AN: A little, hopefully angsty one-shot here.

He supposed that it was the stubborn essence of his inflexible soul that refused to acknowledge how he truly felt on the matter of his son - how Connor did, in actual fact, remind him so dearly of his self when he was younger. How single-minded and determined the boy was; dividing actions into right or wrong, black or white, believing to the centre of his young heart of a single path through life that could be correct for everyone - that it was possible to always do the right thing. Haytham himself had seen the world through similar eyes in other times. That the Order could merrily conduct its operations and come out with a result that could please everyone - a good world, a peaceful one.

But over time, it had occurred to him that the human race was perhaps not so capable of doing so. He had met shady characters in the past, people who weren't as dedicated to distributing happiness to everyone Haytham was... but instead far more interested in serving their own wellbeing.

So Haytham had grudgingly acquired the knowledge that sometimes - if the Templars were to ever achieve anything at all - they had to grit their teeth and raise their arms, harsh clashes of swords forcing back things that could hinder their mission. No time to muse about the kindness of their actions (to "practice what they preached", as he used to so brashly tell his peers) or their patience would be taken advantage of, and they would be kicked back down another flight of stairs on the way to their goal.

Connor, however... the boy truly believed that his ideals (misguided as they were) could be achieved through gentle actions - fair and thoughtful ones; carefully chosen so that the Assassins could not step outside the morals of their damned Creed.

He was embarrassed - a little shocked, in truth - at the sentiment that surged from his battle-hardened chest each time the young Assassin so confidently - arrogantly, even - spoke of these methods: the gentle tug at his heart, spawned from a sort of affectionate remembrance, whenever he saw his younger, righteous self mirrored back at him in those clear, dark eyes that belonged to Connor. Those eyes that not only did he share with Ziio, but that were uncorrupted by the cold wash of doubt that would surely follow at some time.

Yet whenever these emotions, unfamiliar like members of long-lost family, resurfaced within him, they would be cast aside, hastily dropped as if they were a shock to his system. Replaced instantly by scorn, by incredulity at such ideas from his own flesh and blood. "Naivety", he was so quick to label his son's ideas. Because after all Haytham's experience had taught him, surely that was what it was?

Occasionally, however, when those emotions appeared, a spark of hope would flare up with them.

"Tell me something. That time, at the church, you could have killed me. What stayed your hand?"

Those clear brown eyes stared at him unblinkingly under the Assassin's white cowl - inquisitive, curious, as a youngster should be.

Hope. That was what it was, truthfully. Because at that time, those emotions of familiarity had risen within him again, and suddenly he felt an urge - a paternal urge, perhaps - to march over to his son and to grab hold of the bracers on his tensed wrists, to tell him to keep believing - to not become an unsure shadow of his former self. To not become what he had become.

He met Connor's gaze equally, the familiar mask of aloofness secured to his face; and he knew that his eyes were unreadable. He should have told him then. But something killed the honest answer as it rose in his throat - his own coldness, maybe.

"Curiosity." He replied.

AN: Thanks for reading :), and I'd be grateful for a review if you liked it.