Pairing: predominantly gen (past Ziio/Haytham), canon homesteader pairings (Myriam/Norris, Prudence/Warren)

Warnings: parent-child violence, but nothing past the level of the game, same with the general violence level, little to no sexual content (as of right now), general spoilers for AC3

A/N: This fic came about as a result of a conversation between my roommate and me about what we would have loved to see at the end of AC3. It is a collection of oneshots within the same universe and any important ordering and chronology will he noted at the start of the chapter. Happy reading (and feel free to submit anything you might like to see).

Chronology: Slight change from the game; Achilles has already died when Connor and Haytham have their fight (so I've moved his death up about a month from my understanding of in-game timeline)

Chapter 1: A Divergence

Killing for a purpose never bothered Connor. From the time he was very small his mother had taught him how to properly bait traps and snares and how to kill the animals they needed to survive quickly and as painlessly as possible. She taught him to thank the animal for its sacrifice and to never kill unless it was necessary.

It was the last of her lessons that stayed with him the most as he grew older and wiser in the ways of the world. Never kill unless it is necessary. The very phrase supposed that sometimes it is necessary to kill. Sometimes animals had to die to protect your family, sometimes people had to die for the same reason. It was because of this central tenet that Connor never felt guilt from his deeds under Achilles' direction. The people he killed wanted to hurt his him, his family. The only solution was to ensure that they could not do so.

Haytham Kenway was the only exception to this rule. The man was his father, in blood if not in deed. The man had loved Connor's mother, that much at least was obvious to him from his reaction to the news of her murder. But, he did not love Connor, a fact Connor was perfectly alright with for he did not love Haytham. To be honest, he did not even like Haytham most days. The man was infuriating in a way no other he had ever encountered was. On their short voyage all Haytham had done was criticize and complain. Connor strongly considered having the man thrown in the brig for the duration of the journey.

Despite all his flaws, Connor did not want Haytham dead. He wanted the man to cease his plotting by choice. He wanted to sit and talk with his father and learn why he had left his mother. He wanted to ask why Haytham was not there the day the village burned and his mother died. He wanted to ask so many things and to learn everything. Achilles had said this was not possible and Connor trusted Achilles, but he still held onto the tiny spark of hope in his chest.

Maybe, if he did everything right he would not have to kill his father.

If he was honest with himself, something that rarely happened these days, Haytham regretted that the last memory he would have of his son was of the boy looking up at him with fear and hatred in his eyes. He hated that instead of smoothing away a lock of unruly hair, or brushing a thumb across a forehead, he was instead gripping Connor's throat and squeezing. He hated that he would ever be able to think of Connor and not see the hatred and fear in those eyes, so very like the boy's mothers'. But, he was a man of duty and these regrets were not enough to belay his orders.

His fingers tightened, digging deeper into Connor's neck. The assassin struggled in vain beneath him, already injured by their fight and the previous explosions, Connor had almost no strength left. That much was readily visible in the desperate way the boy's fingers danced along Haytham's arm, seeking a pressure point but lacking either the knowledge or ability to exploit one. One hand gripped Haytham wrist, weakly tugging and the other dropped to the ground.

It was in that moment that Haytham made the mistake that killed him. Seeing victory quite literally within his grasp his fingers weakened their hold infinitesimally. Connor drew a ragged, shallow breath. His eyes casting about, likely trying to see through the shadows that would fill his vision, Haytham mused absently.

The sudden flare of agony surprised Haytham. Against his will his fingers loosed their hold on Connor's neck and he rock back on his heels. What-? He twisted, eliciting another spike of pain, to look at Connor. The hidden blade his son wore dripped red. Haytham cursed himself even as he began to feel faint. Of course Connor wore the traditional weapon of the assassins, why wouldn't he? It had been so long since Haytham fought a true assassin. He had forgotten. An unforgivable mistake, and by the feel of it, one he would not live to regret.

The blackness encroached quickly after that. Haytham slumped to the side, hitting the ground with a thump and a puff of dust. In his peripheral vision he could see Connor laying almost motionless save for the rapid rise and fall of his chest. For the first time since finding out he had a son he felt a strange stirring in his chest; the same stirring he had felt as a young man when he achieved the rank of Footpad and truly begun his Assassin training, the same warm feeling he had felt when he made his first kill as a Templar and began helping the world in a way his father and grandfather never had. Pride. He was proud of his son. The very thought was almost absurd, but he could not deny the emotion existed.

"I – I will not weep and wonder what might have been," he forced the words out through cracked, bloody lips. "Still though, I am proud of you in a way," he had not meant to say that part out loud, curse his weakness. Connor shifted slightly, obviously listening to him. Haytham sighed, in for a penny, in for a pound as his mother used to say, "You have shown great conviction, strength, courage," he paused to breathe, a task that grew more difficult with every passing moment, "All noble qualities."

His strength failing him completely at that moment and he tipped to the ground, "I should have killed you long ago." He hoped Connor took that as the complement it was meant to be, for it was the last thing Haytham would ever say.

The Blackness took him.

Connor hurt. Everything about him ached and throbbed, pulsing waves of pain that beat in time with his racing heart. His breath rasped against his throat, loud and harsh in his ears. He could feel one hand twitching slightly, still trying to defend him though the immediate danger had passed. It was over, he had killed his father. The very thought hurt more than any of the bright sparks of flame in his limbs.

He wanted to lie where he was until sleep took him and wake up refreshed and ready to hunt down Charles Lee. But, that was not a possibility. Loud booms and crashes told him that though he could not see it from where he lay the bombardment was still going strong. He needed to move. He needed Doctor White and about a week of rest, though he knew that he would only get one of those.

With a soul deep groan Connor rolled onto his less injured side and levered himself to a semi-sitting position. Haytham lay in the debris not three feet from him. His eyes were closed and blood still leaked from the hole in his shoulder. Mindless of the rubble cutting into his palms and knees Connor crawled over and placed his hand over the Templar's eyes, preparing to mutter a short plea for the man's spirit to find peace.

A warm puff of air hit his hand. Connor jerked back. What-?

"Father?" For the first time he noticed the slight twitches of Haytham's hands. He still lived.

A rush of determination filled Connor. His father would not die today, not by his hand. Connor slid his arm under Haytham's shoulders and straightened as carefully as he could. It hurt, far more than he had thought it would, but he was determined. There was an entrance to the underground not far from here; they could hide there until the battle stopped.