Assassin's Creed Drabbles

↳hurricane

Edward already knows why you've crawled into his bed in the middle of a stormy night.

THE DOOR CREAKS open, lantern light spilling across the floor and rug from the hall and great room. Edward Kenway's quarters are shadowed; he's only left a single candle burning on a bedside table. You can make out his shape in the dark—one arm folded behind his head, the other draped over his middle, sitting too upright to be asleep and staring at the canopy of the four-poster bed. "Edward?"

He shifts too quickly to have been roused, bed coverings gathering at his waist. "What is it, love?" Edward asks, his voice a bit rough and groggy.

Stepping into the room, you let the door close softly behind you and tread to where he is in bed. "Sleep is no friend of mine with this maelstrom raging outside," you tell him. As though nature seeks to prove a point, a gust of wind rattles the shutters nailed tight over the windows and howls through the hilltop manor. Edward lifts the sheet and quilt, expectantly. You slide into bed next to him and settle against the headboard, your shoulder brushing his.

You meant to stay with the ladies and bairns in the library through the night, a show of solidarity you supposed from the lady of the house, as they liked to name you. But they've all managed to find rest amidst the storm and the cacophony of snoring sailors scattered through the dining room and great hall. Your fingers worry with the edge of the burgundy quilt—finding a frayed hem. "Your bunch of misfits snores, too," you add, an amused afterthought, "loudly." Edward huffs a quiet laugh next to you; the flickering candlelight catches the curve of a tired smile on his lips.

Not standing for this false sense of propriety and distance, he slips his arm around your shoulders and drags you into his side—where you truly wanted to be anyway. "Aye," he agrees, pressing his cheek against the crown of your head, "sounds like the place is being torn apart."

Turning more onto your side, you lay your head on Edward's chest—bare and warm—and his arm tightens around you; fingers spread wide across your upper back, intent on keeping you close. You've never cared for storms, not since enduring them on the open sea during the crossing over from the mainland as a girl of seven.

You'll welcome the gentle evening rains that water the fields and flowers and fill buckets with stores, even the flashes of lightning and low rumble of distant thunder. But fear and dread take you when Neptune's gales come calling. The same malaise you felt watching a rogue wave sweep over the deck of that merchantman those years ago—even now, dry and warm, surrounded by four sturdy walls and a roof. Edward's thumb makes small circles on your back through the linen of your shift.

Rain lashes the side of the manor, a fulmen flashes through the shutter slats, and for a trice, you can make out the shadows of the trees bending in the wind. Tilting your chin, you glimpse Edward—the strong line of his scruff-covered jaw, the shadows catching on the jagged scar on his cheek and brow. You sink farther into the space at his side, hand finding a spot to rest, boldly, on his sternum and breast. "How do you think your Jackdaw fares?"

Edward covers your hand with his, fingers curling around yours, thumb running over your knuckles—back and forth. "She's sturdy," he assures you. "Might have to mend spars and some of the gunports, clear the scuppers, but she'll hold." She sailed through the hurricane in 1715, lying at anchorage in a mostly sheltered cove during one, away from the wharf and rocks, should be easy in comparison.

He cannot say the same for the rest of the compound, though. "Our tavern may not be so lucky," Edward tells you, hand leaving yours to scratch at his jaw. "Water was near over the docks already when last Adé and I went to check the lines."

"Top of the list for repairs, then," you muse, finger following the curving line of the ship's wheel tattooed on his right breast down to the arms of an anchor. "Won't do to have sober pirates." Edward hums his agreement, eyes slipping shut for a moment. He relishes your soft, doting touch. You find a raised scar next, at the edge of his pectoral, and another one that disappears into a light smattering of chest hair.

Edward feels you tense against him, fingertips pressing into his chest instead of just resting there, when there's a sharp howling at the shutters and in the rafters. "S'okay"—his lips ghost over your temple, a fleeting little kiss, arm tightening around your shoulders, his free hand moving to your waist—"I've got you." It's a comforting murmur.

You exhale, fingers still curled over one of the tattoos there, barely tracing one of the kraken's tentacles at his breastbone. He takes it as an opening to kiss your forehead, thumb stroking lazily along your upper arm, and then another, this one pressed to your cheek.

"Edward." You smile, and he steals another kiss—this one to the corner of your mouth. His eyes are half-lidded in the candlelight, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth, pleased with himself and his method of distraction. "You're shameless." He doesn't deny it, and you turn your head slightly, catching his lips properly.

It is soft, and Edward's breath catches, a low, pleased sound rumbling in his chest beneath your hand. He doesn't rush it—he never does—but the kiss deepens all the same. Enough for you to nigh forget the storm raging outside. His mouth is warm, a faint hint of the rum he'd nursed earlier while playing cards with some of the men to pass the time still on his tongue.

Edward shifts to his side, drawing you closer until there's no space between you and the heat of him. "Aye... shameless," he murmurs, the corner of his mouth kinking, his nose bumping against yours. The hand at your waist slides lower, thumb making lazy circles on your hip through the linen of your shift. "And you'll not hear me apologize for it."

You give Edward a weary look in the dark despite your smile and settle against him, head moving to his outstretched arm, one leg slipping between his—a familiar rhythm and protective tangle. He draws the quilt higher, and another soft press of his mouth follows before he nuzzles lower, golden scruff scraping against the skin of your throat, lips finding the hinge of your jaw.

His head finds its place on the pillow again, close enough for his nose to nigh touch the tip of yours. Your fingers trace the inked tentacles on his chest and the ridge of two old scars before pausing over the steady thump of his heart and the square-rigged ship tattooed there. Every so often, when the wind picks up again or something knocks against the manor walls, another soft kiss finds your temple or forehead, unhurried and affectionate.

You've half a mind to tell him he's gone soft. But he's never shied away from loving you. Not even when his crew whistles and wags their brows, seeing their captain wrapped around a woman's finger. He always insists they're talking nonsense but never makes an effort to prove them wrong.

Edward turns his cheek, nuzzling into your hair. "Rest, love," he whispers after a while, the words almost lost beneath the distant crack of thunder. Your fingers flex against his chest, ankle hooking around his knee. "Or stay awake and listen to it with me."