candybox | In which the hurt/comfort genre is redefined as "hurt/sass"

It had been sloppy work, in retrospect. Reckless, Achilles would say. Which was why he was now sitting, bent double, behind a pile of crates in an alley, trying to stem the bleeding from his wounds. His head was throbbing, he had a bruised eye that was quickly becoming swollen, a shallow -- but bloody -- blade wound across his chest, and what had been either a bullet or grenade shrapnel that had grazed one of his arms. Connor was a mess, and he felt every inch of it.

The fight had been totally unplanned. He was passing through New York on business, intending nothing more than to run a few errands. No assassinations. But when he'd spotted a group of tax collectors harassing a poor family and threatening them with eviction, he couldn't help but intervene in the only way he could: with force.

What he didn't expect was for a regiment of soldiers, including Hessians, to join the chaos that ensued. Connor managed to escape with his life, but there was little now that he could do for that poor family. Yet another property would be appropriated to the Crown, and he'd botched his attempt to stop it.

Wincing, he struggled to his feet, one hand pressed over his chest. Somehow, he had to slip out of the city before he was discovered...

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Without explanation, Haytham headed in the same direction, apparently also interested in leaving the city for the time being. By now criers would be shouting their descriptions on every major block; it was an opportune time to leave on business, not trap himself within a stagnant fort and wait for the effects of bribery to spread.

He didn't seem to notice that Connor had little energy for dialog.

"I see you have been busy today," he noted lightly as he urged his horse ahead. He pulled a folded paper from his coat and waved it where Connor could see. "As have I. Once we stop, you may be interested in looking this over. There are a few details on redcoat movements in the coming month."

That was enough to get Connor's attention, and he sat up in the saddle to get a better look. Whether he was injured or not, any information on the war was his foremost priority.

"As soon as we are well clear of the city, we stop," he said, voice hoarse as he focused back ahead, gripping the reins tighter to keep himself upright. They were already reaching the suburbs, and as long as they could get through the outer gates without being apprehended, the rest would be an easy enough escape. Or so he hoped.

Haytham inwardly admitted that Connor's endurance was an admirable quality. Out of habit, he had not given him much credit. But he might have been mistaken about the extent of the injuries; he knew almost nothing about lasting wounds, only about the points of the body that made for quickly lethal results with a blade. Perhaps Connor was not as damaged as he thought.

He tucked the missive back into his coat. "Very well. We should be able to make it there without more trouble."

It was a combination of sheer endurance, and the wound looking worse than it was -- shallower wounds had a tendency to bleed a great deal, even if they weren't necessarily fatal in the short-term. Connor still knew he wouldn't be able to go much further before his body gave out, however, so merely gave Haytham a curt nod, then dug his heels in and urged his horse on.

It was only once they were clear of the town gates and a ways into covered woodland that Connor slid -- half-toppled, really -- from his horse, which whickered and shied uneasily, scenting blood. But Connor held the reins to keep the mare in place, bracing himself against the horse's neck as he clumsily tried to unfasten his red sash to use as makeshift bandages.

No, he still wasn't going to ask for help. Yes, he was being childishly stubborn, but pride wouldn't permit him to be anything less.

Haytham, observing silently out of Connor's line of sight, finally lost patience.

With an over-dramatic sigh, he stepped from his horse and took the reins from Connor's shaking hand to tie off on a branch, fixing him with a hard look shadowed by the front brim of his hat.

"I do not believe there is any fool in this country half as stubborn as you. I suppose you will pass out before you get it in your head that you need to have those wounds looked at."

If only it were simple. But the idea of leaving Connor to the ravages of crippling infection, incapable of assisting any cause, did not seem beneficial.

Connor's breathing was becoming more and more laboured and it was getting increasingly hard to focus with the more blood he lost, so he did not protest as Haytham took the reins from him. His horse whickered and made another bid to shy away as it was tied to the tree, however, forcing Connor to grab onto the closest thing -- Haytham's arm, in this case -- to stay upright.

His pride was never going to let him live this one down.

"I see... little other choice," he rasped. The closest settlements where he might get real medical attention were a long ride from here, and anywhere he considered a safe location was even further. "What... concern is it if yours?"

If Connor lived, it would benefit Haytham in the short-term. If he eventually succumbed to his wounds, it would benefit him more in the long-term. Whatever happened, his father had every reason to be no less indifferent than he had always been.

Haytham offered an irate glare. This was exactly what he expected-- Connor stirring an argument about his own condition. Maybe he knew better, since it was his own body, but with the way he swayed on his feet, Haytham doubted it.

"You are my son," he answered, exasperated, as if that explained the complicated nature of their relationship and motives.

He looked at his arm a moment, where Connor was clinging as if a chasm had opened below him. So much for not needing any help.

"Unless you want to die of infection, I suggest you remove your robes and sit down," he ordered, carefully extracting Connor's hold so he could walk back over to the horses. He investigated the saddles and bags until he came up with a pair of canteens.

Connor gave him a long look, a mixture of annoyance and surprise. Had he misread Haytham's intentions after all? Perhaps...

Despite his misgivings, though, Connor had to concede that Haytham had a point, so he sank to the ground, and began the long and arduous process of shedding his weapons before his robes could be removed. Slipping off his bow and quiver was the most painful part, and he had to pause as a fresh wave of stabbing pain and nausea wracked him.

Once everything was finally off, the last of his energy was spent, and he lay back with a groan. The extent of his injuries became more apparent. The wound on his chest was not as serious as it could have been -- Connor had been fast enough to dodge for it not to be fatal, but not fast enough to avoid the long cut reaching diagonally from one side of his chest to the other. Likewise the bullet wound on his upper arm had only grazed, not pierced, but it had gouged out a substantial amount of flesh nonetheless and was still bleeding heavily.

"I still wish to see that missive," he said weakly. He was nothing if not single-minded, even when badly wounded.

Haytham turned back to Connor with the canteens, pleased to see that his orders were being followed, for once. He smiled with false cheerfulness. "Good. I was hoping that if you intended to die, you would at least find a way to do it with more dignity."

He crouched by Connor's side and lifted the injured arm in hand to slowly pour water over the wound. Rivulets ran red around his skin, dampening the ground below.

"It is a shame Church turned out to be such a contemptible bastard. I do not personally know any other physicians, much less the practice itself. He fulfilled a valuable role, even if his goals aligned with profit more than principle. I should have taken heed to the signs much sooner. I suppose they were there from the very beginning..."

Haytham reminisced, more to himself than to Connor, not expecting a response. But it did raise the point that he could offer no real treatment, only attempt to hold him together long enough to get him to a real doctor.

He picked up the sash, and without asking permission, began cutting it into long strips.

For all that Connor had tried to give off the impression his wounds did not bother him, he hissed through his teeth and had to resist the urge to jerk his arm away as Haytham poured water over it, leaving the wound stinging. Then he closed his eyes, apparently ignoring Haytham's diatribe against Church. Connor knew physicians himself -- Jamie, but getting into contact with him would mean turning back around to New York -- or Dr. White, which would mean a long journey to the Homestead. With Haytham in tow, both options were out of the question.

"Hickey... was little better," Connor finally replied, opening his eyes and fixed them on his father. Did he need to elaborate? The ideology of the Templars concerned Thomas Hickey even less than they had concerned Church. He had been loyal because of the money, but could have just as easily become a turncoat to a higher bidder.

Haytham really needed to work on his recruitment processes.

As he began to tear up the sash, Connor pressed a hand to his chest with his good arm, trying to stem the bleeding as much as possible until the makeshift bandages could be applied.

In which the hurt/comfort genre is redefined as "hurt/sass"

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