Assassin's Creed Drabbles

↳ make me

it begins as a reckless tavern brawl and becomes the night edward kenway finally admits the truth: he's wanted you far too long to keep pretending otherwise.

ONE DAY YOU just might have to leave him to rot in whatever gutter he picks his fights in—the rotten swill-tub. The two of you scarcely made it out before the Spaniards came pouring in through the doors with their muskets and swords drawn and a dozen fetters waiting for drunkards and pirates alike. The pillories, stocks, and jails will be full, and Havana will be under curfew for the trouble Edward Kenway just stirred up at one of the taverns. Bells are already tolling across the city.

He has you by the hand, pulling you through the streets toward the docks, slipping in and out of alleyways, and posing as lovebirds on garden benches in the squares to throw the Spaniards off your tracks.

You shouldn't have laughed sweetly when Edward pulled you onto his lap. Hiding his bloodied face in the crook of your neck, muttering under his breath that your hair smelled nice. His hand shouldn't have rested that easily at your waist, spread around to the curve of your back, fingers flexing like he's forgotten this was only supposed to be a ruse.

And you shouldn't have played along so well when you curled a hand at the nape of his neck, fingers toying with the frayed ends of his hair, lips brushing near his ear as though whispering something to a lover. Guards grumbled about their aimless pursuit as they passed, but more troubling is the longer you and Edward linger—wrapped up in one another—the less it feels like pretending.

It wasn't until the two of you were in a dinghy, rowing to the Jackdaw, that you finally took in the damage done. Nose and knuckles bloody. A nick on his forearm, bleeding through the sleeve of his tunic, and a split lip. There's a patch of blue-black discoloration already starting to paint the skin on his jaw where someone landed a decent blow—so much for a quiet evening.

Edward pulls up alongside his brig, climbs the Jacobs ladder, then leans over to finish hauling you aboard. You trail after him as he heads to his quarters, knowing that if you don't look after his hurts, then he certainly won't.

He sits half-slouched in the dim light of his cabin—armaments divested, his outer clothes tossed across the table, straw-blond hair falling from its usual leather tie. His tunic sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the unlaced collar hanging low, past one of the tattoos on his breast.

Coming upon such a sight would make you swoon any other day and make your words fumble as you kept playing this tedious game that's been going on between you and Edward for months. But no, right now, you're frustrated with his foolhardiness, even if he does look a handsome scoundrel.

Dipping a piece of linen cloth into the washbasin filled with a mix of water and sour wine, you finish cleaning the blood from his split and bruised knuckles. Next is his bloodied mouth. You press the cloth against his bottom lip, harder than you really mean to. He hisses. "God's teeth, woman."

"You started that brawl," you chide. You saw him throw the first strike from the bar. Not a punch per se, but he reached over and slammed some sorry lout's face into the table by the back of the head, and from there it descended into madness. It never took much to get men's blood going after toiling under the Caribbean sun all day and having too much rum on an empty stomach.

"A misunderstanding," Edward says, defending himself under his breath, though it does not sound like the truth. You lean a bit closer, fingers tilting his chin toward the lantern-light—warm skin and stubble scratching against your thumb. Too close, especially now that the drunken levity has faded, but you won't be able to take back those touches in the city, and the moment is already seared into both your minds. Then, without having to pry or accuse him of speaking falsehoods, Edward's blue eyes flit up. "Defending my bonny lass's honor," he tells you.