Assassin's Creed Drabbles

↳rest and respite

requested with the prompt: if you won't do it for yourself, then do it for me.

The night air in Nassau is thick, heavy, and wrong—it has ever since Edward Kenway returned on a battered Jackdaw bringing word of Blackbeard's death at the hands of the British Empire off Ocracoke. With Thatch gone, the Pirate Republic will surely die with him. Redcoats stalk the streets like vultures; they have for months now, plucking folks for the gallows daily upon the insistence of Governor Woodes Rogers—all for the sake of civility.

You cursed him for returning here of all places when you saw those familiar sails and figurehead drawing nearer to port—a black flag momentarily replaced with St. George's Cross. The King's bounty on his head is not a small one, and there is no shortage of men—Redcoats and his own brethren—who will seek to collect it if they recognize him. But it's off the shores of Nassau that Charles Vane is supposed to meet him and hunt for Bartholomew Roberts and his Princess.

He's not spoken much since arriving, and he's scarcely—wisely—ventured into the streets unless under cover of night to look across the horizon. Tonight is much the same as the last four. Edward sits alone in the upper room of an old storehouse near the docks, a bottle of rum half-empty on the table beside him, sitting atop maps and strange diagrams. He hasn't touched the bottle since sunset.

Sleep's become a stranger these last nights. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees Thatch fall and the sudden despair that the world has grown smaller.

You enter quietly, closing the door behind you. Edward knows it's you—you're the only other person with a key to the room, the only one left in Nassau to give a damn about him. His back is to you, elbows on his knees, face buried in his hands. It hurts to see him like this.

"Edward?" You call softly. He doesn't lift his head, but his shoulders shift at the sound of your voice. Crossing the room, you rest your hands on his shoulders. "Come to bed, love," you breathe, arms sliding around him from behind, your cheek pressing against the back of his neck.

Still, Edward doesn't say anything; he doesn't trust his voice. Thatch went down fighting; he thinks. The least I can do is keep going. But the kind warmth of your arms—he can't act as though you're not a balm for nearly all his woes. Edward's hands drop from his face to cover yours where they're linked atop his chest.

"I can't lose you too, Edward," you whisper, voice trembling as you tighten your hold. So many are already gone, but the thought of losing him...you'd lose more than a piece of yourself. "Please"—you plant a little kiss at the nape of his neck—"just come rest for a few hours."

Edward draws in a slow, shaky breath—Thatch would curse him if he were here for carrying on like this. You loosen your embrace, stepping around his chair to kneel in front of him, hands resting on his forearms. His eyes, when they finally meet yours, are tired and raw—red-rimmed and haunted.

You cradle his face, brushing back a lock of golden hair fallen in front of his eyes, and he leans into your touch. "If you won't do it for yourself." It's barely a whisper, but you cannot bear seeing him like this. The crew needs him more than half-alive and sober. You need him. "Then do it for me."

Edward shuts his eyes. Unmoving, until wordlessly, he reaches up and grips one of your hands, pulling it from his face. You fear he'll push you away. But it's only to thread his fingers through yours—the closest thing to surrender Edward Kenway has ever known. His shoulders sag, the last of the fight leaving him. "Using my own heart against me," he murmurs, resigned, the corner of his lips quirking upward as his thumb strokes across your knuckles. "You never did play fairly."

That earns him a little smile as you take his hands, tugging at him to urge him onto his feet. He does as you bid without resistance, letting you guide him toward the door—he pauses, pulling his hood up over his golden hair to shadow his face from curious eyes. You keep him close, arm linked through his, steering him away from the main paths and to the backstreets that lead to your home near the Old Avery.

The door creaks when you push it open. There's a lantern still burning, casting the single room in a dim glow and dark shadows. You bolt the door behind you as Edward sheds his coat and weapons belt, letting them drop onto a nearby chair. Going to him, you help with the rest, hands loosening the ties of his shirt, easing it over his shoulders and head.

You lead him to bed, pulling back the sheets. Edward lowers himself onto the edge first, lying back with a worn sigh, and you follow, drawing the covers around you both. Shifting, you wrap your arms around him, pulling his head to rest on your chest and stroking his back—tracing scars and the dark lines of his tattoos that you've long committed to memory.

"Rest, love," you whisper against the top of his head, fingers threading through his hair, loosening the leather thong holding his ponytail—golden locks spill across your shoulder and one of his legs tangles with yours.

Edward's arms slide around you, holding to you just as tightly. His breath is warm against your skin, uneven at first, then steadier as he gives in to exhaustion—his muscles loosen, and there's a soft exhale that brushes your collarbone even as his hand twists into the coarse linen of your shift. You stay awake a while longer, listening to the rhythm of his breathing, fingertips never stopping their slow drag along his back.

But then, you press one last kiss to his temple and let yourself drift off with him—for now, for these few hours before dawn, Edward Kenway is yours to protect.