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ff7-has-taken-me-over · 9 months

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I’m thinking something like that fic ‘The Double Edged Sword’ by AuRon_Scaleless where Ezio and Altaïr are being manipulated by the apple of Masyaf to hate Desmond.

Difference is, the apple of Rome is also there because Ezio brought it with him by mistake so now it sits with Malik for safe keeping. The Masyaf one sits with Altaïr because the man studies it.

Anyway! The two are mistreating Desmond and he’s slowly falling apart with the mixture of bleeding effects and the after math of using the eye to save the world. With the added words and jabs at his apparent ‘betrayal’ it just deteriorated him more.

Malik is just as distrustful of the young man as anyone but at the same time he can feel that there is something more going on here. He just can’t figure out what.

This is until the Rome Apple decides to show him just what Desmond had gone through before popping up here. He sees the farm, the way he grew up, the borderline abuse disguised as training, the years of running and constantly looking over the shoulder, the eventual capture.

He sees Desmond fighting tooth and nail against the modern templars and he sees them drug him, forcing him into the animus to do their bidding. Then there’s the assassins doing pretty much the exact same things to him, his time in the machine growing longer and more frequent as his symptoms get worse and worse and worse.

And when Malik thinks it’s finally all over, that this used and abused young man can finally get a break from everything the ones who promised him a painless death and swift passing on do the exact opposite.

Malik can feel the wisps of pain that Desmond experiences and even that is almost too much for him. He sits there and watches Desmond scream and writhe for what felt like hours but must have been mere seconds.

Then Desmond is transported here, a few months after his second ancestor mind you, only to receive treatment just as bad as his original life.

Malik is practically thrown out of the memories, breathing turned ragged and tears that he didn’t event notice before streaming down his face. The apple in his hand pulses gently, as if it is saddened by the memories he had just witnessed, imploring him to do something to save the young man.

Before he can even move there is a hesitant knock on his door, a familiar head of brown accompanied by a face that is much too gaunt popping through the doorway with a hesitant smile. Despite everything the man still tries to smile at everyone and gain their trust, a feat he has not quite achieved with everyone sadly.

Desmond opens his mouth to speak, Malik hasn’t a clue as to what he’s about to say because he’s already up and across the room. He pulls the young man into a firm yet gentle hug, mindful of his still tender arm and trying to convey every single jumbled emotion he feels in that moment. God, Malik’s sure he has never despised missing an arm more than in this moment.

“I’m so sorry Desmond… you didn’t deserve… any of this. But you worked so hard for the brotherhood, for us and I am so proud of you.” There’s a moment where the young assassin doesn’t move, frozen in his arms before his chest suddenly hitches, body collapsing against Malik’s own as he lets out a quiet, bitten back sob.

The sound just makes the pain radiating through the Dai even worse. God the man couldn’t even cry freely without fear of something happening to him. He ignores the thoughts though, bringing Desmond to the pile of cushions he has set up in the corner of his office for those late nights he can’t quite make it back to his sleeping quarters.

They collapse into the mound together, Desmond burying his head deep into Malik’s chest and clutching his robes as he shudders and silently cries against him. The Dai can feel the young man’s mouth opening against his chest, as if he wanted to scream and sob aloud, but no sound escapes. Just ragged breaths and quiet sniffles.

They lay there for several long minutes, Malik keeping his arm looped around Desmond and running the tips of those fingers up and down what little of his spine he can reach. The young assassin doesn’t seem to mind though, relishes in it even as he slowly begins to calm down.

Before either of them realise it Desmond’s fast asleep, face looking peaceful and form more relaxed than Malik’s ever seen. He can’t help but plant a tender kiss on the younger’s forehead, breathing him deep as he tries to think on what to do next.

Apparently today is a day for interrupting him since there is another knock on the door, the noise loud and startling in the now quiet room. Desmond doesn’t even flinch at it though, an apparent testament to how exhausted he is.

Before Malik can get up the person enters, pleasant greeting on his tongue dying before it fades into an annoyed and angry scowl at the sight that greets him.

The Dai feels his own annoyance and anger rise at the sight of it, all those previous moments over the last few weeks suddenly springing to the forefront of his mind. Malik growls lowly at his longtime friend, glaring at him in a way that he knows the other is somewhat scared of, though the man would never admit to it.

“Get out Altaïr. I will speak with you later.” The mentor isn’t as easily cowled apparently, already opening his mouth again before stopping when Malik suddenly shoots to his feet. He had been extracting his arm and Altaïr hadn’t even noticed until now.

“I said leave novice. Do not make me say it again or I will make sure you regret it.” The mentor looks down at the still sleeping form of Desmond with one last glare before turning on his heel, walking out of the room and slamming the door behind him.

Malik huffs out an annoyed breath at his antics, turning around only to be met with wide and frightened eyes, scanning over everything as if looking for an escape route.

Also I suddenly thought of this. Desmond goes to the poor districts to help treat the sickly people (he has first aid knowledge because of his need for survival while he was on the run. Nothing like surgery but basic shit like how to prevent an outbreak and set a bone sort of stuff) and as a result the people there love him. It’s the only place he can feel like he’s doing something right and feel as if he belongs.

Nobody else knows of this for obvious reasons. They’d either spread the rumours there and make everyone hate him or they’d do something equally as bad. But that’s where he escapes to when things get to be too much for him in the bureau.

He’s not allowed to leave either because they have to ‘make sure he isn’t a threat to the people’ even though they don’t spare him a single thought the second he goes missing.

Malik follows him one day and when he sees just what the man does in order to help people he can’t help but feel even more anger toward Altaïr and Ezio. How could they treat a man so broken and pure like that? How could they hate him so when he smiles that reassuringly toward a child who has merely scraped his knee? It makes no sense.

#fic prompt #prompt #fic #assassins creed #Desmond miles #Ezio auditore #Altaïr Ibn-La’ahad #Malik Al Sayf #established Ezio x Altaïr #Future ezio x Desmond x altair??#or future malik x Desmond??#honestly this is already half a fic #I may have something like this already posted #poor Desmond #Altaïr and Ezio are assholes #Desmond’s a saint #Malik holds the braincell #as usual

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noficbyhalves · 2 months

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I'm not dead, I was just eaten by the brain weasels. Everything is fine and I really meant for this to be over 5k :/

I would also like the record to state that I did finish this last night, I just chose sleep instead of staying up til 4am formatting it and fighting with tumblr about Malik's fucking name. So my Valentine's Day one shot was toooootally on time shut up don't look at me.

In other news febuwhump is looking more like it'll be whumpril but *gestures at the length of this monstrosity* y'all can deal. (If my life is enough of a disaster maybe my brain autofilling it as whumptober will be accurate! T_T)

Anyway!

Content warning for panic attacks, implications of past abuse, light internalized homophobia, vague allusions to sexual acts, a lot of profanity, and Altaïr being horny on main

Flowers, or A First Valentine's

(or, Altaïr's biggest enemy is actually the closet in this essay I will-):

Altaïr was very careful to avoid looking at Malik when the mail appeared, or he was certain his face would give him away. He knew what was going to appear anyway, had spent a week and a half overthinking it to death. Malik may not have thought much of the holiday, but Altaïr didn't feel right doing nothing at all. He had settled on a dozen red roses - simple, tasteful, impossible to misinterpret - with a note smothered in so many layers of handwriting charms so as to make it functionally anonymous.

Thankfully a convenient distraction materialized in front of him, in the form of the rapidly growing pile of envelopes addressed to him. Altaïr was considerably less thankful the second he looked closer, realizing they were dozens and dozens of Valentine's notes. He recognized some of the handwriting - the purple one was definitely Katerina, and he noticed Rhona's loopy script, which was baffling for numerous reasons - but there were many of them that he didn't in the slightest. He gingerly pulled one open, increasingly alarmed to find a love letter as long as his arm from some lady he had never met.

Malik still hadn't said anything, which would have stressed Altaïr much more if Malik's ankle wasn't pressed against his under the table. He couldn't have still been reading the note, it was barely two sentences, and even that Altaïr had spent days agonizing over, whether it was too much or not enough. If he had tried to write something half as long as the monstrosity in his hand, he'd have given up and flung himself into the lake. He had the words on it burned into his brain:

My Vega, May your day be as bright as your smile Happy Valentine's Day - Your not-so-secret admirer

Curiosity got the better of him. He dared to glance over at Malik, and for a second everything stopped. Because Malik was looking at the note, yes, but he was also trying and failing to hide a bashful smile in his hand. There was a blush blooming on his cheeks, a sparkle in his eyes. And if Altaïr was walking on air then, the moment Malik looked up and locked eyes with him stole the very breath from his lungs. He had to bite down on his tongue until it hurt, so he didn't say something out loud where other people could hear (something like help I'm so fucking in love with you).

The words that came out of Malik's mouth were not thank you or I love you (as Altaïr's daydreams where everyone else in the great hall suddenly disappeared would have gone). Instead they were, "What in the hell?"

At which point Altaïr remembered he was, in fact, holding a letter from a crazy woman, sitting next to a pile of similarly unhinged mail. "I... this lady sent me a Valentine's... essay? I have no idea who she is." He skimmed further through the letter, but each subsequent sentence made him more uncomfortable than the last.

"Well you are a public figure, I guess. Ladies love a war hero...?" Malik trailed off in a shrug.

Altaïr winced. "She's, uh, really into me having been a Templar, actually." That part was deeply weird on multiple levels, not least of which was the interpretation that any of it had been a deliberate ideological choice, as opposed to Altaïr being backed into approximately six different corners.

"What. You're joking," Malik looked as dumbfounded as Altaïr felt. His bafflement turned to outrage when Altaïr didn't break. "Who's screening these things?"

He had an awful suspicion the answer was nobody, or at least not for anything that wasn't a death threat. Not for the first time, Altaïr was very glad they had conspired to keep Malik out of the public eye. It was bad enough with all of this addressed to only one of them. "No, apparently she wants to-" He squinted as he searched for the correct line. "-heal the wounds on my soul with the power of her love?"

The noise that came out of Malik's mouth was somewhere between a gag and a laugh. "Oh my god that's terrible. What else did she write."

"Something about wanting a summer wedding..." Altaïr adjusted the parchment so he could double check the woman's name. "I don't know who this person is, why...?"

Malik had dissolved into laughter, and it took him a few moments to compose himself. "Read the rest of it," he said, wheedling when Altaïr balked at the idea. "C'mon, give her the dramatic reading she deserves."

Altaïr opened his mouth, closed it. Considered the merits of fleeing into the woods never to return. He quite frankly didn't want to read another word of the letter, much less out loud.

Malik seemed to catch that, at least, and had switched tactics to reaching out for the letter, slightly wiggling his fingers in the please give me that thing way (rather than the wands are for amateurs way, which he was also prone to doing). His eyes were wide in an approximation of an innocent look that Altaïr knew was total bullshit, but it wasn't like he could deny Malik anything on a good day.

He sighed, and handed it over. "You do it."

Malik's expression grew gleeful (not benevolent, not by a long shot, but gleeful). He started to read but immediately choked on a laugh, trying and failing to muffle it into his elbow. "She spelled your name wrong," he wheezed.

Altaïr had noticed the writer had used his grandfather's surname instead of the one he had chosen, but hadn't thought it was that funny.

"No, look," Malik said, turning the parchment around and showing him. Sure enough, the top of the letter had Altear scrawled on it. Altaïr let out a huff of laughter.

Malik pulled the letter back and cleared his throat, beginning to read in a deeply overblown falsetto. "My dear Alteeeer Wrong-Last-Name," he said, before switching back to his normal voice, "you're not even good at being deranged and obsessive, honestly..."

Altaïr snorted. "Is that the offensive part to you?"

"It's not wrong to expect a base level of competency. If you can't trust your stalker to get your name right, who can you trust?"

Altaïr decided there was no good response to that, and tore open a different envelope.

The falsetto was back. "I am writing this letter to tell you that I am madly in love with you. I had a vision you see, months ago, foretelling that you and I are destined to be soulmates." Malik rolled his eyes, "see, this is why divination is bullshit."

"That's not how divination works," Altaïr said tiredly, pulling out what appeared to be a normal card, along with a little bag of chocolates. "What are the odds these are laced, d'you think?"

"Too high to risk it. Novice, do not."

"I wasn't going to!" He insisted. Malik gave him a doubtful look. The problem, Altaïr thought, with Malik famously being half of his impulse control, was people refusing to believe that he was capable of the other half.

They steadily worked through the pile like that, Altaïr putting anything edible directly into the baskets that vanished garbage, and Malik providing scathing commentary on the letter all the while. It helped, having Malik there, the grounding contact under the table and the reassurance that "oh, ew!" was a reasonable response to someone telling him she wanted to lick his scars what the fuck.

He had gotten down to the last few envelopes when he dared to look at the one from Rhona again. Altaïr couldn't fathom why she would write to him. He was pretty sure there was no possible combination of words that wouldn't be weird. Would an apology be better or worse than none at all?

Malik had paused, eyeing the note in his hand, but didn't say anything. He just sipped at his coffee and let Altaïr sort it out in his own head.

That, more than anything, made up Altaïr's mind. "Mal?" he said.

"Yeah?" He frowned when Altaïr held the envelope out to him. "Is that what I think it is?"

Altaïr nodded. "Can you burn this for me?"

"I'm not a fucking matchbook," he grumbled under his breath, but flicked his wrist regardless. The paper caught in an instant, flames licking up the edges. It was ash before it hit the table, vaporizing in the scorching heat that merely felt pleasantly warm against Altaïr's fingers.

***

By the time they had gotten midway through the day, Altaïr was already cracking at the seams. He couldn't make a beeline directly for the secret passageway down to the second floor, no matter how much he wanted to. Malik had been giving little pleased smiles (pointedly at the flowers, not at him) all through class and making his heart flutter every time. If he couldn't get a second alone to kiss his fucking boyfriend, Altaïr was going to go insane.

Malik caught on anyway, steering away from the main stairs without Altaïr having to say a word. He was talking about the Runes essay he had due later that week in a way that was clearly intended to be space filler, so Altaïr let the words fade into comforting white noise. He made affirmative noises at the right times, used to the steady rise and fall of Malik's tone as he more-or-less monologued.

By the time they reached the tapestry hiding the entrance, the hallway had emptied around them. Altaïr dared to reach out and grab Malik's hand. The bright smile Malik turned on him when he threaded their fingers together made his heart skip in his chest. He sped up, towing Malik along behind him, shoving the tapestry aside with more force than necessary.

"Slow down!" Malik laughed.

The lack of light in the passage left him briefly blinded, operating mostly on muscle memory to pull Malik forward without running into a wall. If they had twenty feet or so of distance, they'd be hidden enough and Altaïr could finally kiss him.

When his vision adjusted, he froze. Just ahead of them in the corridor (twenty feet from the entrance that's enough space not to get caught) were two other students - a boy and a girl, a couple years younger than them - locked at the lips. He dropped Malik's hand like it had burned him, and he must have made some sort of noise because they suddenly sprang apart, staring at him.

Oh fuck they had seen them. Anyone could have seen. Other people used this passage. Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck.

"So much for that shortcut," he distantly heard Malik huff, through the ringing in his ears. There was a hand tugging at his elbow, pulling him back out into the sunlight. "C'mon Altaïr, don't be a creep."

Anyone could have seen them. Altaïr would've been too wrapped up in Malik to notice. How many times had he closed his eyes in hidden corridors, trusting that they were alone?

His head was full of static. Everything was too loud but indistinct and blurry. Malik was talking but he couldn't make out the words. He dug his fingers into the fabric of his robes. It didn't help. The only solid thing in the world was Malik's steadfast grip on his arm, tugging him forward.

They could've seen anything. Altaïr kissing Malik, fuck, Altaïr on his knees. Everyone would know, his grandfather would find out. A blasting hex would be the least of his worries, with a stain on the family name like that-

"Oi, habibi!"

Altaïr startled. They had stopped walking, and Malik was snapping his fingers in front of Altaïr's face, looking at him with poorly disguised concern. The floor was swaying beneath him, shit they were on one of the moving staircases how the hell had they gotten there. He surreptitiously glanced around them, at all the other people on the landings and other flights of stairs. "Don't say that here!" he hissed.

"Unless half the school became fluent in Arabic overnight, I think we're fine," Malik said dryly.

Altaïr blinked. On second thought, fair. The tone of voice Malik had used was more in tune with calling him shithead than darling (though with Malik the line between insult and term of endearment had always been very thin).

"Are you okay?" Malik asked, stepping back to a more respectable distance.

Altaïr clutched onto the banister as the stairs began to pivot. He didn't want to lie to Malik, but the weight of the proverbial gaze of the entire school kept him from admitting just how shaken he felt. He settled for a wobbly so-so gesture and whatever the hell his face was doing.

"I can spin Berg some excuse if you need to go back to the dorm."

The offer was tempting, but he knew Malik couldn't join him if Altaïr didn't want anyone to suspect anything, especially not today of all days. Sitting alone with his thoughts for a few hours would probably be a bad idea right now, at least going to Alchemy would give him something to do with his hands. "No," he cleared his throat. "No, I'm good."

Malik's flat look clearly expressed his doubt on that front. "Am I going to regret handing you a knife?"

"I'm fine, Malik. I'm not going to cut off a finger."

Malik's face contorted as he tried to fight a smile. "You're not funny, novice."

***

Alchemy helped, for the most part. With a little breathing space, his panic felt slightly ridiculous (his grandfather had been dead for months, he wasn't sure why his brain had jumped to that). No one had stumbled across the two of them, or there would have been rumours or gossip or worse. Instead, Katerina was trying to bat her eyelashes at him from across the room, looking rather like she had been hit with a twitching jinx, while he was struggling not to stare too blatantly at Malik.

The heat and humidity in the Alchemy classroom worked unfairly well for him. With his sleeve pushed up and his hair mussed and his dark eyes focused intently on wandlessly adjusting the flame beneath their cauldron, he looked a bit like if a fire elemental had a ridiculously gorgeous human form. Altaïr, in comparison, felt a bit like a drowned rat. (A drowned rat that really should be paying more attention to the herbs he was mincing; if he actually injured himself, Malik would be pissed and worried and also would never ever let him live it down.)

Malik straightened, content with the temperature, and reached past Altaïr to write something down. Malik had been the dedicated notetaker in Alchemy for basically forever - for a myriad of reasons, including but not limited to the weird language of symbols he used to delineate changes in fire spells that only made sense to him, his handwriting was generally neater, and the fact that Altaïr never remembered to bring pencils instead of quills on Alchemy days. The problem was that he was so close Altaïr could feel the heat of him, and on any other day that would only be mildly distracting. On any other day Altaïr wouldn't feel quite as flayed open, equal parts desperate for contact and terrified of being too close. It just wasn't fair.

"Those, then the moth wings, then the gold dust. Ninety seconds between each of them," Malik muttered, reading out of the textbook. It snapped Altaïr back to the task at hand.

He frowned. "Shouldn't that be gold dust first? For stabilization?"

"Quote-" Malik flipped a few pages. "Nicholas Flamel, goddammit, gold dust is last."

Altaïr knew the rant that was brewing there quite well - he internally called it the "you idiots have trains (why is progress scary to you)" rant, after a particularly inspired rendition several years ago. Malik probably had three or four multi-hour lectures worth of content for it in his back pocket at all times. As entertaining as it usually was, Altaïr was still puzzling out the gold dust thing. "No, shush," he said, running back through the contents of their cauldron in his head.

The look Malik leveled him with would have caught a lesser man's hair on fire. Altaïr was more than willing to blame the heat in his cheeks on that. (It was, on occasion, reassuring that his taste in women was not so diametrically different from his attraction to Malik. This was not one of those times.)

"It shouldn't mess up the xanthosization, if anything it'll give us a wider window. Three minutes, maybe four?" Now that Altaïr thought about it, they could probably rework the whole recipe, cut the brewing time, maybe improve the potency?

"Makes sense," Malik said, jolting him out of his scheming. He dropped the bag of gold dust next to Altaïr's hand, where he hadn't realized he started drumming his fingers against the table.

Altaïr glanced up at Berg, who was standing across the room, scowling at another student's cauldron, and not paying them any attention whatsoever. Perfect.

"Don't fuck up," Malik said in an undertone, as he scattered the gold dust into the steaming liquid. The slight curl of his smile belied the severity of his words.

"Gee, thanks." Altaïr thought he did remarkably well at keeping his voice even, though Malik would probably be the only one who would notice. It took all of his concentration not to fumble into an overpour, with the way his heart was hammering. Malik was moving over to his right, grabbing the herbs, leaning into Altaïr's shoulder as he did. He was so close, Altaïr could slide an arm around his waist and hold him. Maybe if he was quick, no one would notice him kissing Malik's cheek. Maybe they could-

Maybe he needed to add the moth wings.

Malik plucked the stirring stick out of his hand when he did, taking over now that he was empty-handed. Altaïr could see his pinky twitch as the fire beneath the cauldron grew steadily, until the elixir was hot enough to bubble merrily.

They had half an hour or so until the filtration step, which left them sprawled in the chairs around their clean workstation. Malik had pulled out the project notebook and, based on the runes scrawled all over the pages, was trying to sort out the last set of enchantments for the map. Altaïr was tilted back in his chair, twisting his sash over his fingers since Rosa had glared at him when he was audibly tapping a few minutes ago. (And wasn't that interesting, how when it was Rosa it was just kind of uncomfortable, but when it was Malik it made him want to- nope.)

He had counted the number of cracks in this part of the ceiling months ago, and though he had a History essay he could be editing he deeply did not want to. He couldn't really help Malik - while Altaïr could probably pass a Runes exam based solely on several years of listening to Malik chattering about it, that didn't mean he could make heads or tails of whatever hellish combination of that and numerology that Malik had been beating his head against for months. Something about a youclid and a quantum whatsit? It made his head hurt, was the point. And trying also ran the risk of someone noticing the amount of enamored staring he would inevitably devolve into once he stopped being able to say anything meaningful.

Their elixir had been getting bluer by the minute but wasn't done yet. Which left looking blankly around the room, avoiding making eye contact with Berg lest he decide Altaïr looked too bored and made him grade essays or something. No one was doing much of anything interesting, only one other pair hadn't gotten to the simmering stage yet, but they weren't messing up in any interesting ways. Katerina had been distracted by her brewing partner, at least, so she wasn't trying to convince him to... canoodle with her or something. Whatever that couple in the corner was doing whenever Berg wasn't looking directly at them - Altaïr was not going to examine them closely enough to check. Though, speaking of-

"Hey, Malik?"

Malik glanced up at him, twirling his pencil around in his hand.

"Why didn't you tell off those kids, in the corridor?"

It took a couple blinks for Malik to catch where his train of thought had wandered. "It would be a pretty futile endeavor? I mean it is Valentines," he said, as if Altaïr were particularly oblivious. As if he hadn't been the reason for the flowers tucked into Malik's bag, as if seeing every couple in the castle didn't feel like they were flaunting it in Altaïr's face, as if it didn't make him want to scream. "They'd just go make out somewhere else." He shrugged.

Wasn't that the point? Altaïr thought but could not say. It wasn't like kicking them out would have stopped him from spiraling, but at least away from prying eyes Malik could have held him. "It's definitely not allowed, though," he said petulantly.

"They weren't doing any harm," Malik's tone softened. He flicked his gaze deliberately over to his schoolbag, with the roses peeking out from where they sat just inside the flap.

And Altaïr knew that logically. They hadn't set out to hurt him, to mess with his brain. They were not unlike the two of them, looking for a safe place away from prying eyes, and clever enough to know at least a couple secret passages. If Altaïr hadn't been so in his own head they probably could have just passed each other in the dark, not a notable encounter in the slightest.

"Besides," the corners of Malik's mouth tipped up ever so slightly, "I'd be a massive hypocrite if I did."

Altaïr was very glad for the roaring flames masking the flush in his cheeks.

***

The rest of the day dragged on. When they finally made it back to the dormitory that evening, Altaïr could barely wait for the door to be shut before he was pushing Malik up against it to kiss him. Malik breathed a laugh into his mouth and tugged him closer, draping his arm around Altaïr's shoulders. He tasted like sunshine, like warmth and fire and home.

Altaïr only broke the kiss when air became an issue, leaning back just far enough to notice Malik's breathless grin. He was sure it was mirrored on his own face.

"Holding that in all day, were you?"

"Yeah," he croaked. His cheeks heated with the heady mix of embarrassment and arousal he found all-too-common around Malik.

And he knew it was his own fault, that there was a very simple solution to this problem. If the idea didn't scare him so badly, they could have spent the whole day hand in hand, sneaking kisses in alcoves without caring if others knew.

Malik didn't bring it up at least, despite the easy opening to mock him. He just kissed Altaïr again, slow and deep, stealing the breath from his lungs. One of his hands slid down Malik's torso to clutch at his hip, his fingers fitting into place like they belonged there. Like his hands were crafted to fit Malik, and vice versa.

The idea of soulmates had seemed silly from the mouth (quill?) of a stranger that morning. It seemed a little bit less so now. Soul magic didn't work like that (he knew in excruciating detail how little it worked like that), but Altaïr knew without a shadow of a doubt that Malik would be the other half of him if it did. He felt more calm than he had all day, having wasted the morning tying himself up in knots over the flowers.

Speaking of... "They were okay? They weren't..." too much not enough somehow both. He asked, when they separated again.

It took Malik a few seconds to catch up. "Oh, the flowers." He smiled. "They were very sweet. Thoroughly unnecessary, but sweet."

Altaïr blinked. "Unnecessary?"

Malik let go of his shoulder to cradle his face. "You don't need to give me flowers to keep me, habibi. I'm already here." He kissed Altaïr's nose.

"That's not, I don't..." he trailed off, struggling to phrase the feeling that had been clanging around his head the whole week. Malik waited for him, held him tight and didn't bat an eye when the implication of his gaze became too much and Altaïr had to bury his face in Malik's shoulder. "...I just, I want to do more than just necessary. I want to do this right, I guess?"

"So which phase of doing it right is breaking blood curses, exactly? In case it comes up," Malik said. Altaïr couldn't see his face from this angle, but he could perfectly picture his shit-eating grin.

He jabbed Malik in the side, making him twitch and curse at him. "You know what I mean," Altaïr grumbled.

"I can't say I do, actually."

"Maliiiiiik," he whined.

"Should I expect a candlelight dinner and rose petals next year?"

Altaïr snickered, but he couldn't help but get stuck on that thought. It felt a little crazy, talking about next year as something attainable. Making plans with the expectation that the world wouldn't burn down in the interim, and there being an actual chance of being right. "...Yeah," he mumbled into Malik's jaw, "next year."

"Novice, that was a joke, don't-"

"Too late"

"Altaïr-"

"'M gonna romance the shit out of you." It was starting to take form in his head, an image of when they'd have their own space and he wouldn't have to smother his feelings outside these four walls.

Malik let out a massive sigh and let his head thunk back against the door. "Why do I have a feeling I'll regret this."

Altaïr pulled back so he could kiss him again. "Because you're being melodramatic?" he teased.

"Rude. Also, hypocrite."

"I have never once acted like flower petals were the end of the world."

"They're not the end of the world, I'll just genuinely be annoyed with you if you fling them around."

Altaïr squinted at him, attempting to make sense of that logic. Malik was deeply opinionated, sure, but there was usually at least some amount of internal consistency in those opinions. For the life of him, Altaïr could not parse how rose petals were that meaningfully different from roses themselves.

Maybe it was another don't treat me like a girl thing? But that missed the point, that when Altaïr imagined a nebulous future, a place that he shared with someone, where the idea of scattering rose petals on their bed felt indulgent instead of fake and performative, there had only ever been Malik in that image. (Truthfully, even just the idea of sharing a bed with someone long-term had been only Malik in his head for an embarrassingly long time.) "...what?"

"It's messy, and wasteful, for something that looks nice for what? Thirty seconds?"

"I... magic? You're a fucking wizard, Malik, come on." Malik's insistence on ignoring magic as a solution still blindsided him sometimes.

"That's still wasteful!"

"How?!" Altaïr fished his wand out of this sleeve to better make his point... somehow, and realized halfway through that nothing was stopping him from demonstrating right that moment. Unfortunately, Malik could read him like a book and immediately made a grab for it.

Any advantage Altaïr may have had by being right-handed (and therefore giving Malik fuckall for leverage), was swiftly countered by the fact that Malik had never once fought fair in his goddamn life. Malik dragged him into a truly filthy kiss, which made it difficult to focus on much of anything except Malik's tongue in his mouth, Malik's body pressed against his. Malik's fingers sunk into his hair, lightly tugging with just the right amount of pressure to make Altaïr's brain go fuzzy. A moan bubbled out of his throat, entirely against his will, as he melted into it.

Altaïr's hands fumbled of their own accord, clinging to Malik's shoulders, dragging him closer by the small of his back. He wasn't sure how exactly he could get closer, only that he needed to. That every inch of distance was unbearable, with how his blood was singing in his veins.

Malik shifted slightly, and Altaïr dimly realized he had been played when his wand was knocked out of his grip. Faced with the decision of letting it drop or letting go of Malik, he opted to pin his boyfriend harder against the door. Finding his wand - wherever it rolled after he heard it hit the floor - in the morning would be annoying, but if Malik stopped touching him Altaïr might actually die.

Altaïr pulled his lips back just a hairsbreadth, Malik nipping at him as he went. "You're an asshole," he panted.

He couldn't physically see Malik's eyeroll, but it was thoroughly implied. "Pot, cauldron." Altaïr was a bit appeased that Malik sounded just as out of breath as he did.

He kissed Malik again, just because. One kiss turned into two, turned into more, turned into Altaïr pressing his hips flush with Malik's, devouring the quiet groan that came out of his mouth. Kissing Malik was unfairly distracting. "Just because you're hot doesn't mean I'm wrong."

"If I concede to the dinner date will you shut up about the fucking petals? Oh my god." Malik growled at him.

Altaïr was tempted to ask Malik to convince him, but knew that was the kind of incentive that would make Malik turn him into a little puddle of goo on the floor. While that was a very appealing prospect, he did have a point to make. "Depends, will you let me be romantic or will you bitch about it the whole time?"

"I can multitask."

"Malik."

"Yes, fine," Malik huffed. "I will let you be as sappy as you like on this hypothetical dinner date that would require being out in public."

Altaïr watched Malik wince as his conscience caught up with his mouth. It happened more often than people thought; Altaïr did wonder sometimes whether Malik's instinct to poke and prod and needle was actually stronger than his instinct to breathe. The criticism wasn't completely out of line, though. If Altaïr had been frustrated with how the day went, it must have been eight times worse for Malik. He shrugged. "That's why it's next year," he said quietly.

"Shit, I didn't mean it like that, I'm sorry,"

Altaïr scattered kisses on his cheeks. "Don't worry about it."

"You really don't need-"

Altaïr cradled his face in both palms, looking him dead in the eyes. "Malik, I want to," he said. "I just... I can't. Right now."

Malik's gaze was so fond it made his teeth ache. "I don't want to rush you, is all."

Altaïr had no way to put it into words, that the tightrope he was fumbling across was in no way Malik's fault. That it was his own fear and chagrin that had him stuck like this, and he was so sick of being stuck. He desperately wanted to wake up one morning, forward in time to where it was all out in the open and whatever chaos that caused had blown over. "You're not," he said, glancing away, but it seemed deeply inadequate. "Besides, where would we even go right now?"

"If you take me to that awful cafe that is allegedly the height of romance, I will break up with you on the spot."

Altaïr laughed. "No, no way. I can still smell the incense in my nightmares."

"Eugh, I had forgotten about that part. Why is everything magicside like this."

"Yeah... it might have to be somewhere over the line," he admitted. Malik had been thoroughly right about it being less terrifying over there, where no one knew his name or his family or what he had done. Where he could just be Malik's boyfriend Altaïr, one person in a sea of strangers. "But I'll get there, by next year. Promise."

Malik smiled at him so softly, brushed his fingers over Altaïr's cheek. If he kept looking at Altaïr like that he was going to break in half. He looked like he was about to say something, was deliberately choosing how to say it best, which with Malik usually only took milliseconds.

Altaïr had a pretty strong suspicion of what it could be, and headed it off at the pass the second Malik opened his mouth. "If you say 'I don't have to' one more time I swear to Merlin I'll-"

Malik's snort of laughter cut him off. "I was going to say I love you, birdbrain."

"Oh." Altaïr could feel the heat flood his cheeks.

"Yeah, oh." Malik pressed a kiss to his jaw, then another. "You going to finish that threat?"

Altaïr, who hadn't really planned the end of that sentence even as it was coming out of his own mouth, shrugged.

"I mean... you don't have to finish it..." Malik said.

At which point Altaïr had no choice but bodily picking him up - ignoring Malik's startled squawk and flailing of limbs - and crossing the room to toss him onto the bed.

"I feel very discouraged, bravo." Malik's tone was undercut by his barely suppressed giddy laughter. "Get over here."

And when he tugged Altaïr down on the bed with him, Altaïr couldn't say he minded in the slightest.

#altmal #skies au #they are so fucking gay jesus christ #for context they've been together for like 4-5 months #and have been *deeply* codependent for 4+ years #altair: yes the only person I could see myself living with long term is my bestie this is very normal and heterosexual of me #malik; head in hands: I am going to scream #altaïr ibn la’ahad #altaïr ibn la'ahad #altair ibn la'ahad #malik al sayf #autistic altair ibn la'ahad #you can pry autistic altair from my cold dead hands #assassins creed #assassin's creed #words that mean things #i should put this on ao3 shouldn't i

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yinyangswings · 2 years

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Some pictures that I didn't use for my story Eagle Vision for various reasons, such as me not keeping the scene or just deciding I didn't need it, or I didn't like it.

#assassin's creed #asscreed #malik al sayf #altair ibn la'ahad #darim ibn la’ahad #tazim al sayf #altmal #altairxmalik #jacob frye #jamart

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etherealsdreaming · 7 months

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Assassins First Meeting Their S/0 Through Other People 💚

Hello, sorry it's been a while since I've last done an Assassin's Creed headcanon. But now i'm back! For the past month and a half I've been writing and finishing more headcanons for you all! I'm excited to share these and have gotten a bit more confidant in writing Edward in a few of them. 😊❤️

Edward Kenway

💚 Mary Read was always the one who saw potential but struggled to have Edward quiet his ways. But when her assassin ally comes into the fold Edward is beseeched to have her stay. Even when he lost hope after many of his friends' deaths, it was she who stayed, gave him hope and showed him purpose.

Altair Ibn La'Ahad

💚 Altair met her when he arrived at the bureau in Jerusalem. Talking to Malik about her recent success on a mission; Malik didn’t appear surprised. He remembered hearing of her countless times in the letters Malik sent him. “Already? I only gave you that assignment a mere hour ago.” This intrigued Altair. “Unfortunately I don’t have anything else available for you, take this time to rest instead.” “Very well,” she said. Before she could walk away, Altair stepped in and asked if she wanted; he'd appreciate the company and help on his own mission. She seemed to light up almost until confusion set into her features. “Are you sure? I may just end up slowing you down, mentor.” “I am sure, Malik spoke many good things about you.” This was the start of a new forming friendship. And unknowingly the more missions and time spent together ended up with the both of you becoming fond of eachother in a romantic perspective.

Ezio Auditore

💚 Lately Federico has been acting strange as of late. And after much prying he discovered Federico was in love but having a difficult time in getting to know her. Asking for Ezio’s help in the matter only complicated things when Ezio began to feel closer, from friendship to in love with this woman. And when others would dare harm her? He would defend her and in return received a kiss. Federico loved her but she ended up falling for him instead.

Connor Kenway

💚 Connor was in Boston for some missions and decided to meet up with Faulkner at the Green Dragon Tavern. Upon entering Faulkner ushers him to a table in the corner. “Connor, I’d like you to meet the daughter of an old friend of mine. Her name is Y/N.” A woman with H/C sat at the table with some ale in her hand. She looked up at him and smiled. “Hello, Captain Kenway.” Ever since then she’s joined in on his sea voyages and eventually the rebirth of the colonial brotherhood. This led to more time together and an eventual romantic relationship.

Arno Dorian

💚 She was a friend of Elise’s when she visited England once. Returning to help her on her journey she eventually met Arno. He was infatuated, finding you more calm and different from Elise’s temper. But it was when Elise died that she blamed Arno for every incident. But as time moved on so did your hearts. It took a while and a lot of pestering to realize both your feelings for eachother.

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crimeboys · 3 months

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thoughts on the ship you know so much about between Altair ibn-la’ahad and Maria Thorpe

after reading five seconds of the wiki it seems like their meet-cute was trying to kill each other which i always love so it gets a thumbs up from me

#asks #clings #sure you dont want me to answer the other ask ?

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demigoddessqueens · 9 months

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ruler (of me)

a/n - i wanted to include Arno first cause it’s still his bday month 💕

Summary: person A flirting, saying “oh you’re the ruler of my heart” and how person B reacts

Arno 🇫🇷 - he feels his heart fluttering so much!! “Mon ami, mon coeur, you have no idea how happy you’ve made me!”

Ezio 🌹 - happy, ecstatic, elated, how dare you refuse his kisses/hugs/affections when he’s adored you so much !!

Edward 🏴‍☠️ - calls your heart his greatest treasure and that he would never steal such a priceless gift since it’s yours to give

Shay 🍀 - there’s a faint blush to his face as he returns your affection, placing a sweet kiss on your forehead

Basim - one, two strides over till he has you in his arms, “oh but you’re so MUCH MORE than that to me”

Haytham 🇬🇧- help him he’s so caught off guard, a bit loss for words, “I’ve—adored you, in such a way, for quite some time”

Altair 🗡️ - the one rare time you’ve seen him blush, but that’s not the end of it because he’ll try to sneak you away into some corner to himself

Connor - weaves an eloquent speech about how everything else pales in his comparison when it’s his feelings for you, long lashes fluttering against his cheeks

Bayek 🏹 - also so smooth in reciprocating, “but you’re so much more worthy than a ruler, a true god/goddess”

Desmond - he’s such a cutie 💞 “aww babe, you think about me that much?”, if the Bleeding Effect takes over, you hear bits of Italian, Welsh, Arabic, etc. calling you love nicknames

Eivor - it starts off as a chaste kiss until it becomes more heated, warming you more than any fire has

Aya - effortlessly smooth as she cups your cheeks, “oh? So I’m a queen to you, a queen of hearts?”

Kassandra - a careful kiss on your hand before she pulls you close

Evie - she’s battled her feelings for you for so long, but you telling her this is such a relief to her she can’t help but hug you

Jacob 🎩 - he’s such a cheeky flirty tease about it, in a whole “oh you think about me a lot, love? 😏”

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stealingpotatoes · 1 year

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AC1 week day 1: eagle

happy birthday asscreed 1 and the eagle of masyaf!!!! yeah i reused the thing i did for banners, it’s my ac1week i can do what i want (:

#ac1week #altaïr ibn la’ahad #altair ibn la’ahad #asscreed #assassin’s creed #assassins creed #my doods #illust

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tamiisnthere · 1 year

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Altaïr ❤️ Reader Headcanon - Sharing His Hobbies

Idea from @fancysteawberrybeard! Thank you very much! 💗

Most of you voted for "Random Headcanons"!

Enjoy! 💕

Altaïr doesn't like to share his hobbies with anyone, but since you're his girlfriend, he'll be happy to show you his hobbies. 💗

🏃‍♂️ Parkour 💪

He loves parkour (obliviously), even though it is one of the most important skills an assassin must know.

He just loves the feeling of freedom while freerunning like a bird.

He gladly shows you tricks that only he and a few assassins in the brotherhood can do and once he flexes to impress you.

📖 Reading 📚

Altaïr is a big bookworm and likes to spend time in the library, where is quiet and full of knowledge.

Sometimes you two have your dates there

He gives you his favourite books, from adventure novels to exceptional works by famous philosophers.

He is delighted when you read him one of your favourite books.

🖼️ Sketching & Writing ✏️

Once you found his sketchbook and saw his drawings of sketches of weapons, techniques of assassination and Apple of Eden, but also of flora, animals and… you.

You're surprised at how talented an artist your boyfriend is.

When Altaïr finds out that you found his sketchbook, he starts blushing with embarrassment because he never showed his doodles to anyone.

Fortunately, you tell him that his drawings look amazing and that you adore them, which pleases him, and you two have been drawing together ever since.

The same situation it was also with his writing.

In addition to the Codex, he sometimes writes his pleasant reminiscences, researches and even poems.

🔭 Birdwatching (specifically eagles) 🦅

After training, your boyfriend tells you to go with him to the platforms where the Leaps of Faith are performed.

You roll your eyes, thinking it's another training session, but then you see him just sitting on the platform, which makes you wonder.

He taps on the platform for you to sit next to him.

You sit next to him and he points finger in front of you.

And finally, you know why you two are here: there is a pair of eagles nesting near Masyaf Castle, taking care of their young.

Altaïr tells you that he watches these eagles from time to time, as they are his favourite animals.

He also says that the pair of eagles resembles him and you and one day you two will have a family together, which makes you blush.

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xadoheandterra · 2 years

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Series: The Heir, The Reader, and Clay

Title: Run It Again Chapters: I | II | III | IV | V | VI | VII | VIII | IX | X | XI | XII | XIII | XIV | XV | XVI | XVII | XVIII | XIX | XX | XXI Enabler: @kingbob2-0 (if you wish to be tagged for this story please let me know!) Beta: @desmond-the-queer-dragon Characters: Malik al-Sayf, Faheem al-Sayf, Desmond Miles, Clay Kaczmarek, Layla Hassan, Altair ibn La’Ahad Pairings: Altair/Malik Tags: Altair Is Impressed, Gushing About Kadar’s Skill, Malik And Faheem Fight!, Faheem Reads Malik And Malik Hates It, Adorable Desmond, Clay And Layla Are Siblings Now Summary: They hadn’t found an answer yet, and Layla was impatient despite the promise of the Grey being timeless in its nature. She didn’t want to have to search for an answer that might never come–so she made another suggestion. Why not just change it? Why not counter the Isu influence on the Pieces of Eden where it counted, and counter what Juno inevitably did to the Eye in the Grand Temple?

It was all the push that Desmond needed to let himself be just that bit more selfish. So selfish he chose to be, and there was one moment where the Isu’s hold on the Pieces of Eden had a profound effect–the Levantine Brotherhood. Altair Ibn La’Ahad. Al Mualim. There was just one problem–Desmond was eight, a child, and didn’t remember dying.

Layla at least had his back, even if she was just a bit fashionably late.

Kadar was clever. Altair knew this in the way of a teacher, a mentor, and an elder brother. He knew the breadth and width of Kadar's mind, and the ways in which the boy thought, but rarely did he really get a taste of the cleverness bound up behind the dark curls of his head. The chance to see the way Kadar thought, laid out in front of Altair like a feast was a pleasure that Altair seldom got to enjoy. If it weren't for the trouble the teen had left behind Altair might've happily ensconced himself within the Damascus Bureau for a month just to piece through every little bit of coded evidence left to him. Sadly, he did not have that pleasure; time was of an essence that Altair had little of, a precious commodity, and so despite the wealth of information that waited at his fingertips Altair focused on the pieces he needed for the puzzle that the Novices had left of Damascus.

The puzzle painted a grim picture to Altair, one that as time wore on had him more and more concerned for the state of affairs within the Brotherhood. He knew something had to be off given the way Khaliq had reacted to his presence--a scoff and a question as to why Altair were still here when Altair had only just arrived in the city. The fact that the other man had shoved the bloodied feather in Altair's face, as if proof of Altair's actions--and the disdain he had for the measure in which the target was killed--it was not flamboyant enough! It was not public enough! It did not paint as stark a picture to the Brotherhood's enemies! Altair ground his teeth at the thought.

The kill was clever and smart, given the skill of the perpetrators--and it only took a brief visit dressed as a lowly servant to the palace of the Merchant Prince to piece together the events. It only took a few small words to hear of the group of children that had come and worked for a day, that spread word and rumor and sent the servants out--of the boy who was set to be used, rescued and taken to safety, covered in his assailant’s blood. Altair heard everything he needed to know Kadar had seen the way of events and worked out a strategy that would grant him the results he desired with as little risk as possible, and Altair applauded him. The evidence painted a much darker result of Kadar had not acted, and Altair knew the boy made the only choice available to him given that he had not seen any presence of his field master to guide him--of Altair's presence, given his delayed state from Masyaf.

That Khaliq did not notice grated Altair something fierce and led Altair to a dark thought of Khaliq's position as Rafiq of Damascus. The man affected the air of knowledge and kindness and spoke with such, gave false praise with hollow words, but he was not that man in truth and Altair could see that now. Self-important, self-affected--he desired his pottery and nothing else. These past few days in Damascus that Altair had taken to observe, to put sight to Kadar's coded, clever words--to understand the actions of the Novices who by evidence were well out of Altair's reach in this moment--it told Altair plenty. Damascus would soon be lost to the Assassins, if it were not already, given their foothold in the city did not deign to do their duty.

With a heavy sigh Altair scrubbed at his face and gathered up the coded documents, marked maps, and carefully began to bundle them into his rucksack. They would go to Malik, who could decode everything much quicker than Altair. Malik who had taught Kadar the code in the first place--Malik who had his way with words and ciphers that Altair could never repeat. No doubt Kadar and the Novices had unearthed more than what Altair scratched the surface of, enough to perhaps brand Khaliq a traitor to the Brotherhood if not a defector--neither option was good at any rate, and the punishment for both tended to end in death. Once everything was packed away, Altair licked at his fingers and snuffed the candle with little thought. He slipped from the room in the Bureau, and then out into the Garden and up and away.

Silent feet took Altair from the Bureau out into the night. He had one location to stop by, and then he would need to take the tunnels out of the city. While some of the tenseness had calmed, the front gates were still guarded far too heavily for Altair to attempt to leave with the Scholars around him. He would be pegged far too quickly, and it put the Scholars in further sights of the those in power in Damascus. Neither of them truthfully needed that. The tunnels would suffice; they may be dark and cramped and designed to be a maze, but Altair could pick the path as easy as breathing if need be.

Altair landed with a soft fwumph of boots and cloth outside a modest home, the window lit by candlelight and the heavy scent of drink upon the air. With a grimace Altair wrinkled his nose, even as he pressed the door open and slipped inside without care to announce himself. On a set of cushions, lounged with pipe and cup and bottle, Salim peered at Altair's entrance with half-lidded eyes.

"Done, then?" Salim slurred with a lazy blink, and Altair kicked at his foot with a grunt.

"You're drunk," Altair noted and Salim waved a hand in his face.

"Best place t'be."

"It is an insult."

"Pshaww," Salim set down his cup and stumbled to his feet. He swayed for a moment, fell into Altair who gripped him before the smaller man could topple them over and helped right the drunken fool who grinned wide and toothily back at him. "See? Functionin'," Salim cheered, and Altair mumbled a soft, "Barely," under his breath in response. "Now why ya here? Eag--eage--eagle!"

"It is as you said," Altair sighed as he dropped his rucksack on the ground. "I am done."

"Aaaand?" Salim leaned into his space, blinked slowly at him with a half-curled grin across his face. Altair leaned back.

"And you were right," Altair grunted out, turned away, and stepped quickly out of Salim's range.

Salim let out an explosive breath, straightened just a bit, and a small edge of that drunken silliness bleed off him like water from the back of a duck. He said, more coherent, "So they did it, the clever little shits." Altair glanced to him, saw the way he rubbed at his face and grunted with distaste. "Novices doing the work of grown men. Fuck."

Altair scoffed, but he agreed with the sentiment. He said a sharp, "And you did not think to stop them? To aide them?"

"I did aide them what the fuck do you think I was doing?" Salim grumbled. He moved and scooped up his cup of drink from the ground in a fairly fluid motion for a drunk man. "Not my fault you and Malik trained them too fuckin' good. Damn Kadar's a viper waitin' in the bush to strike. I only caught on t' em cuz of the other three."

"He's a Novice. You should be better."

"No fuckin' novice that boy is," Salim pointed out, downed the drink in his cup, and then with a yell threw it at the wall. "Fuck!" Altair startled, stiffened his spine as his vision flashed into twilight before he was able to calm himself and force his limbs to relax. Salim covered his face in his hands again and hissed out, "What d'ya want?"

Altair inclined his head to the question. He fingered the edge of the table as his gaze drifted to the shattered cup. "Watch Khaliq. Protect the Novices."

"Same ol' same ol’, ey?" Salim chuckled, just a bit on the side of bitter. "When should I 'spect our resident demon to come 'n take my head?"

Altair bent and picked up the rucksack as he fished out the bag of coin that he dropped onto the nearby table. He said plainly, "Malik is not going to kill you."

"Got his demonling in a right pickle, didn' I?"

"He might hurt you," Altair conceded with a faint curl to his lips. For a moment he and Salim exchanged a quick look, and then Salim tugged his hands through his hair.

"Hurt, right." Salim sighed heavily, dug his fingers in and tugged for a moment before he grunted. Altair turned and started his way back toward the door when Salim spoke again, "Where ya off t' next?"

"Acre." He paused for a moment. "Any suggestions? I know you and...."

Salim shook his head. He said a short, "Fuck no. None my business what that shit gets up to is it?" For a moment Salim eyed Altair, and Altair waited for what Salim undoubtedly wanted to ask. "Jus'...make sure he's eatin' right. Dumb fuck skips too many meals."

Altair ducked his head. "Of course."

"And Altair?"

"Yes?"

"Safety and peace, brother." The words were spoken solemnly with dark eyes, and a bright brilliant blue glow in twilight.

Altair clenched his fingers tight around the door frame as he said a short, "And to you," before he slipped away and into the night.

Malik slumped over his desk and massaged along his forehead to abate the headache that threatened to bloom behind his eyes. Desmond had been settled into sleep, much to the child's consternation. Desmond was quite ready to put up another fight with his now enforced bedtime and stricter rules, but Malik knew boys and injuries and he had certainly gained a bit of a handle on Desmond as well to know the new rules were necessary. It did not mean that Malik liked to deal with stubborn, churlish boys however, especially on top of an already stressful period given the nature of everything. He cast his mind to Faheem, who had been silent and disapproving in his way, his own churlish stubborn personality in full force. His mind then drifted to Maria, whom Malik had not seen since he told her rather forcefully to get out of his Bureau. He thought on himself, the way the rage that had curdled in him had finally drifted off to the side, no longer a frothing, churning sea on his chest ready to boil over, but one more contained--not calmed, because despite everything Malik still craved a good fight, but stabilized for the moment.

The words on the page in front of Malik blurred as he shifted his hand away and tried to return to his work. His temples throbbed in response, and almost distantly he could hear the door to the Bureau open and then close. A cup of tea settled next to his arm on the counter softly and drew his gaze. For a long, slow moment Malik stared at the cup almost uncomprehendingly. He blinked, slow, and then winced as another throb of pain tightened around his temples like a vice.

"You've worked yourself too much," Faheem said bluntly, and Malik darted to glance at him before he shifted to grab the cup. Faheem stepped forward quickly when Malik's sense of spatial awareness failed him, given the steady thrum of pain behind his eyes, and grabbed the cup before he could knock it all over his work. Not even a single drop fell upon Malik's pages, which the younger man was entirely thankful for. This time Malik took the cup directly from Faheem and settled himself back in his chair, away from his work, to take a sip. "I am putting this away," Faheem said once Malik had his drink in hand. "You have worked more than enough for today."

"So, you have decided you know what is best," Malik said, words bitter on his tongue as he took a sip of the tea.

"No," Faheem countered sharply. "I do know what is best, Malik. There is no deciding in that." Malik scoffed and looked away, but he did not stop Faheem from gathering up his papers and the book that Maria had asked him to translate--the strange book that held secrets that Malik knew the Brotherhood would covet, secrets that could be dangerous in Templar hands and that Malik worked hard to misdirect in what he gave to Maria. "I am your father, Malik, even if you sometimes do not wish it so."

Malik sneered into his cup with a petulant, "I always do not wish it so," which Malik knew even Faheem could read for the lie it was. Faheem merely sighed and shuffled around Malik's workspace. He picked up papers and maps and organized things while Malik sipped on his tea and felt the edge of the pain in his head ease just a little. Eventually Faheem spoke up again, words slow and deliberate as Malik tried to let himself relax.

"The guard passed last night," Faheem did not glance to Malik as he spoke. "I was unsure if the Novices had brought you such news."

"The Novices were given strict orders to avoid any such information after you brought me the man's cock," Malik said dryly, and watched as Faheem shrugged unrepentant.

"Castration seemed like the far more prudent option at the time," Faheem said blandly. "It is less likely to draw attention given our prior altercation...and given what had happened with that Templar woman and your temperament--"

"My temperament?" Malik snapped, hand tight on his tea. "I was not the one who stood there and boldly, loudly, acclaimed myself an Assassin for all and sundry to hear!"

"Well, if you had not brought a Templar into an Assassins' Den--" the snarled words were only halted by Malik throwing his cup in Faheem's face, enough to startle the man backward with a yell. The tea hit Faheem's face and arms, stained the white of his robes, and the cup clattered to the ground with a small chip in the rim.

"This is what I mean!" Faheem snapped as he shook out his arms, eyes furious as he looked to Malik. "This temperament! This end toward immediate violence! This response!"

"You have no right to talk about my temperament," Malik snarled, "when you are far worse than me! How many times have you stood there and demanded blood for the slightest of offenses?!"

"Just because you fucked this woman--"

"EXCUSE ME?!" Malik reared back, eyes wide and mouth agape as his father continued, voice louder over the shrillness of Malik's own.

"I HAVE BEEN THERE, MALIK!" Faheem shouted. "She is pretty and clever and witty and ultimately she will fuck you over. She is a temptation, and one that is not going to end well--"

"Is that what you think of Mother?" Malik interrupted, sudden and quiet as he stared at Faheem who paused, and then scowled.

"I love Ketifah," Faheem said sharply, then breathed through his nose and said, softer, "Loved. I loved Ketifah," as if to remind himself that she was still gone. All the fight left him the next second, and Faheem slumped down against one of the bookshelves as he ran a hand over his face. "I have made many mistakes, Malik, the least of which are with you." Malik likewise slumped down, against his desk, and mirrored Faheem in the way he ran his hand over his face with a heavy breath.

"I do not like to see what is mine hurt, Father," Malik said. He was tired in that scraped out and raw way, burnt through like a husk so much it hurt.

Faheem sighed heavily. He said a short, "I know," as he closed his eyes. Quietly Malik watched him, watched the way his father curled slightly over himself as he spoke softly for the moment. "I have done you no favors in taming this rage of yours."

"Is it truly such a horrible thing?" Malik questioned. "I am furious at those who hurt that which is mine, is that wrong?"

Faheem snorted and leaned back, turned his eyes toward the ceiling as he said bluntly, "If you truly think it will only remain focused outside of your House, Malik, then you are more of a fool than I thought." Malik pressed his lips together, hand clenched to a fist at Faheem's words. "You may be able to curb the edge with that blasted Eagle of Al Mualim's, and do not think I have not seen that boy let you beat upon him," here Malik was treated to a narrow-eyed glare from his father that made his gut curdle. "You are lucky that boy is soft on you. He'd do anything if you gave him so much as a look."

"Do not say such things," Malik said softly, cheeks flushed as he refused to look anywhere at Faheem with the comment. To hear Faheem admit to it, admit to the feelings that Malik had not seen as if it were a forgone conclusion that Altair was--that Altair had--Malik closed his eyes and tried to push past the way his stomach fluttered or how his face felt aflame.

"You know it is true," Faheem waved his hand, but likewise did not look at his son because that--that was embarrassment. He did not want to know if his own boy was, in his own way, soft upon Al Mualim's blasted pet of an Assassin--upon Umar's boy, who was so unlike his father that sometimes it chafed. "Just as you know if he were any less soft on you, he would not dare let you injure him so."

"We spar," Malik pointed out.

"You beat him back and blue," Faheem countered, words sharper. "That is not sparring, Malik, and you know it." He ignored the mumbled, "But he likes it," because he did not need to know those intricate details of Malik's life. He did wonder if for a moment he had gotten some things wrong and that it was Altair who sought out the relationship with the Templar woman and bore a son that Malik claimed his own--before Faheem shuttered those thoughts behind doors. "Umar would be ashamed to see how his son has been handled by you."

Malik refused to look to Faheem, undoubtedly very clearly hearing the fact that Faheem was ashamed of how Malik conducted himself with Altair.

"This," Faheem eventually breathed, "this is why I did not think you fit to be Dai. Not yet." Faheem pushed himself away from the shelf as Malik returned his gaze toward his father, eyes a bit wider at the words. "You do well with the children, I won't lie, but you are too...emotional, Malik. You always have been." Unsaid was that statement that Malik was too much like Faheem, and Malik knew it. He had a lot of his father in him, and he spent a lot of time trying to stomp that out of him. "I will spend the next few days out of the Bureau. We...need space."

Faheem turned toward the garden, and Malik pushed away from the counter and walked quickly across the space to stand at the man's back. He reached out, to do what he didn't know, but Faheem paused, nonetheless. Malik dithered for a moment, and then he said quietly, "I have not touched Maria in that way."

"Yet you want to," Faheem said.

"....perhaps, yes."

"Think carefully before you make that leap, boy. It is not one you want to make without a clear head. Or....agreement...from all parties."

Malik watched his father step over the threshold to the garden, and then clamber his way out of the Bureau in silence. He stood there for a moment longer, contemplative, when a soft, "Papa?" drew him from his thoughts and toward the door to the rest of the Bureau.

"Desmond!" Malik strode quickly over to the child, chest tight. "What are you doing up? You should be in bed."

"I heard shouting," Desmond mumbled as Malik lifted him up to settle on one hip. He rubbed at his eye with his uninjured arm as he blinked blearily at Malik.

"It was nothing, habibi," Malik said softly. "Come. All young boys should be in bed right now."

"Seriously? Seriously? That's what you're going for, Seventeen? Ugh," Clay grumbled as he stared off into the middle distance. He yelped a second later in surprise as Layla's hand lightly tapped him upside the head. "Hey!"

"I need you to focus," Layla said as she stared down at the glowing branch in front of her. "Instead of getting distracted by whatever Desmond is doing this exact second."

Clay dropped back down to the ground and crossed his legs with a hissed, "Fucking shit up, obviously." He raised his hands a second later with Layla looked at him. "Okay, okay! I'll get back to the Apple, but you gotta see it from my perspective memory stick."

Layla complained with a tired, "That name again?"

"Shut it," Clay waved a hand. "I'm not the one who decided to be a reservoir for all things Assassin. Anyway, there's only so much we can do, my dear USB drive, before we will inevitably attract the attention of those fucking assholes." By that Clay meant Juno, Jupiter, and Minerva but he was half afraid just saying their names would call their attention to him. "Give how much meddling Seventeen is doing we're fucking lucky they haven't picked up on the ripples in their precious time monitoring bullshit."

"You're welcome," Layla replied blandly, and Clay shot her a baleful glare in response. "If we remove their connections to the Apple they won't notice the changes, you half-clocked RAM."

Clay mumbled a short, "Harsh," and then sighed heavily. "You know what he's doing is going to end up with new family members that we can't account for?"

Layla paused; fingers brushed against the edge of a fruit that hung from the small branch in her hand. She asked, softly, "Is that such a bad thing?"

"Consider that we need to make sure Seventeen is born?" Clay pointed out.

There was a moments pause, and then Layla said, "You let me worry about how the Calculations will change with Desmond's actions. Focus in breaking through the rest of the protections on that Apple." She went back to focusing on her branch, and Clay narrowed his eyes at her for half-a-moment before he decided that no, he did not want to know what was going on in the brain of Seventeen's local thumb drive. Besides, Layla would just spill the beans later when they weren't supposed to be working, Clay was sure.

After all, Clay was a very good listener, as Seventeen could clearly attest to. He'd gotten the boy's whole life story out of him without so much as a by-your-leave. To be fair Seventeen had been comatose and Clay had been his last line of defense against the risk of his mind's eventual turn into mush but those were semantics and Clay did not want to think about the semantics. If he thought of the semantics he would think of his own fragmentation, and then his own fear of permanently dying even though technically he was already dead by his own hand twice over. No, best leave those thoughts in their respective boxes for now with the caveat of to be reviewed never. Meanwhile Clay had work to do, which included the problematic bit of Isu code that protected a stupid pretty bauble designed to enslave the human race. Now if only Seventeen would stop being so distracting and let Clay focus it would be perfect.

#fic: run it again #fic: the heir the reader and clay #malik al sayf #faheem al sayf #desmond miles #altair ibn la'ahad #clay kaczmarek #layla hassan #fanfic #wip #altmal #altmal raises baby desmond #time travel #desmond miles lives au

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