected you to bear that weight.”

“It doesn’t matter. I was there, and I didn’t save her. She died right in front of me.”

Haytham stepped in front of him, breaking Connor’s focus for the moment. “You didn’t fail her. I don’t know what happened here, but you did your best, the best anyone could have when faced with an impossible situation such as this.”

“It doesn’t make it hurt any less.”

“It never does. But carrying the blame alone will only hollow you out. Let her memory guide you, not consume you.”

Connor looked at the ground, staring at a weed growing through the cracks in the sidewalk, a small hint of satisfaction making him smile a little. It was as if nature, defiant and unyielding, was trying to reclaim what it had lost. The thought comforted him in an odd way, even though he knew the people in this neighbourhood would never allow it. Yet, the weed persisted, growing strongly despite them. Haytham’s words made his heart skip a beat. For a moment, he met the older man’s eyes, searching for something he couldn’t quite name. Without a word, he turned and walked back to the car.

The emotions tangled in his chest were too heavy, too raw to sort through. He climbed back into the passenger seat, waiting for Haytham to join him. As the car door closed softly behind him, he realised one thing, at least he hadn’t faced this alone.

The ride back to his apartment took an unexpected turn, though Connor didn’t notice at first. The quiet between them was steady, comfortable, as he stared out the window and let his thoughts wander. The remnants of his visit to his old home weighed heavily on him, and he was sure he’d spend the rest of the day trying to make sense of it. It wasn’t until Haytham slowed the car and pulled into a small parking lot that Connor looked up, frowning in confusion.

“What are you doing?” he asked, eyes scanning the exterior of an old diner they arrived at.

“Breakfast,” Haytham replied simply, turning off the car once more and getting out before Connor could protest.

Connor stayed frozen in his seat, glancing at the diner and then at Haytham as the older man rounded the car. He opened Connor’s door with an arched brow and a pointed look, waiting patiently.

“You planned this,” Connor accused, though his voice lacked bite.

Haytham smirked, stepping to the side to give Connor more room to get out. “I did. Now get out. Unless you’d rather sulk on an empty stomach.”

Connor huffed, but his curiosity got the better of him as he climbed out of the car. “How do you even know about this place?” he asked, trailing behind Haytham as they approached the entrance.

Haytham didn’t answer right away, holding the door open for Connor instead. Connor narrowed his eyes, wanting to say something about how he can open doors himself, but decided against the scathing remark. As they stepped inside, the warm scent of coffee and maple syrup wrapped around him like a blanket. The interior was quintessentially old-school, with red vinyl booths, checkered floors, and an old jukebox playing some Elvis song in the corner.

“Let’s just say I’ve been here before,” Haytham said cryptically, leading Connor to a far away booth by a window.

Connor narrowed his eyes at him, suspicious but too intrigued to press further. “You’re full of surprises,” he muttered, sliding into the booth with a light huff.

Haytham chuckled, sitting down across from him. “And you’re full of excuses. Order something hearty. You look like you could use it. Especially since you declined dinner last night.”

A waitress strolled over and placed menus in front of them, asking what they wanted for a drink. Both ordered a coffee and as Connor settled into his seat, he looked up at Haytham. “So about my uniform.”

“Ah yes, you left it in the guest room. My assistant notified me as we pulled up to your old home. He is having it professionally cleaned. I can have it dropped at your apartment later.”

“Thank you. Yeah, sorry about leaving it in there. Was too exhausted to deal with it.”

“Understandable, given your broken nose and all.”

His breakdown was left unmentioned and Connor was grateful for it, glad it wasn’t brought up. He glanced down at the menu, though his stomach twisted with more nervous energy than hunger. He stole a quick look at Haytham, who was watching him with a sharp, amused gleam in his eyes.

“Why are you staring at me?” Connor asked hesitantly, as if he wasn’t sure of the answer.

Haytham leaned back in the booth, his smirk deepening. “Hm, can you blame me? You’re far more interesting than the decor, though that jukebox does give you a run for your money.”

Connor’s cheeks flushed, and he buried his face in his hands.

Haytham’s voice dropped slightly, a flirtatious edge to his tone. “I quite enjoy watching you. Especially when you’re trying so hard not to be flattered.”

Connor peeked out from between his fingers, glaring half-heartedly. “I’m not flattered.”

“Mm, of course not,” Haytham replied, the corners of his mouth twitching as though he were fighting a smile. “And I’m just here for the coffee.”

Connor buried his face deeper into his hands, sliding down a bit in his seat as he tried to hide the heat creeping up his ears. Haytham’s attentions weren’t exactly new, but the air between them felt different today.

“So,” Haytham began again, voice silky and deliberate. “What are you having? Or are you planning to hide behind your hands until they close the place?”

Connor moved his hands just enough to stare at him through narrowed eyes, though the effect was muted by his flustered appearance. “I’m deciding. Give me a minute.”

“Is the menu attached to your hands? Take all the time you need,” Haytham replied smoothly, leaning forward slightly. “I’m in no rush.”

“Do you always have to talk like that?”

“Talk like what?”

“Like-,” Connor faltered, pressing his lips together as if to stop the words from escaping. His eyes darted away, firmly fixed on the salt shaker instead. “Like you’re trying to, never mind.”

“If there is somewhere else you’d rather be…,”

“No! No, it’s not… it’s not like that, I just.., “

“Just what?”

Connor opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, the waitress approached with their coffee. She placed the mugs down in front of them with a practised ease, her notepad already in hand. Connor let out a shaky breath, thankful for the momentary reprieve.

“Have you gentlemen decided, or do you need a few more minutes?” she asked, her voice a little too cheery for an early morning.

“Uh, veggie omelette,” Connor blurted out, seizing the opportunity to escape the moment.

“And you, sir?” she scribbled down Connor’s order, nodding toward Haytham.

“The oatmeal with fruit is fine, thank you.”

Connor shot him a look of incredulity, but the waitress interrupted his thoughts.

“Coming right up!” The waitress exclaimed in a grating tone, leaving Connor to shudder.

He busied himself with his coffee, wrapping both hands around the mug, trying to ground himself. He’d barely taken a sip before Haytham’s voice cut through the brief silence.

“You were saying?”

“Uh, I uh, wasn’t saying anything,” He replied quickly, feigning innocence.

“Oh, but you were,” Haytham countered smoothly. “Something about my… conversational style, was it?”

“Are you flirting with me?” Connor asked hastily, trying to find something of interest in his coffee.

“Well, what do you think, boy?”

Connor ducked his head, bringing his coffee up to take a couple slow sips. He set the mug back down, but didn’t pick his head back up. “I wouldn’t be asking if I knew, would I?” He mumbled, embarrassment washing over him as he tried to make sense of their interaction.

Haytham was amused, though it didn’t stop him from reaching over and tilting Connor’s chin up. “Oh, I think you know.”

Connor’s face heated up more thoroughly, his eyes darting away even as Haytham held his chin gently. “I don’t… I mean, I’m not used to…” he stammered, the words fumbling out of his mouth before he could catch them.

Haytham’s thumb brushed lightly against Connor’s jaw, a sort of soothing, yet sensual gesture.

“I’ve got the veggie omelette,” the waitress had returned and Haytham withdrew his hand, watching Connor closely. “And the oatmeal with fruit. Anything else I can get for you?”

“No, I think that’s all, thank you,” Haytham replied smoothly, not taking his eyes off the young man in front of him.

“Alright, I will come back soon. Enjoy your… meal,” she said with a wink and Connor groaned, embarrassed that she caught them like that.

Connor picked up his fork, but the heat in his face hadn’t faded. His mind buzzed with the lingering sensation of Haytham’s hand on his chin, the weight of the man’s gaze, and now the waitress’s knowing wink. He pushed a piece of egg around his plate, his appetite momentarily gone.

“Eat, Connor,” Haytham said, his tone calm but firm. “You’ll feel better if you do.”

Connor’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he obeyed, taking a bite of the omelette. He had to admit, Haytham was right. The savoury flavours settled his nerves somewhat, and he focused on his food, willing the tension to dissipate. Across the table, Haytham ate his oatmeal with a measured ease, his movements precise and unhurried. His gaze occasionally flicked to Connor, but he didn’t say anything more, letting the younger man stew in his thoughts.

“Do you always do this?” Connor asked after a while, clearing his throat.

“Do what?” Haytham had focused on his meal, not looking up this time.

“Throw people off balance,” Connor muttered, stabbing at his omelette again.

Haytham raised an eyebrow, glancing up. “Only when it’s worth the effort.”

Connor shook his head, a mix of exasperation and something he refused to name settling in his chest. He kept eating, determined to finish quickly, trying to ignore the lingering heat rolling down between his legs.

When the plates were cleared and the check paid - by Haytham, despite Connor’s protests - they walked back to the car in silence. The autumn air felt sharper now, cutting through the warmth the diner, and Haytham’s words, had provided.

Back in the car, he shifted in his seat, adjusting himself so his leg hid a growing erection. “Thank you,” Connor said softly, trying to hide any indication that he was getting aroused.

“No need to thank me, boy. Now, let’s get you home. It’s clear you have something you need to take care of,” Haytham replied, leaving Connor flustered. “Feel free to call me if you are in need of any assistance.”

Was it that obvious? Surely he means something else.

Connor deliberately faced the passenger window, trying his best to ignore that rather bold offer. He muttered his address, choosing not to look over at Haytham as they drove in that direction. They rode in silence, but the air had shifted dramatically, and Connor had half a mind to ask Haytham to help him out now. Before he could make a decision, they pulled up to his apartment building.

“Uh, thanks again. I’ll see you next time?” Connor said awkwardly as he stepped out of the car.

“I’m only a phone call or text message away.”

Connor nodded, closing the door and looking up at the building with a sigh. As he walked toward his apartment, he glanced back, catching Haytham’s gaze before the car eased back into motion. His heart was still pounding as he climbed the stairs, a small smile tugging at his lips despite himself.

Chapter Text

The creak of the stairs underfoot matched the steady rhythm of his thoughts, a quiet backdrop to the morning’s lingering warmth. Connor couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at his lips as he recalled breakfast - Haytham, flirtation, and the strange yet intriguing way the man’s attention lingered. It felt unfamiliar, uncharted, as though Haytham was seeing something in him that even Connor hadn’t noticed. He wasn’t used to being the focus of someone’s interest like this.

The last person to look at him with anything resembling devotion had been Josef, years ago, a relationship Connor now recognised for its imbalance. Sixteen to Josef’s twenty-five, a gap that felt more troubling in hindsight than it had at the time. There had been dates after Josef, scattered attempts at connection, but nothing that stuck. Nothing that felt like this. Haytham’s attention wasn’t like Josef’s; it wasn’t a calculated game of power but something more careful, more measured. It left Connor off-balance, unsure of his footing, but not entirely opposed to finding it.

His thoughts lingered on the older man as he stepped inside, the door clicking shut and locking behind him. Connor kicked off his high-tops, placing them neatly on the rack by the door, and stood there for a moment, caught in the stillness. The past twenty-four hours felt like a whirlwind - nothing about them seemed normal. But what was normal for a first responder in New York City?

With a soft huff, he crossed the room to the couch and sank into it, drumming his fingers against his thigh in an slow rhythm. His hand worked at the muscle there, easing the tension as it crept upward, his thoughts drifting to Haytham. He imagined the man’s hand in place of his own, and the idea brought a quiet, breathy laugh. Yet when his hand brushed higher, instead of continuing where he wanted it to go, it moved sideways, slipping beneath the hem of his shirt, the shirt Haytham had bought him.

Connor swallowed hard, his hand trailing across his lower abdomen, his skin warm under his touch. The deliberate pace mirrored the swirl of thoughts in his head, half of them tethered to the present, the other half consumed by Haytham. He couldn’t stop himself from imagining the man’s hand in place of his own, firm yet controlled, guiding him with the precision of someone who always got what he wanted. Connor’s breath hitched as his thumb grazed his nipple, a sharp jolt of sensation sending shivers up his spine.

Just as his body began to surrender to the rising heat, a voice echoed in his mind, low, steady, unmistakably Haytham. “Patience, boy,” it said, the two simple words coiling around him like a command. Connor’s eyes snapped open, his heart pounding as he looked around, half-expecting to see the man standing there in the shadows.

The room was silent except for the faint hum of traffic outside, but Connor’s pulse thundered in his ears. He sat frozen, hand hovering over his abdomen as his eyes darted to the corners of the dimly lit apartment. There was no one there, and yet the voice had felt so real, so immediate. He exhaled shakily, his body betraying him with a twitch of anticipation. It wasn’t just the command, it was the way it had sounded, like Haytham was standing just behind him, lips grazing his ear, calm and steady even as Connor’s own thoughts spiraled.

He leaned back into the couch, his head tipping against the cushion as his fingers ran across the hem of his joggers. The fabric was rough beneath his fingertips, a tangible reminder of the man who had somehow managed to slip past every wall Connor thought he’d built. His hand stilled, and he closed his eyes, allowing the memory of Haytham’s smirk and that low, measured voice to flood his senses.

“Patience,” Connor murmured to himself, the word an anchor and a challenge all at once.

He glanced down, ready to pull his cock from his pants, but instead ran fingers over the aching erection. He shivered and briefly considered calling the CEO - the man had seemingly offered something after all - but decided against it. He worried that he had been reading the situation wrong and didn't want to end up in an awkward situation.

Connor scoffed lightly at the thought and traced the outline of his cock beneath the fabric, hips jerking a little. A quiet pleasured sound escaped as he teased the head, a light blush covering his cheeks. He imagined himself nestled between Haytham's legs, back to his chest as the man explored his body, teasing him, groping him, owning him. It hadn't taken long before Connor gave in, tugging down the joggers enough to free his cock. His hand wrapped around it almost immediately, but he paused, wondering if he should ignore the command that he imagined Haytham gave him.

Instead, he pictured the other's hand around his erection, sliding slowly up and down his shaft. He gasped and bucked upward, although he kept the pace as it was. He was used to chasing his own pleasure, racing toward the orgasm, but for some reason, this time it was different. He let his thoughts drift, wondering how it might feel to surrender entirely in Haytham’s arms, to let the man’s hands explore him in ways he’d never known. His thumb collected a bit of precum at the tip, slipping around the head and underneath.

"Fuck," he breathed softly, pausing a moment as he reached for a small basket on a end table near the couch.

At the bottom, beneath various knickknacks, was a small packet of lubricant he had tossed there after a pride event one night last summer. He tore open the corner and coated his hand, then went back to enveloping his cock with his hand. The added slick enhanced the experience as he picked up the speed, back arching slightly off the couch. His chest heaved and his legs fell apart further, other hand going down to lightly play with his balls. He rolled them in his hand and squeezed gently, cock twitching in his grasp.

When he felt himself getting close to the edge, all movement ceased and he dropped his hands to the couch. He delicately rested his hand against the fabric as to not get lube everywhere, watching his cock twitch and throb, body protesting against the loss. He blinked, not having edged himself in quite some time, feeling heat roll up his abdomen and settle in his chest. He wanted Haytham here, wanted him to control the situation, to show him everything he had been missing out on. He was sure the man had plenty of experience.

As his mind swirled and conjured images of Haytham again, Connor went back to touching himself. This time, however, he gave into everything - the feelings of pleasure washing over him as he pushed himself to the edge once more. The sensation built slowly, like a flame catching on dry kindling, until it roared through him with an intensity that stole his breath. There Haytham was, his bright eyes focusing on him, regarding him; as if he could see it all, every flaw, every scar, every tear he ever shed; see him like he was now, in the palm of the older man's hand. Anchored by that gaze; by those brief touches, Connor was overwhelmed by more than just pleasure.

It was surrender, a blinding rush that blurred the edges of reality and left him floating, untethered, in a sea of ecstasy. His skin burned with the touch, his heart pounding in time with every wave that crashed over him, pulling him under and setting him free all at once.

His eyes fell closed and back arched high up off the cushions, a low moan filling the room as he came, hot white streaks covering his shirt. He panted, repeating Haytham's name over and over again, falling back against the couch. He stilled his hand, his hips stuttering a few more times, though jerking when he teased the head for a second. Connor’s breathing slowed, the rhythm uneven but gradually steadying as he let himself sink into the couch. His body felt heavy now, the tension from moments before dissolving into a pleasant warmth that radiated through his limbs. A sheen of sweat cooled on his skin, making him shiver slightly, though the sensation was far from unpleasant.

His thoughts were a haze, his mind caught somewhere between the fading pulse of satisfaction and the faint echo of Haytham’s voice in his head. It wasn’t just the pleasure that lingered; it was the closeness he’d imagined, the way it had felt so achingly real, as though Haytham’s touch had truly been there.

A soft exhale escaped him, and he wiped a hand over his face, the faintest smile tugging at his lips despite himself. He felt... lighter, in a way that was hard to describe. A little embarrassed, perhaps, but more than that, a quiet sense of calm, as if he’d unlocked something he hadn’t even realised he’d been holding back. The thrum of his pulse in his neck brought him back to the present, a long, quiet sigh filling the silence. He pushed himself up and pulled off the shirt, crumpling it in his hand, not caring about the way it would wrinkle. He used it to gently wipe up the drying cum and tucked himself back into his joggers, giving himself a moment before standing. He swayed slightly and stuck his arm out for balance, trying to ensure that he wouldn't fall back down.

This moment felt like no other. Haytham had him in a choke hold, every fibre of his being pulled toward the older man with an undeniable force, as though they were always meant to be together. He wasn’t usually this sensitive, wasn’t usually this... aroused. But now, for the first time, he felt something else, something he had never allowed himself to believe. This, what he was feeling, was more than just desire. It was the possibility of something real, something lasting. More than what Kanen could offer platonically, more than what he’d ever allowed anyone else to offer. This was nothing like Josef or anyone he had been with before. Haytham Kenway was an enigma and he wanted to crack the code.

He shuffled into the bedroom, tossing his shirt toward the hamper, but it missed and crumpled into a heap beside it. He didn’t bother picking it up, too tired to care. Instead, he crawled into bed, pulling the comforter tightly around himself, craving the embrace of sleep. His mind, however, refused to settle. Thoughts of Haytham drifted back to the forefront, relentless and undeniable. He didn’t understand what all of this meant, the attraction, the connection, but he couldn’t keep pushing it down anymore. He was tired of pretending it wasn’t there. The worst thing that could happen was rejection, but that thought lingered, heavy and uncomfortable. Was he prepared for it, if it came? Could he handle the weight of it?

As his mind wandered, he recalled that he still needed to reach out to Katie, his supervisor, about when he could return to work. His nose, still sore from where a patient had accidentally broken it the night before, was a constant reminder of the chaotic shift. The ER visit had been brief, but the recovery wasn’t going to be. He’d need to ask Katie about light duty, if that was even an option, or how long he’d be off completely. He couldn’t afford to stay sidelined for too long, but he had no choice right now. Sighing, he pulled his phone from his pocket, his thumb hovering over Katie’s contact before he thought better of it. He’d deal with it later, when he was more awake, when his thoughts weren’t so tangled.

He hadn’t been asleep more than an hour when a loud banging jolted him awake. Heart pounding, Connor scrambled upright, eyes wide as he strained to make out the source of the noise. His mind raced, trying to identify what it could be, where it was coming from. A muffled voice filtered through the door, making him tilt his head, brow furrowing as he tried to place it. The sound of the door unlocking followed, and a small wave of relief washed over him. Only one person besides the apartment workers had a key. Kanen.

"Ratonhnhaké:ton!" Kanen's voice reverberated throughout the apartment and Connor swallowed.

His friend only shouted his name like that when he was pissed, choosing not to use Connor's American name. Fuck. He didn't respond, trying to think about if he ever texted his best friend like he had planned to. Judging by Kanen's intrusion into his living space, he would guess that was a no. He stayed where he was, knowing the man would find him momentarily, and offered a sheepish smile when he was discovered.

"Hey, Kanen," Connor said gently, trying to deescalate the situation.

His friend stopped short of entering his room, clearly annoyed, the anger enveloping him, a heavy force that seemed to distort the air around him. "Hey bestie, why the fuck did I turn on the news this morning to watch my best friend be loaded into an ambulance?"

"I uh, well, you see uh," Connor began, trying to find the right words.

"Yes?" Kanen said impatiently, arms crossed over his chest like he had just finished chastising a child.

"Look," he sighed, carding a hand through his hair, "there was a mass cas incident yesterday. A bus flipped, and it…it caught fire."

Kanen's features softened a bit and he approached the bed, sitting on the edge, waiting for Connor to continue. He was with Connor when he was young, losing his mother in a fire, so he knew the implications those words had.

"I was, jesus Kanen, so many people died. I couldn't… I couldn't save them." Connor covered his face with his hands, shoulders dropping, then letting his hands fall to his lap. "And then, I had to get a firefighter to tell a woman her husband was dead. And when I went to help a man, he got freaked out and punched me in the face. My nose, broke."

Kanen frowned, reaching over and resting his hand on Connor's knee, a gesture of reassurance. Although he didn't say anything, Connor felt comforted by his friend's presence. He hadn't had time to process anything, hadn't had time to deal with the fact that he witnessed something so traumatic.

"So then I was taken to the hospital, even though I didn't want to go, I wanted to stay. My patients needed me," he continued, quieter this time.

"There's only so much you can do, kia:se. You have to take care of yourself, first. What was that about taking care of yourself, then your partner, then your patient, and then bystanders?" Kanen said reassuringly, pulling his hand back and laying down on the bed. "Anyway, how did you get home? You should have called me."

"Uh, well, Haytham came to the hospital. He said he saw me on the news and well, there he was," Connor said with a slight laugh, leaning back against the headboard.

"What? Oh my god, Connor, he so wants you. Haytham Kenway, British rich-boy CEO of whatever the fuck industries, personally took time to go make sure you were okay? You've got that man whipped," Kanen said with a laugh, throwing his arms into the air.

"Whipped? It's 2025, Kanen. Who says that anymore? No, it's not like that," Connor groaned and tried to kick his friend in the side.

Kanen grinned, pushing Connor's foot away. "Yeah? Well, what happened next? Did you kiss?"

Connor rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest in the same way his friend did moments ago. "No, we did not kiss, dude. The doctor set my nose, I had a panic attack, and Haytham was there for me."

"Of course he was! Hey, when am I going to meet this mystery boyfriend of yours?"

"He's not my boyfriend."

"Not yet, anyway."

Connor smacked him in the face with a pillow and Kanen laughed again, throwing the pillow onto the floor.

"He uh, he let me stay at his place last night. Then I asked him to take me by the old house, you know, the one that burned down. The one where… anyway, there's this shitty stupid fake ass model home there now. You wouldn't believe what happened to our old neighbourhood, Kanen. After that, we had breakfast together and he brought me home." Connor explained, watching as Kanen's grin got wider and wider, wondering if his face was going to explode.

"Oh. My. GOD. Connor! You stayed at his place? And you didn't even fuck? What was it like? I bet there was like, million dollar decor everywhere, a toilet made out of gold, and a butler. Was there a butler? Probably named Percival Pompington, or something like that. I want a butler."

"Actually, it was pretty underwhelming. Well, it looked like it belonged in a movie or something, but Haytham seems allergic to decor. And butlers. But he does have a personal assistant."

"A personal assistant, eh? Bet they're fucking."

Connor huffed, a deep blush crossing his cheeks, his stomach twisting in a knot he didn’t want to untangle. There was a sharp pang of something he couldn’t quite name, gnawing at him as he thought of Haytham and his assistant. It wasn’t jealousy, he told himself. It wasn’t like that. He wasn’t even dating Haytham - hell, he hadn’t even admitted to himself what this was. But something about the thought of someone else getting close to him, even in passing, made his chest tighten. He had no right to feel this way, but he couldn’t shake the uncomfortable feeling that settled inside him.

"Are you jealous, Raton? Holy shit, you are jealous," Kanen accused playfully, pointing a dramatic finger in Connor's direction, another wide grin spreading across his face.

"I'm not jealous," Connor said flatly, though the blush moving down his neck betrayed him.

Kanen raised an eyebrow, propping himself up on his elbow. "Okay, so then why are you blushing? And why didn't you respond?" he pressed, clearly enjoying himself.

Connor crossed his arms and huffed, glaring at his best friend. "Shut up, Kanen. I'm not jealous. If he wants to have relations with his assistant, that's his right. It’s not like he's my boyfriend or anything," he said, trying his best to sound nonchalant, though the words came out clipped.

Kanen snorted, shaking his head. "But he could be if you would just say something," he said, the teasing edge to his tone softening slightly.

Connor frowned, sinking further back into the pillows. "I really don’t think he sees me that way," he muttered, his voice quiet, almost defeated.

Kanen groaned, throwing himself back out of exasperation. "Are you kidding? Like, be so for real right now, Connor," he said, sitting up straighter as if gearing up for a rant. "He took you on a date to some fancy schmancy restaurant, he bought your station an ambulance, he came to see you in the hospital, let you have a sleepover, took you to your childhood home, then bought you breakfast. But yeah, no, totally platonic. Absolutely."

Connor looked away, biting the inside of his cheek. He didn’t want to admit that Kanen might have a point. When he didn't respond, Kanen took that as confirmation that Connor was indeed jealous.

"You know, Connor, I would slap you if I could. But your face is already messed up as it is. He likes you, bro. So are you going to do something about it?" Kanen inquired and Connor flinched as if he actually was struck.

"I don't know," he replied quietly, fidgeting with a loose string on the comforter.

"Come on, man. You have to give him a chance. He's not your ex, you have to know this," Kanen pried gently, trying to get him to seemingly understand that Haytham is not Josef.

"I know that, you don't have to bring my ex into this," Connor grumbled, pulling his knees to his chest.

"I'm not trying to. I just, you're making this harder than it has to be. What's the issue, here? Josef was a fucking dick and frankly, he shouldn't have been fucking around with a minor. But you're an adult now, you have to let that part go. You didn't do anything wrong. I think you need to give Haytham a chance. He seems like a cool guy, from what I've heard so far," Kanen nudged Connor's leg and sat up, stretching like he had been laying down for hours.

"But - but what if he is? What if this happens again, Kanen?" Connor sighed, hugging his knees and resting his chin on one of them.

"And what if he isn't? You have to give him a chance, like I said. He doesn't deserve to be compared to your ex like that. You're going to be single forever," his friend replied, fixing Connor with a pointed look.

Connor didn’t respond, staring down at the crumpled comforter instead. Kanen sighed, the exasperation in his tone softening into something more patient.

"Look, I’m just saying - don’t let your past keep you from a good thing. Give the guy a chance, Connor," he said gently, rising from the bed and stretching his arms overhead. "But hey, no pressure. You’ve got plenty to deal with right now. Let’s get that bandage changed."

Connor nodded mutely, crawling out of bed and following Kanen into the bathroom. The next few minutes passed in comfortable silence as Kanen carefully helped him clean and reapply the bandage over his nose, grumbling under his breath about Connor’s knack for getting himself hurt.

"You’re all set," Kanen declared, stepping back with a satisfied nod. "Now, get some sleep, alright? I’ll check in on you later, and don’t even think about ignoring my texts this time."

Connor managed a small smile. "Thanks, Kanen. For everything."

Kanen grinned, ruffling Connor’s hair. "What are best friends for? Take care of yourself, kia:se." With that, he grabbed his jacket and headed for the door, tossing a final wave over his shoulder before disappearing into the hallway.

Alone at last, Connor sank back into his bed, exhaustion pulling at every muscle. Kanen’s words lingered, replaying in his mind with stubborn clarity. Haytham wasn’t Josef. He didn’t deserve the weight of someone else’s sins, and maybe, just maybe, Connor didn’t deserve to keep carrying them either.

The thought brought a strange kind of solace, even if it wasn’t enough to quiet the doubts entirely. As his eyes drifted shut, Connor decided he’d figure it out later. For now, sleep was all he wanted.

And maybe, if he was lucky, his dreams would bring him some clarity.

Chapter Text

The weeks dragged on in a haze of frustration, each day blending into the next as Connor found himself spiraling more often than he cared to admit. He hated the stagnation, the crushing weight of feeling useless, sidelined when all he wanted was to return to work. Follow-up appointments with his doctor became a grim routine, each one a reminder of how far he still had to go. They checked his progress, monitored for infection, adjusted his prescriptions. He tried to find solace in light workouts, but every attempt to push himself was met with sharp reminders to take it easy. The dread hung heavy, an unwelcome companion.

Friends checked in - Andres, Kanen, even a few coworkers. Katie had stopped by once, offering a tentative olive branch. Yet Connor withdrew further, retreating into isolation. He didn’t reach out, didn’t open the door wide enough for anyone to linger. Anyone except Haytham. With him, Connor’s resolve softened, and for reasons he couldn’t fully articulate, he found himself leaning toward the man instead of away.

Connor kept himself occupied by texting Haytham, their conversations becoming a regular part of his days. It was mostly simple things, checking in, asking about his day. Haytham didn’t seem to mind, always responding when he could, usually between meetings or before and after his hours at Abstergo. Could he even call it a shift? Did CEOs have shifts? He still had no clue what Haytham actually did at that job, though he imagined it was mind-numbing office work. Maybe he should Google Abstergo one day.

Haytham had invited him out a few times for quick coffee runs or a bite to eat during lunch hours. Kanen had started teasing him about “dates,” but Connor dismissed the idea. Haytham was just a friend, and this was what friends did. Wasn’t it?

The moment he was cleared to return to work, Connor didn’t hesitate. Haytham had ensured his uniform was ready, returning it laundered, pressed, with every button meticulously replaced. It smelled like new, clean, untouched by the traumas it had seen.

Katie almost assigned him to light duty, her protective instincts flaring, but Connor pushed back hard, threatening to transfer to another station if he wasn’t allowed to work at full capacity. Reluctantly, she agreed, with one condition: he had to stop immediately if he felt unwell. She wasn’t willing to lose another paramedic.

Connor couldn’t blame her for being cautious. Three years ago, another medic had ignored the early signs of a heart attack and died in the line of duty. Thirty-one years old, leaving behind three children and a pregnant wife. The memory still lingered in the station, a sharp reminder of how fragile they all were. If that wasn’t hard enough, the medic had also been Andres’ longtime partner, making the loss cut even deeper. Connor never asked about him, and Andres never spoke of it, though it lingered like an unspoken truth between them.

"I like how you bullied Katie into letting you come back to work at full capacity," Andres said as Connor clocked in for his first shift back.

"Bullying, or good persuasion?" Connor replied, stepping around him toward the waiting ambulance in the bay.

The station had eventually assigned Connor and Andres the new ambulance that Abstergo - or rather, Haytham - had donated a few months ago. Andres’ seniority had secured first dibs on the rig. So much had happened since then: the date at the French restaurant, the blur of calls, crying at Abstergo, the bus accident. Six weeks. Exactly six weeks since the assault. Six weeks since he stayed at Haytham's apartment.

"I'd say bullying," Andres continued, following Connor to the ambulance, "but whatever. I'm just glad to have you back. I missed having you around."

Connor snorted as he climbed inside, sliding open the airway compartment to check supplies. "Missed having me around, or tired of not having a stable partner?" he asked without looking up from his count of nasal cannulas.

"Both, probably. Need me to grab anything? Med bag? Monitor?" Andres asked, leaning casually against the open door.

"Yeah, that’d be great. Thanks. Four, five, six…" Connor jotted down the count and paused as his phone dinged.

Raising an eyebrow, he sank into the captain’s chair and opened the notification. Haytham's name lit up the screen. Unlocking the phone, Connor read the message:

"First day back. Hope it goes smoothly."

His heart skipped a beat, and a grin spread across his face. Glancing around, he checked to see if Andres was nearby.

“Yeah, thanks. It should be alright. You have any plans this weekend?” Connor texted back, his leg bouncing nervously as a wave of anxiety overcame him.

Usually, it was Haytham who invited him places. Maybe it was time to take the initiative for once.

"I can make room for you, Connor. What do you have in mind?"

Connor stared at the screen, trying to decipher the phrasing. I can make room for you. What did that mean? Was he rearranging his entire schedule? Did it mean Connor was important? He blinked hard, forcing himself to focus. “Uh, drinks? Want to get a drink with me?”

"Will you allow me to pick you up this time? Or is that friend of yours still mistrusting of me? I know a place we can go."

Kanen. Oh, he was never going to hear the end of this one. “Yeah no, that sounds great. Sure, Haytham. I suppose you don’t need my address?”

“Correct, I don’t need your address. I will pick you up at 7:30pm sharp this Saturday.”

Connor’s eyebrow shot up. It wasn’t a question, and somehow he was okay with that. Why did the lack of uncertainty make him feel a little excited? Before he could reply, Andres’ voice shattered his focus.

“Why are you smiling at your phone? Talking to someone cute?” Andres’ amused tone carried through the back of the ambulance, causing Connor to jump.

His phone slipped from his fingers as he scrambled to catch it, heat flooding his face. “I wasn’t - I was just checking my schedule,” he huffed, shoving the device into his pocket.

“Uh-huh, sure. Because I’ve definitely seen people look that happy about their work schedules at FDNY.” Andres chuckled, leaning into the rig with a teasing smirk. “You’re a terrible liar, Connor. Anyway, here’s your med bag and the monitor. I’ll help you finish truck check off. Tell the cutie you’ll text them later.”

Connor glared at him but said nothing, focusing on gathering the dropped phone and grabbing his med bag. He stuffed the phone deep into his pocket like it might combust, ignoring Andres’ knowing grin.

The shift passed without incident. Just a few routine calls: a charming elderly gentleman with indigestion from too many chili cheese fries, a kid who got his head stuck in a banister while his parents recorded on their phones, and a young woman who had an allergic reaction after misidentifying a leftover as dairy-free.

It felt good to finish on time for once, a stark contrast to his last shift with the bus accident. He pushed the thoughts away, not wanting to spiral back into that dark space. Kanen was working late, so Andres offered to give Connor a lift home, saving him from the grueling subway and bus ride.

Andres drove his worn forest green Subaru Outback. The leather seats were weathered, a few EMT supplies were tucked in the back, and a coffee cup-shaped air freshener hung from the mirror. Connor snorted at the car’s unchanged ambiance, amused that in the year he’d known Andres, the man hadn’t bothered to update a single bit.

Once home, Connor collapsed onto his couch, mind still buzzing from the shift. He flipped on the TV, absentmindedly scrolling through the channels until the news caught his attention. A live broadcast from an Abstergo charity gala.

Haytham was front and center, impeccably dressed in a sleek black suit, and standing beside him was a striking woman - blonde, elegant, laughing at something Haytham had just said. Connor’s stomach sank, a knot of jealousy tightening in his chest. He sat up straighter, narrowing his eyes at the screen.

Of course, Haytham would be at one of those events. And of course, he’d have a beautiful woman on his arm. The thought stung more than he cared to admit. He wasn’t sure why it never crossed his mind that Haytham could be straight, but he supposed it made sense. All that flirting, the grand gestures, letting him crash at his penthouse - it was all just Haytham being kind, right? The thought twisted in his stomach. Maybe Connor was just the charity.

His fingers hovered over the remote as the woman on the screen laughed, a soft, melodic sound. Haytham’s arm was around her waist, his smile charming and easy. Connor’s chest tightened. He gripped the remote tighter, wishing the scene on the screen would change. But it didn’t.

“Whatever,” he muttered under his breath, though he wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince himself or the silence in the room.

After a few moments of stewing in his frustration, he grabbed his phone and sent a quick text to Haytham, tapping the words before he could overthink it:

"Looked good on the news tonight. Hope the gala’s going well."

It wasn’t much, but it was enough to push the irritation down for a moment. He threw his phone onto the couch, feeling the weight of his thoughts settle like a stone in his chest.

A few minutes later, the need to move overtook him. The pent-up frustration and jealousy gnawed at him, demanding an outlet. Without a second thought, he grabbed his jacket and headed for the door. It was a cold winter evening, but he was determined to go for a run, even though the sun had already set.

The air was sharp, the chill biting at his exposed face and hands as he started down the sidewalk at a steady pace. His breath came out in frosty puffs, the rhythmic pounding of his shoes against the pavement grounding him. Connor pushed himself harder with each step, letting the ache in his legs and the burn in his chest drown out the unwelcome thoughts. A couple of miles was all he needed to clear his head, and he took his time getting back to his apartment.

Once home, he ignored his phone sitting on the couch, its screen dark and silent, and headed straight for the shower. The scalding water was a welcome contrast to the winter cold, but it did little to wash away the ache in his chest. He’d been looking forward to drinks with Haytham all day - excited, even - and now, it felt stupid. Why had he bothered to invite Haytham out when he clearly had a much more glamorous life outside of humouring a paramedic?

Maybe the woman wasn’t a date. Maybe she was just there for appearances. But the way Haytham smiled at her, the way his arm lingered around her waist, it stung. Connor clenched his jaw, leaning his forehead against the cool tile of the shower wall. He shouldn’t care.

After drying off, he wandered into the kitchen to make food but abandoned the idea halfway through, the effort suddenly feeling pointless. With a heavy sigh, Connor retreated to his bedroom, pulling the covers up to his chin as he stared at the ceiling.

Haytham had said yes to drinks, and at the time, Connor had been thrilled. He’d even taken the initiative to ask, which wasn’t easy for him. But now, the thrill was gone, replaced by the bitter feeling that maybe he’d read too much into their interactions.

He tried to push Haytham from his mind, tried to convince himself it didn’t matter, but his thoughts betrayed him. The woman’s laugh echoed faintly in his memory, Haytham’s easy smile following close behind.

“This was pointless,” Connor grumbled, rolling onto his side and squeezing his eyes shut. He had half a mind to cancel Saturday, but he figured he would deal with it in the morning. Sleep didn’t come easily that night.

Chapter Text

Saturday had rolled around, and Connor wasn’t ready. The week had passed in a blur, each day leaving him more unsettled than the last. His chest ached in a way that made it hard to breathe, a hollow longing that clung to him with every thought of Haytham. He had asked him out - before the gala incident - and now the weight of it pressed down like a tide threatening to pull him under.

He tugged at his sleeves and paced the room, unsure what to wear. Nothing seemed right, nothing enough. Even as he pulled on a white coat, the familiar fabric did little to steady the nerves twisting in his stomach. Every heartbeat felt loud, every shallow breath a reminder that he had wanted this, had hoped for this, and still wasn’t sure if he could handle it.

Connor stepped into the chill of winter, narrowing his eyes at the burgundy car waiting at the bottom of the staircase. Bentley Bentayga. Of course. How many cars did this man have? He lingered at the top of the stairs, uncertain how to approach the situation. He wanted this, or at least, he thought he did. Better to get it over with, rip off the Band-Aid. Perhaps moving on would be easier this way.

He shoved his hands into his pockets to stop them from fidgeting and descended the stairs. The air was a sharp kiss across his face, and he flinched, ducking against the wind. He had to do this. He could do this. A few feet away, he distracted himself with anything other than Haytham, who had stepped out of the car and approached him.

“Greetings, Connor. You healed up nicely, it seems,” the steady British voice said, and a shiver ran down his spine.

Connor nodded shortly, keeping his gaze lowered. “Haytham.”

He hesitated, then followed the subtle motion of Haytham’s outstretched hand toward the idling car. “Shall we?” the man prompted, and Connor felt the weight of the decision settle heavier in his chest as he moved toward the vehicle.

With a soft hum, Connor approached the passenger side. Haytham, as always, opened the door for him. The interior smelled of leather, warm and refined, a sharp contrast to the cold bite outside. Connor wrapped his arms around himself, only moving to buckle the seatbelt. He focused on the side window, doing his best to ignore the CEO beside him.

Haytham reached over and pressed a button on the dashboard. “Are you cold?”

Warmth spread through him as the seat heater clicked on, and Connor let out a small, startled noise, muttering a soft, “Thanks.” He pressed his fingers into his sides, willing himself to focus on the frosted window instead of the man sitting beside him. Every nerve in his body seemed alert, each glance at Haytham a small risk.

Haytham’s fingers brushed against the edge of the dashboard, before circling around the steering wheel. “I received your message earlier in the week,” he said, voice calm, steady. Connor’s stomach pitched. “The one - ‘Looked good on the news tonight. Hope the gala’s going well.’”

Connor froze, knee bouncing anxiously as he tried to disperse his own tensions and anxieties. He hadn’t expected this. Not now. Not so soon. His chest thudded painfully as he tried to force a nonchalant hum from his throat. “Uh… right,” he muttered. “Yeah…”

“And then,” Haytham continued, his tone gentle but precise, “nothing. Did I misread something, Connor?”

Connor’s mouth went dry. He wanted to apologise. He wanted to explain that he had been… jealous. Salty. Stubborn. That he had ignored him because he couldn’t admit he cared so much it hurt. But the words tangled on his tongue, replaced instead by a shallow breath and a sidelong glance that barely met Haytham’s eyes. Haytham reached slightly toward him, not touching, just close enough that Connor felt the space between them shrink. The gesture made Connor’s chest tighten even more, a mixture of longing and panic. He swallowed hard, letting the quiet hum of the engine fill the space between his stammering thoughts.

He flinched slightly and Haytham withdrew his hand, returning it to the wheel as he pulled out onto the street. Connor didn’t know what to say or how to react, didn’t know what kind of answer Haytham was looking for. How could he explain that he wished it was him at the gala?

Haytham’s gaze flicked toward him, calm but unwavering. “Connor,” he said quietly, almost conversational, “I meant what I asked. Did I misread your intentions?”

Connor swallowed hard. His tongue felt heavy, like it had gone on strike. “I… I didn’t mean to-” He stopped. He wasn’t sure what he hadn’t meant. He hadn’t meant to ignore him, hadn’t meant to get jealous, hadn’t meant to make things awkward - but somehow, that summed up everything.

“You ignored my reply,” Haytham said gently. “All week. I noticed.”

Connor’s hands fisted in his lap, knuckles pale. His chest tightened, the warmth of the seat doing nothing to soothe him. “I… I was… busy,” he lied, though the word felt brittle, hollow.

“Busy,” Haytham echoed, voice calm, almost teasing, but not cruel. “Or perhaps preoccupied with something else?”

Connor’s ears burned. His mouth opened, then closed again. Words failed him, tangled with longing and shame. He wanted to tell Haytham exactly why he had avoided him, how the idea of Haytham with someone else gnawed at him, but fear of being too much, of being seen, held him silent. The car hummed along the street, the quiet between them dense and charged. Every glance from Haytham was a quiet challenge, every subtle shift of his posture an invitation Connor wasn’t sure he could accept - or refuse.

Words tumbled out despite himself. “I… I didn’t want to see you with someone else.”

Connor’s words hung between them, fragile and almost embarrassing. He immediately wished he could take them back, but Haytham’s calm, measured demeanour didn’t judge - it simply acknowledged.

“I see,” Haytham said softly, voice even, almost teasing in its restraint. “That’s… understandable.”

Connor’s chest tightened. He fidgeted with the edge of his coat, eyes darting to the streetlights outside, trying to vanish into the blur of passing city lights. He could feel Haytham’s presence beside him, steady, composed, as if daring him to look up. A stifling tension filled the car, broken only by the soft purr of the engine. Connor’s pulse thrummed in his ears, and he found himself acutely aware of every movement Haytham made, every subtle shift in posture or glance.

After a few beats, Haytham’s voice shifted, lighter now, threading back into casual territory. “We’re nearly there,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “I hope the bar meets your approval.”

Connor managed a small nod, still avoiding eye contact. “I… I’m sure it’ll be fine,” he murmured, his voice tight but steady.

Haytham gave a faint, approving hum and guided the car to the bar's entrance. The engine slowed, the city lights reflecting off the polished surface, and Connor braced himself, aware that the next step - the world outside the car - would demand more of him than he was sure he could give.

Haytham cut the engine and leaned back, a faint, expectant tilt to his posture. “You'll freeze without the heater, and I have the keys,” he quipped, hand already reaching for the door.

Connor swallowed hard and followed him out, the cold air biting through his coat. He took a moment to steady himself, aware of how impossibly smooth and composed Haytham was beside him. The valet approached instantly, opening the door with a polite bow. Connor’s eyes widened. A valet? Here? He blinked, still processing.

Haytham only gave a small shrug, as if this were completely ordinary. “After you,” he said, gesturing toward the lobby.

Connor’s pulse quickened as they stepped inside. The lobby was sleek and minimalistic, unassuming from the outside but impossibly elegant within. His mind raced. This… this doesn’t look like a bar. Every instinct screamed at him that he was completely out of his depth. They rode the elevator in silence, Connor gripping the rail more tightly than he realised, every floor lighting up above them like a countdown. When the doors opened at the top, a stunning panorama of the city stretched out behind the bar. Connor blinked, momentarily forgetting to breathe.

Haytham leaned slightly toward him, a soft whisper in his ear. “Order whatever you like.”

Connor’s throat felt dry. He hesitated, glancing down at the polished menu. “Uh… water,” he managed, the simplicity of his request making him inwardly cringe.

Haytham exhaled softly, a mix of amusement and exasperation. “While it's nice to stay hydrated…,” he said, then turned to the bartender with a polite nod. “He needs something stronger.”

Connor felt a flicker of panic as he understood the implications, heat rising in his chest. He tried to look anywhere but at Haytham, but the presence beside him made every heartbeat thrum like a drum. Why does he have to make everything so… effortless?

The city lights outside shimmered through the glass, reflecting in the polished surfaces of the bar. Connor’s fingers brushed nervously against the edge of the menu, and he shifted in his seat, heat rising to his cheeks. He tried to steady his racing thoughts, taking in the low hum of conversation, the soft clink of glassware, the faint scent of Haytham’s cologne mingling with the polished leather around him. Every subtle movement Haytham made - the tilt of his head, the calm glance in his direction - made his chest tighten, every heartbeat thrumming like a drum. Connor fought to focus, but the night had only just begun, and already it was clear: navigating this world, and Haytham, was going to be far more complicated than he had anticipated.

Chapter Text

A small, rounded glass was set in front of him - light coloured beverage with a mint leaf and lime floating along with the ice. Mojito. Not his first choice, but he supposed that was his fault for not speaking up. Connor was more of a Bourbon type, though he could make due with this lighter drink. He nodded his thanks to the bartender, fiddling with the small black straws, watching the ice swirl around. He was keenly aware of Haytham's eyes on him, watching him curiously, perhaps ready to say something.

"Thank you, Haytham, for the drink," he said before the man could talk, anxiety bubbling in his chest.

"As I said, order what you'd like. There's no need for thanks," Haytham replied, picking up his own glass. "Although, I believe you are meant to drink it, not play with the ice."

His tone gave away his amusement and Connor flushed, hiding his embarrassment in the first sip. The mint brushed his lip, the sweetness clashing with the bitterness sitting in his throat.

"I thought I was supposed to pay for the dates I ask you on," Connor said quietly, not looking up.

A snort from next to him had him glancing in the older man's direction.

"And you think you can afford Macallan Eighteen?" Haytham raised an eyebrow, sipping lightly at the clearly expensive drink in his hand.

"I don't even know what that is," Connor sighed, shifting on the bar stool, resigning to the fact that he definitely could not afford whatever that alcohol was.

The CEO clicked his tongue and extended his glass toward him. “It’s a scotch. Don’t worry about the price tag - just taste it. I’m curious what you’ll think.”

Connor took the glass, hesitated, then sipped. The liquid hit his tongue like smoke and fire. He coughed once, trying not to.

Haytham’s laugh was quiet but unrestrained. “Too refined for your palate?”

“Too expensive for my throat,” Connor muttered, grimacing as he slid the glass back.

They had a quiet, reserved conversation for a little while, nursing their drinks as the night carried on. Connor did his best to avoid anything too intense, redirecting back to his work or inquiring about Haytham’s. Abstergo was as much of an enigma to him as the older man himself, though corporate life tended to be out of his scope of interest. He listened anyway, as Haytham explained the nuances of the entertainment industry - boring corporate speak. Connor would rather sit through a work meeting than untangle numbers and statistics.

When his second glass arrived - a Woodford Reserve - the conversation shifted the way Haytham wanted. Like a rook closing in on the king, he guided it exactly where he meant to.

"I find it rather intriguing that you have avoided me all week," Haytham said matter-of-factly, as though he were commenting on the weather.

Connor coughed, eyes widening at the remark as blood roared in his ears. "What do you mean?"

"Ordinarily, you’re rather quick to reply - even to initiate, on occasion. So forgive me if I find your sudden disappearance a touch suspicious," The man's tone was even, though Connor suspected something else was lying beneath his words - perhaps irritation.

“I-I wasn’t avoiding you, I just… work’s been… it’s been a lot.” He shifted, fiddling with his glass. “Didn’t think you’d notice.”

“Oh, I noticed,” Haytham said, tone still infuriatingly calm. “You send me a single text so vague it could’ve been meant for anyone, then you vanish.”

Connor tensed. “I said I was busy.”

“Yes, so you did.” Haytham leaned back, eyes sharp. “Forgive me for assuming I warranted more than a few words courtesy.”

Connor’s jaw tightened. “I don’t owe you updates on my life.”

“No,” Haytham agreed smoothly, “but you seem to think my attention is something to turn on and off at will.”

The words landed harder than Connor expected. He downed the rest of his drink, the burn doing little to dull the heat rising in his chest. “You’re the one who keeps things undefined,” he said, sharper than intended.

“Undefined,” Haytham echoed, voice low. “Convenient, isn’t it? For you.”

That did it. Connor stood, frustration and something heavier pushing him past restraint. “You know what - forget it.”

Haytham didn’t rise right away, just watched him with that infuriating calm until Connor turned toward the exit. Then his chair scraped back. “Sit down,” he said quietly. When Connor didn’t, he followed.

The private room door clicked behind them before Connor realised what was happening, Haytham crowding him back until his shoulders hit the wooden door.

“You’re impossible,” Connor snarled, pulse racing.

“Are you going to keep running, or are you finally going to tell me what this is really about?” Haytham murmured, eyes flicking between Connor’s mouth and his glare.

Connor’s breath caught, defiant even now. “You already know.”

“Don't make me guess.”

The air between them went taut - seconds from breaking…

…and then someone tried the door handle.

Connor inhaled sharply, the sound catching in his throat. Haytham stepped back just enough for him to slip past, the sudden rush of air between them a shock. The noise of the bar hit him all at once, laughter, glassware, the low thrum of music. It felt too loud, too close. He pushed through it anyway, not caring where he was going so long as it was away. Cool air met him when he stumbled out onto the balcony. He braced his hands against the railing, forcing his breath to steady. The night smelled like rain and city smoke, sharp in his lungs. Behind him, someone approached slowly. He didn’t have to turn to know who it was.

“Connor,” Haytham said quietly. Not a question, not quite a reprimand - just his name, steady and close enough to make the space between them feel thin again.

"What, are you going to follow me around all night?" Connor grumbled, leaning against the glass barrier, attention focused on red and blue lights in the distance.

The older man stopped next to him, though he faced the city as well, looking up toward the stars. “Well, considering you were the one who asked me on this date, it seems only fair I make sure the night doesn’t end like this.”

Connor turned, eyes narrowing. He felt like prey being hunted, Haytham poised and patient, ready to strike.

“I find that… what was the word you used? Intriguing? Yeah, intriguing that you care at all. You go around, trying to court me or whatever it is you think you’re doing - buying my station, no - buying me an ambulance, taking me to these restaurants, letting me sleep at your apartment - all of it. Just for what? Entertainment?”

His voice cracked, the anger bleeding through. “Do I amuse you that much, Haytham? Just some dumb paramedic you can mess around with? Well, don’t expect me to disappear quietly while you’re off playing host at some gala with your date. I’m not your charity case.”

He hadn’t realised he’d started pacing until Haytham cleared his throat. “So that’s the issue. You saw me with my colleague and made all these decisions about me without saying a word. You could have given me the chance to reassure you - or at least talk it through, Connor.”

“I just… I didn’t want-…” Connor trailed off, defeat creeping in.

“Didn’t want to what? Upset me?”

“...bother you.”

Haytham huffed and stepped closer. “You assume far too much, and you talk far too little. If you’d asked, I would’ve told you she’s a colleague who attends these events for optics. But instead, you sulked for a week. Do you see why that might test my patience?”

Connor furrowed his brows, a heavy sigh slipping past as the words sank in. He didn’t recognise the feeling as jealousy - not really. It just hurt seeing that woman on Haytham’s arm. Maybe it would’ve been worse if it were a man, but still… he wished it had been him.

Galas weren’t his thing. Being in the public eye like that - polished, high-profile, visible - made his heart race for all the wrong reasons. Outside of EMS, Connor did everything he could not to be perceived. Shrinking himself, keeping quiet; safety in invisibility. It wasn’t even conscious anymore, just instinct.

He hadn’t considered how that might affect Haytham. Hadn’t factored him into the equation beyond the inevitability of heartbreak. Yet Haytham was still here, steady, grounding, exactly as he’d been since the station meeting.

“You look like you’re still trying to run,” Haytham observed, stepping up beside him.

Connor’s fingers tightened on the railing. “Not this time.”

“Good.”

The word carried more warmth than reprimand - soft, steady, the first real note of calm between them all night.

The tension dissipated and was replaced by an awkward silence as Connor tried to figure out what to say. He knew he had to address Haytham’s words, but every time he attempted to say something, his response caught in his throat, as if his vocal cords were wrapped in thorns. He swallowed in an attempt to relieve it, looking out over the city again as he felt Haytham shift closer.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Haytham said after a moment, his voice quieter now, stripped of its earlier edge. “I only ask that next time, you talk to me before deciding I’m the villain in your head.”

Connor let out a shaky breath. “I didn’t mean to-…”

“I know.” Haytham’s interruption was soft, almost weary. “But intentions and outcomes rarely align.”

Connor huffed a quiet, humorless laugh, eyes still on the skyline. “You sound like you rehearse that sort of thing.”

“Occupational hazard,” Haytham murmured. Then, after a beat: “Still true.”

The silence that followed wasn’t volatile this time. Just… quiet. The kind of stillness that settles after both parties have stopped bracing for the next blow.

"Care to head back inside? I would prefer to return to our drinks, unless you'd rather stay out here and pretend you don't enjoy my company," Haytham said, voice low and smooth - the kind of amusement that made it impossible to tell if he was teasing or sincere, brushing his hand over Connor's arm.

There’s something addicting about you. The words rested on his lips and he bit his tongue to force them from escaping. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, as long as you promise not to psychoanalyse me the whole walk back," Connor replied with a slight laugh, leaning into the touch without intending to.

Haytham raised an eyebrow - a clear signal that there would be no such promises - and gestured for Connor to lead the way. The door swung open behind them as other people went in and out, letting the low pulse of music and chatter spill back into the night air.

Connor hesitated for a beat before pushing off the railing, the faintest huff escaping him. Whatever weird balance they’d found out there, it held just enough for him to follow Haytham back inside.

The warmth of the bar hit immediately: laughter, clinking glassware, the smell of alcohol and faint cologne. Haytham slipped through the crowd with practised ease, a calm presence amid the chaos, while Connor trailed after, the edges of his earlier embarrassment slowly blurring beneath the noise and dim light.

The rest of the night moved on easily enough. Haytham took his drinks slower this time, occasionally glancing Connor’s way with that unreadable half-smile, while Connor, deciding to stop overthinking, downed a few shots and whatever else the bartender set in front of him. By the time the clock crept toward one, the sharpness of the evening had melted into a haze, and he found himself stumbling after Haytham toward a roped-off section at the back.

A VIP lounge, quieter, softer lighting. Somewhere in the blur between indulgence and surrender. Connor half-collapsed onto the couch beside Haytham, the leather sighing under his weight. His eyes were glassy, pupils blown wide and unfocused. When he turned, his shoulder brushed Haytham’s arm; the touch made him laugh under his breath, unsteady and warm.

He shifted again - closer this time - and before Haytham could stop him, Connor was half-kneeling, half-crawling into his lap. His breath smelled of bourbon and sugar, his grin too loose to be deliberate.

“C’m-me ho-…” he started, a hiccup snapping the word in half. “Home with me, d-daddy.”

His face was crimson, heat blooming clear down his neck. He clutched at Haytham’s shirt as if the fabric could keep him upright.

Haytham, raising an eyebrow, amused. "Perhaps next time, boy. You're rather intoxicated."

"Y-yeah but 'm not. 'M s-sober," Connor’s protest came with a lazy grin, his words slurring together as he tried to sit up straighter. “See? Fine. M’fine.”

He wasn’t. His balance tipped forward again, forehead nearly colliding with Haytham’s collarbone before a steady hand caught him by the shoulder.

“Easy,” Haytham murmured. The word came out softer than it seemed he intended, a thread of worry woven through the usual composure. He guided Connor upright, one hand lingering at the back of his neck to keep him steady.

“Didn’t drink that much,” Connor mumbled. His eyes fluttered half-closed, a lopsided smile tugging at his mouth.

Haytham huffed quietly. “If you insist on lying, at least do it without hiccuping through the middle of your sentence.”

Connor laughed at that, a soft, tired sound. He slumped sideways again, head coming to rest against Haytham’s shoulder.

For a long moment, Haytham didn’t move. The weight there was solid, human, and entirely too trusting. Then he sighed and reached for his phone.

“You’re not staying here like this,” he said, half to himself. “Come on, I’ll take you back to my place. You can argue with me in the morning when you’re capable of standing upright.”

Connor murmured something that might’ve been “deal,” but the words dissolved into another breathless laugh as Haytham helped him up. The bar’s noise fell away behind them, replaced by the muffled quiet of the hallway and the dull click of Haytham’s shoes on tile. Connor let himself lean into the support offered, head lolling slightly against the other man’s shoulder as they crossed to the elevators.

The elevator chimed open. Haytham guided him inside with a hand at his back. Connor tilted his head back to stare at the bright lights overhead; they blurred into long streaks as the car started to descend. He gave a soft, drunken hum, then slid down until he was sitting on the floor, legs stretched carelessly across the polished flooring.

Haytham’s short snort of amusement broke the silence. Connor grinned at the sound and turned his head toward him, eyes unfocused but shining.

“Do you… do you, always, l-look so… so pretty?” he stammered, resting his head against the cool wall.

“Depends who you ask,” Haytham replied smoothly, adjusting his suit jacket as he watched him. “Although, I reckon I chose this outfit particularly for this date.”

Connor laughed again, the sound low and rough from drink. “Good choice.”

“I thought so.”

He made a soft noise of contentment, eyes falling closed for a moment until the elevator doors slid open as they reached the ground floor. He half-stumbled, half-walked through the building, ending up in Haytham's car before he understood what was happening. Words hit his ears, although his brain failed to process them, and he startled when Haytham leaned over him to buckle the seatbelt.

"Relax, boy. It's just the seatbelt," Haytham said gently, watching him for a moment.

"Don't want… to, ah, go through your wind-… windshield," Connor giggled.

Haytham cocked an eyebrow and shut the door. By the time Connor blinked, the man was already sliding into the driver’s seat. That, apparently, was thrilling.

“How didja… teleport? Whoa.”

Connor reached out, fingertips brushing Haytham’s shoulder as if to make sure he was solid and not some hallucination conjured by whiskey and poor decisions.

“Perhaps I was a vampire in another life,” Haytham said, shifting the car into gear and easing them out onto the street.

Connor's eyes went wide and he sat up in his seat, staring at the man next to him. "Vampire," he echoed quietly. "Does that mean you'll bite me?"

"Only if you beg."

Connor’s blush deepened, heat creeping all the way to his ears. A soft sound - half laugh, half hum - escaped before he slouched against the seat. He decided it was safer to look out the window than to test how serious Haytham might have been, although his cock twitched with interest.

The city slid by in streaks of gold and red, streetlights smearing through the glass. The hum of the engine mixed with the steady rhythm of the turn signal, lulling him toward drowsiness. Every now and then he’d glance sideways, watching Haytham’s hands on the wheel - controlled, precise, absurdly elegant for something as mundane as driving.

“Y’don’t… even look real,” Connor mumbled, the words heavy with sleep.

Haytham allowed a small smile. “You’re going to regret saying half of this tomorrow.”

“Prob’ly,” Connor murmured, eyes already half-closed.

By the time they pulled into the underground garage, his head had tipped against the window. Haytham shut off the engine, sat for a moment in the quiet, then reached over to unbuckle the seatbelt.

“Come, sleepy boy,” he said softly. “Let’s get you upstairs before you decide the car’s a suitable bed.”

Connor only groaned in response, but when Haytham opened the door and offered a hand, he took it without hesitation. Getting out of the car proved harder than anticipated; his balance betrayed him, and he stumbled forward - straight into Haytham’s warm arms.

For a heartbeat, he didn’t move. The older man steadied him automatically, and Connor found himself staring up through half-lidded eyes, his breath even and slow. His lips parted, gaze flicking down to Haytham’s mouth. For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath with him - just the two of them in the muted hush of the parking garage. It reminded him of their first meeting, though it had reversed. Back then, Haytham was fading under his hands, pale and still. Now he was solid, alive, steady in Connor’s grasp.

It would take no effort at all to close the distance between them - just a breath, a tilt forward - and he could lose himself completely. To give in to something he’d been denying for far too long. The thought alone made him visibly shudder. He blinked, dragging himself back into the present, and forced a step backward. The cold air rushed in where Haytham’s warmth had been, leaving his chest hollow. No. It would change too much, and he wasn’t ready for what it would mean.

“S-sorry, lost my, uh… balance,” he muttered, swaying where he stood.

“It’s quite alright, Connor. Let’s get you upstairs.”

The rest blurred together, the faint buzz of the city seeping in through the concrete walls. By the time they reached the top floor, Connor’s exhaustion had settled deep in his bones, and the memory of almost kissing Haytham clung to him like a shadow he couldn’t quite shake. Crawling into the bed in the guest room was little more than a vauge memory, and when he woke again, light was filtering in through the cracks of the curtains lining the window.

Connor whined and buried his face into the pillow, huffing at the fact that he was awake, when all he wanted to do was sleep the weekend away. A sharp realisation had him sitting up, staring down at his bare chest. When he tugged the blanket aside, he noticed he was wearing his pants from last night, his eyebrows furrowing together. The sheets were not his, and after rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he noticed the room did not belong to him, either. It was the room he stayed in after the hospital visit. Haytham's apartment.

His phone, keys and wallet were next to him on the nightstand, so he collected them after standing. Wandering out into the halls, he found his way to the living area where he found Haytham sitting on the couch, mug in hand, eyes trained on a laptop in front of him. A stylised 'A' logo drew his attention to the laptop, curious to know if it stood for Abstergo. It made sense that his company had custom laptops for the employees. Catching himself staring, he adverted his eyes and cleared his throat. When Haytham looked up, he set the laptop and mug aside.

"We uh, we didn't…," Connor trailed off awkwardly, worrying the corner of his lip as he tried to ask if they had sex or not.

"Have sex? No, although I reckon you tried to. I took you back here to keep an eye on you since you were rather intoxicated," Haytham replied smoothly, eyeing Connor's bare torso with a measured deep breath.

Connor followed his eyes, realising he forgot to put a shirt on. Oh. "Oh god I'm so sorry Haytham. I usually don't do that kind of thing."

"Do what kind of thing? You mean climb into my lap, try to get me to go home with you, and call me daddy?" Haytham’s words were laced with amusement, but it didn't help settle his nerves.

Connor buried his face in his hands and groaned, hoping he could dissappear in this moment. He called him daddy? Yeah, if he could die right now of embarassment, that would be great.

"It's alright, Connor. I didn't take you up on the offer because I won't take advantage of you like that. Are you hungry? I can make you some breakfast, or there's coffee if you'd prefer."

Connor shook his head and dropped his hands, taking a moment to settle his nerves. "It's ok, thank you, Haytham. I should probably head home. Have some ereands to run before work tomorrow. Thank you for last night and for letting me crash here, again. It was… nice."

"Not a problem, boy. I will call you a car, as I have to do some things for Abstergo right now. Also, there's a shirt and jacket in the room you were in. You spilled alcohol on yourself last night, so I am having your clothes taken care of."

Connor nodded and sighed, recalling how Haytham also had his uniform cleaned the night of the mass casualty incident. It was strange having someone care for him like that and he found himself wanting to protest, but accepted it anyway. This new dynamic would be difficult to shift into.

As he dressed, Connor couldn’t shake the lingering warmth of Haytham’s voice - calm, measured, patient even in the face of his drunken disaster. It was the same steadiness that had unnerved him since the day they met, the same calm he couldn’t help but orbit.

The city waited below, the same as ever, but something in him felt subtly, irrevocably changed. The memory of almost kissing him the night before flickered back like a pulse he couldn’t quiet.

He huffed a soft laugh under his breath.

Almost.

Chapter Text

The station was lively this morning, fire and EMS shuffling around, checking off trucks and complaining about last shift’s calls. Connor was tucked into a corner, tablet resting on the table as he worked on the latest ePCR. Andres sat across from him, reading a physical newspaper like it was 2002 and tossing out commentary about New York City that Connor only half absorbed.

“So there was this guy-…” Andres said, flipping a page.

“Mhm.”

“…and then a cop chased after him…”

“Wow.” Connor didn’t lift his eyes from the tablet.

“…until aliens invaded from Mars killing everyone and ending all life as we know it!”

“Yeah.”

“Bro, you aren’t even listening.”

Connor finally looked up, giving him a flat glare. “Yes I was.”

“Then why didn’t you react to aliens killing people?”

“Because crazier things have happened in New York?”

“Touché, Connor. Touché.”

Connor sighed, slipping his phone from his pocket. He fumbled with it for a moment before setting it on the table with a quiet thunk. A soft groan escaped him, and he picked it back up, thumb hovering over his messages as he thought about the upcoming weekend date with Haytham. It had only been three days, but they’d kept in steady contact - small talks, Abstergo updates, Connor rambling about school. Mundane. Easy. Domestic.

“Hey, you around? I have a question.”

He sent it with a satisfied little hum and set the phone face-down so he wouldn’t be tempted to watch for the notification. Focusing on wrapping up the report was more important anyway, tedious as it was. He’d already entered vitals and demographics; now all that was left was the narrative. Unit 53A responded code 3 to 5129 E. Lincoln Pl., New York City, New York 11213, for a sixty-nine-year-old female with a chief complaint of chest pain…

"Okay, I need to go get another cup of coffee from Casita of Brooklyn. You know they serve the best Cortados!" Andres cut into Connor's thoughts again, earning him a snort of impatience from his partner.

“You’ve had two already and it’s not even ten. Can we take a beat?” Connor muttered.

Andres clutched the newspaper dramatically. “Three is the minimum required for human life. Do not let me perish.”

Connor typed another line, face blank. “BSI scene safe. Patient found pulseless and apenic. Coffee dependency noted.”

"Okay smart ass, get up so we can go. I'll buy," Andres grumbled, nudging Connor as he walked by.

"Careful, you might end up in V-tach with all that caffeine consumption, and I am not about to cardiovert your ass!" Connor shouted after him as he locked the tablet and followed his caffeine addicted partner to the rig.

"Don't worry, seeing your ugly mug will snap me right back into sinus," Andres laughed as he took his place behind the wheel.

Connor snorted and followed suit, getting comfortable opposite the man and setting the tablet on the dashboard. "You wouldn't be conscious if you were in V-Tach…," he muttered as Andres pulled out of the bay.

"Oh my god, Connor? Please do not talk to me until I've had my third cup of coffee," Andres' words seemed to carry offence, but his tone was mock irritation.

Connor shook his head and checked his phone to see if he had a response from Haytham yet, but nothing. It was fine. Abstergo pulled him in a hundred directions. Not like Connor was keeping track or anything. He set the phone in a cup holder and kept his attention on the traffic to ensure Andres could navigate the streets safely, checking his right side for cars or pedestrians, and turning up the volume on the radio - just in case.

The ambulance parked down the street to offer other people more room for their commute; Connor and Andres climbing out and stopping to stretch, Andres slapping the hood of the rig with a whoop. Connor rolled his eyes and smiled, ducking away from his partner trying to mess up his hair, and followed the chaotic coffee cryptid into the café. The warmth of Casita was a welcome reprieve from the unforgiving winter of New York and he sighed. The heater kicked on with the low rumble of an ancient beast waking after a long slumber, filling the building with its stale breath.

Preoccupied with his phone, he barely registered Andres' ridiculous order, vaguely wondering how anyone could keep up with his substitutes and add-ons. Nothing yet from Haytham, but that didn't stop the weight of his question pressing into his mind. "What does this mean for us?" He needed answers like lungs needed an order from the brain to constrict. A cardboard cup was less-than-delicately shoved into his open hand while Andres turned to pick up his pastry.

"Be safe out there, boys. New York City can be… unforgiving," The blonde barista with a Southern twang told them as they turned to leave the café.

"Thank you, miss," Connor replied quietly, offering a small nod of acknoweldgement and respect.

Andres was still rambling about the perfect roast or whatever the hell this café claimed to have, but Connor was half-lost in his own head - in his phone that still hadn’t lit up with a reply.

But he heard the radio.

Both their radios crackled at once - that sharp, metallic burst that made Connor’s spine jolt like a defibrillator shock.

"Unit 91A, Unit 26A, Heavy Rescue 10, Ladder 29, Battalion 3, Unit 53A-…"

Connor’s breath caught.

"Respond code 3 to reports of shots fired at 200 Hudson Yards…"

Time folded in on itself.

Connor’s grip loosened.

His coffee slipped from his hand, hit the tile below, and exploded in a brown splash around his boots.

"… 1001 New York. Multiple callers. Unknown number of injured."

Andres turned toward him, mid-sip, confusion wrinkling his brow.

“Connor…?”

But Connor was already moving, body launching past the door and toward the rig, radio still crackling on his hip as if mocking him with the one phrase he didn’t want to hear.

Abstergo.
Haytham’s building.
Shots fired.

His heart slammed against his ribs hard enough to bruise.

He didn’t think.
He didn’t breathe.
He just ran.

Climbing into the ambulance felt like falling into a nightmare he couldn’t wake from. The door tore open; his feet dragged; the cab yawned around him like a void swallowing sound. Andres was a blur, lights slamming on, sirens splitting the morning, the rig jerking into traffic so violently Connor barely caught himself. Cars swerved, braked, stopped too late, until the airhorn roared and the world lurched out of its way.

And Connor… Connor just stared at his phone. Tenth time in fifteen minutes. Still nothing.

"Hello?"

Not sent. Tap to try again.

"Haytham? Haytham, please."

Not sent. Tap to try again.

"Please let me know if you're ok?"

Not sent. Tap to try again.

"God dammit, Haytham!"

Not sent. Tap to try again.

Connor cursed the Creator and dialed instead, tapping his fingers against the window sill as he waited for it to be connected.

"Hello, you have reached the voicemail of Haytham Kenway…"

"Fuck!" Connor shouted, ending the call and tossing his phone to the floor, a wail of grief lodging in his throat.

This couldn't be happening, not again.

Connor reached for the radio, trying to force himself to be calm so he didn't stutter on the radio like last time. Deep breath. His chest rose and fell like the wings of a young eagle, quiet, precise, deadly.

"Unit 53A to Central."

"Central, go ahead 53A."

"Arriving on scene at Hudson. Where are we staging?"

"West side, a block down. SWAT will radio you when it is safe to enter."

"Copy, thank you Central."

SWAT. This was serious and he and Andres were expected to wait idly by while an armed gunman roams the building of the man that matters more than he should. More than Connor thought he would ever allow. Patience, unfortunately, was not in his DNA.

"So we aren't staging, are we?" Andres' words got his attention next and Connor narrowed his eyes, looking between him and Abstergo.

"Like hell we are," Connor replied with the determination of a man about to lose everything.

"Figured," Came the reply and they were outside within a moment's notice.

As soon as the words left his mouth, Connor was moving - long, purposeful strides cutting across the sidewalk with Andres right behind him. The cold slapped at his face, but he barely felt it; all he saw was Abstergo’s glass façade glittering like a threat. SWAT trucks were already lining the block, officers fanning out with rifles at the low-ready, the air thick with shouted commands and controlled chaos. Connor weaved through the growing crowd of uniforms with single-minded focus, badge and medic jacket barely earning him space as he pushed toward the front of Abstergo. Every step made the knot in his chest tighten - every siren, every radio chirp reminding him how close, how dangerously close, this all was to being too late. Andres’ hand brushed his shoulder once, grounding him just enough to keep walking instead of sprinting.

"Gentleman, where are you going?" A commanding voice had him stopping in his tracks, shoulders tensing. "This is an active robbery scene. You were supposed to stage until we cleared the building."

"I am going in to do my job, Lieutenant…," Connor trailed off as he searched for the woman's name tag.

"Garcia. Lieutenant Garcia. I am sorry, I cannot allow you to enter until the area is secure. Please return to your ambulance," her words left no room for argument, but who was Connor if not insubordinate when it mattered?

"If you do not let me enter, I will find a way in there myself, and I would rather have an armed escort instead of going in there blind. Lieutenant, there are people injured in there, and my partner and I are ready to prevent people from dying. People will die without timely intervention and are you really willing to have that much blood on your hands? Are you willing to let them die?" he replied with a steadfast, raw urgency that barely hid how terrified he was.

The lieutenant didn't respond as she seemed to process his words, looking toward the large glass entrance of Abstergo's behemoth jaws. A radio crackle answered him before Garcia could, and a burly sergeant pushed through the crowd of officers toward them, eyes sharp and jaw set. He glanced at their patches, then at Connor’s face, and the corner of his mouth tightened.

“Medics?” he asked, not unkindly.

Connor nodded, breath still ragged. The sergeant snapped something into his radio, then turned back.

“All right. You’ll enter with us - outer perimeter only. Follow orders, stay down, and don’t be heroes.”

It wasn’t a green light, but it was close enough: an armed escort, a place inside, and the knowledge that he wouldn’t be left out in the cold. Bullet proof vests were placed around their shoulders, Andres slid in beside him, hands trembling just enough to be real, and together they fell into formation behind the stack of rifles and kevlar, every step bringing them closer to the danger that awaited them.

They moved like a well-trained group of soldiers, boots barely echoing throughout the lobby of Abstergo. Hand signals he didn’t understand flicked like shadows toward the first hallway. Each room was cleared methodically, and the medic team dashed into a small office to press gauze into a man’s shoulder before ducking back behind their escort. Connor’s pulse rattled in his ears, louder than the gunfire he was terrified they’d hear next. He swept the walls with frantic eyes - an elevator, a stairwell, anything that could take him to the top floor where Haytham waited behind those massive wooden doors.

His chance came fast and without mercy. As the group slipped past a staircase, Andres reacted a second too slow - just long enough. Connor bolted. He bounded up the stairs as if the world would fall off its axis if he didn’t. Haytham. He had to get to Haytham. Voices hissed behind him, but he didn’t care. He’d take the write-up, the suspension, anything - so long as he reached him alive. Losing someone else would break him clean through, in places no one could ever put back together.

Bang, bang, bang!

The shots tore through the floors above him, each one carving through his stomach like a blade. Connor jerked to a stop on the landing, chest cinched tight, breath trembling in and out of him in fragile threads. The stairwell fell still as a grave. He held himself perfectly still, straining for anything - boots pounding, a struggle, a scream, a voice he needed more than air. Only silence answered back.

That silence was worse than the gunfire.

It broke something loose inside him.

Connor lunged upward, taking the next flight of stairs two steps, three at a time, lungs burning, legs screaming, panic clawing its way up his throat. He pushed harder - faster - hand skimming the railing, boots slipping on the concrete as he vaulted the final steps. But every landing looked the same. Every hallway he glimpsed through the narrow windows was empty. Too empty.

He wasn’t getting anywhere near fast enough.

Haytham was too high up.

Too far.

And these stairs were a labyrinth built to slow him down.

He skidded to a halt, chest heaving, mind flashing back to the moment he was here last, when Haytham had his pulmonary embolism. The private elevator tucked behind a glass security wall, the one only executives used. The one that shot straight to the top floor without stops.

The one that could take him to Haytham in seconds.

Connor swallowed hard, wiped the sweat from his palms onto his uniform pants, and pivoted on his heel so fast the world blurred.

If he stayed in the stairwell, he’d lose him.

He didn’t think.

He didn’t hesitate.

He just ran - bolting up the last landing and sprinting toward the private elevator he’d silently memorised the location of, the one place that still offered him even a sliver of a chance to reach Haytham before the worst did.

Six, seven, eight.

Ding.

Connor stepped out as the doors slid open, heart clawing against his ribs. The executive floor was too quiet, lights dimmed, that sterile, expensive silence humming like a threat. He turned right - toward Haytham’s office, toward those double wooden doors-…

“Freeze!”

The shout hit him a split-second before the muzzle flash did.

The impact punched the breath from his lungs. Not pain - not yet - just a brutal, concussive thud that slammed into his chest and folded him in half. His boots slid against the carpet as he staggered backward, hand flying to his chest on instinct.

“Shit… shit! I thought… he came around the corner… I thought he was armed!” a rookie officer yelled, voice cracking like a teenager’s.

Connor’s vision tunneled.

His knees buckled.

The world went sideways, flooring rushing up to meet him as he collapsed, gasping, limbs refusing to cooperate. His brain was too flooded with panic to register anything beyond the sound of-…

“Connor!”

Haytham’s voice.
Raw.
Unrestrained.
Unhinged.

A sound Connor had never heard in his life.
A sound Haytham Kenway should never make.

And then - nothing.