Disclaimer: I own nothing!

Warnings: ALL the spoilers (ACIII, Rogue, and Forsaken). Sexual content, some swearing, canon-typical violence and gore, angst, some symptoms of PTSD and depression (no self harm or anything like that, but they are a few passing comments about suicidal thoughts). Also, lots of tooth rotting fluff. It's not all sad! There is some past Shay/Liam in here, but it's predominantly Shaytham. ...And later on, Shay/Liam/Haytham.

Notes: This takes place pretty much where Rogue leaves off, after Shay agrees to look for the precursor box. I might have trashed the timeline a bit, and I'm really sorry for that. I've used a bit of 18th century slang in this, and you'll find translations at the end of each chapter for things I thought might need explaining.

I will probably update weekly. Please leave a comment! I really appreciate feedback. I'm always working to improve my writing.

Chapter 1: Coping Mechanisms, or a Lack Thereof

The last two weeks were a blur, obscured in an alcohol induced haze of apathy and utter misery. It had been Charles who had finally dragged Shay out of the little hole in the wall tavern in Manhattan, and confined him to Fort Arsenal. Now, he stood hunched over the wrought iron railing of his bedroom's balcony, looking down at the flower garden in the courtyard below. Shay was a sight to behold, in desperate need of a shave, with his hair an unbound mess. He had a splitting headache, and was sure he would vomit if he dared open his mouth. He half hoped Charles would walk underneath the balcony so he could properly test that theory. Sadly, that was the most profound thought Shay was capable of at the moment.

He hadn't taken Liam's death well. He knew that coming to terms with it would be difficult, but he just wasn't coping. Not at all. In his own mind he had been; he just needed to be drunker. A lot drunker. But Charles had come along and ruined that plan, and now he and Gist wouldn't let him leave until he was stone cold sober. He didn't know who Charles thought he was, really. If nothing else, Shay had more than a few plans to get the arrogant sod off that high horse of his. He'd been insufferable from the beginning, and his behavior when around Haytham often reminded Shay of an insecure husband who was terrified that someone would steal his trophy wife's affections. ...Not that it bore thinking about. Haytham would probably murder the both of them if he knew that such an image had so much as crossed Shay's mind.

Speaking of Haytham...

"I'm a dead man." Shay groaned, resting his head on the cool metal railing. Perhaps that was an exaggeration. No, Haytham wouldn't kill him, but there was sure to be one hell of a lecture. Haytham hadn't been lying when he'd made that comment to Achilles about how he'd been working on trying to remedy Shay's occasional total lack of etiquette. He'd have a canary when he found out Shay had spent an entire two weeks three sheets to the wind. ...And then Charles would preen like some kind of overzealous pea-hen while fishing for praise from the Grandmaster for dragging Shay out of his favored den of iniquity. Shay wasn't sure he'd survive the shame, or Haytham's disappointment. He cringed at the thought. There were few things he feared more than the man's disapproval.

A loud rapping on his closed bedroom door tore Shay from his brooding, and seemed to echo through his skull like someone had driven a blade through it with each sharp knock. A sick little voice in the back of his head hoped it was Charles, because he'd feel terrible if any of the others wound up covered in vomit that reeked of stale whiskey. He grunted noncommittally, not really trusting himself to form actual words. Honestly, he couldn't ever remember being this ill after too much drink. Though, to be fair, he'd never been quite that drunk before either.

"I hear you've made quite the tosspot of yourself in my absence." Shay wanted to just kick the railing in frustration. "I'm rather disappointed in you, Shay."

"Hardly, I was half seas over at the worst o' it." Shay replied in a valiant attempt of preserving his badly wounded dignity, amazed that he managed the words without slurring. He stumbled back into the room, holding his face in his hands and completely ignored Haytham as he flopped into the chair near his writing desk with all the grace of an intoxicated ape. Miserably, he leaned forward and rested his head on the oaken surface as he wasn't quite capable of sitting up without making the room spin. Haytham sat down on the edge of the bed near Shay with an irritated sigh.

"What brought this on, exactly?" Haytham asked, watching the pitiful wretch of a man like a hawk.

"You need a healthier way of coping with grief." He added pointedly when Shay didn't reply, and fixed him with a stern glare. "This is thoroughly unacceptable."

"What do you suggest then, Sir?" Shay grumbled, running his fingers through his hopelessly tangled hair as if the motion would lessen the tension in his skull.

"Believe me, I am not the one to ask. However, if you want to to make yourself useful you might as well clean yourself up and head to the waterfront. The local criminals have moved back into their old headquarters there. Deal with it and report back to me." Haytham told him sharply and swept from the room without waiting for a response. Shay swore under his breath. As far as lectures went, that was pretty tame for Haytham. Somehow, though, that just made it feel worse – like Shay wasn't worth wasting the effort of a proper rant on. If anything, it seemed like pity and that made him want to scream. He didn't want or need anyone's pity, least of all Haytham's.

Bathed, shaved and dressed in clean clothes, Shay stumbled out into the afternoon sunlight for the first time in two weeks. He still ached all over (and doubted himself capable of stringing together a proper sentence), but the fresh air was doing wonders for him. Slowly, he made his way to the waterfront. There wasn't any point in rushing to get there; running out of steam before the fighting started wouldn't do much good.

There was a chill in the air, a firm reminder that winter was near and it promised to be a harsh one. The streets were quiet, aside from the usual local louts and a few of the gang's members prowling the alleys. Shay made short work of them, a little disconcerted with how easily he did it. It was as if his body was simply designed to kill, and he didn't really need to actually think about what he was doing anymore. A whore standing on the corner near a tavern winked at him, and Shay thought momentarily about Haytham telling him to find a better outlet for his emotional turmoil. He shook his head and kept walking. Shay learned early on that meaningless sex wasn't a cure for anything in the long run.

When he finally reached the gang's headquarters near nightfall, he hid behind a large brick chimney on the roof of a neighboring building and watched them carefully before striking. There were two snipers on the rooftops, armed with rifles fitted with long bayonets. From his vantage point, Shay could also see that they had rebuilt most of the poison making equipment he'd destroyed when he ran them out of the place the first time.

"...Pain in my arse." He muttered to himself and slunk along the rooftop, dispatching the closest sniper with a clean slice across his windpipe. Absently, Shay shook the blood off of his gloves and took out the next marksman with the same throwing knife he'd slit the first one's throat with. He crumpled silently onto the roof tiles with the small knife lodged in his base of his neck. The gang's flag, bearing the Assassins' emblem, was flying nearby as well. That, Shay cut down, folded neatly and shoved into an empty grenade pouch attached to his belt. He figured it would be best to hand it over to Haytham. He'd want to know if the Assassins were backing the gangs again, and he'd want proof.

Shay hopped onto the roof of the main building of the gang's compound and skidded down a drainage pipe into a thick clump of vegetation. He disarmed and silently killed the guard standing next to it with a hidden blade, and looked around for the leader. He spotted her standing near a large metal drum as she oversaw some men rifling through the Templar fleet's records that had been left in the base when it was attacked. Shay hoped none of the information had gotten to their higher ups; if the ships en route to India were intercepted it would be a nightmare. Deciding that he was done wasting time, he pulled out his pistol and shot the gang leader cleanly through the back of the head. She fell in an awkward heap, and the men scrambled to respond. Shay must have killed about fifteen of them before the rest grew a brain and fled the scene.

Covered in blood, some of which was his, Shay rolled up the fleet's naval charts and shoved them under his arm. He also emptied out the gang's strongbox and kicked a criminal that was still (albeit barely) breathing in the ribs.

Sometime near midnight, Shay made it back to Fort Arsenal. Haytham was nowhere to be found, so he just tossed the bloodied naval charts and Assassin flag unceremoniously onto his desk. He'd deal with it in the morning.

Shay lay awake in his bed, staring at the ceiling. He longed to be sailing the north sea, bundled in warm blankets in his cabin on board the Morrigan. He was safe there; nothing could touch him. The cold salt air made him feel alive, unlike the stench of New York. To him, the sea meant freedom whereas the narrow streets of Greenwich felt like a cage. A large gilded cage, but still a cage. Miserably, he rolled over and tucked his head under the duvet. Shay had seen to the few insignificant wounds he'd acquired while making mincemeat of the gang. It didn't bother him, really. He was covered in scars as it was, what difference did a few more small ones make?

Sleep wouldn't come to him, though, even tired as he was. The headache was mostly gone, a decent meal and some strong tea had taken care of that. It was just that every time he closed his eyes, he could swear that Liam was there with him. He haunted Shay, in both his dreams and his waking hours. Shay tried to tell himself that maybe it was for the better. After all, the nightmares of Liam were ridden with guilt and pain, rather than pure adrenaline and terror like the ones of Lisbon. It was almost a relief to wake up in a state of misery, instead of lying face-down on the floor with his heart pounding and his breath stuck in his throat.

After a while, he gave up on sleeping and padded down the stairs to the kitchen in nothing but a pair of loose, ill-fitting canvas pants that he liked to sleep in. There were some scones in a basket on the counter, so he grabbed one and sat on the stool near the little wooden table in the center of the room. Absentmindedly, he took a bite of the slightly stale blueberry scone and stared into the cooling embers that flickered in the grate on the other side of the kitchen.

A vivid memory of sitting on the floor in the rat-hole of a home he'd shared with Liam before they went to stay at the homestead flashed through his mind. He'd been curled up in his threadbare blanket with a cup of tea and a fresh blueberry scone from the bakery down the street. Liam was beside him, with Shay's head resting on his shoulder and his arm curled around his waist. It was a cold winter's night, and the thin walls did little to keep the chill out, but there was a warmth there that Shay knew he would never feel again.

He threw the scone across the kitchen and watched as it landed in the still-burning embers. Glad that no one could see him on the verge of tears like a besotted woman, he leaned forward with his head in his hands and took a shaky breath. He wasn't coping. He couldn't take it any longer, nor could he keep lying to himself. He wasn't all right anymore. He was broken into too many pieces to be put back together.

Three sheets to the wind – really, really drunk

Tosspot – a drunkard

Half Seas Over – half drunk, tipsy