From outside his bureau, drums can be heard.
He's not sure what's happening outside- he never leaves, nor does he care. It's noise. It isn't annoying, but it's noise nonetheless. He finds himself tapping his fingers against his desk to the drums; it's a whimsical rhythm with a set beat, so he imagines there is dancing. Normally he would scoff at the idea of celebration during volatile times such as these, but he doesn't.
After a while, he's no longer content with just rapping his nails against the wood top of his desk, so he taps his feet as well.
And after his feet, his hips.
And after his hips, his legs.
The Rafiq is, by no means, a skillful dancer. On his own time, he sometimes mimics what he's seen female dancers do because he finds fascination and allure in the way their bodies move. It is always moves he could never hope to copy completely with a sturdy, male, body like his. It is childish enough that he, a powerful assassin, standing alone in his bureau, is prancing around like a fool to the beat of drums dulled out by walls and walls.
His hips sway and his body twirls. His feet shuffle and every so often give him a light hop. His one arm moves with his body and he's sure this would appear so much more graceful if he still had two. His dark robes ripple and ruffle with his movement, almost like the flowing gown popular dancers wore.
For those short moments, he is careless; happy.
He's so focused on his body's movement that he doesn't hear boots slam against his bureau floor.
"Malik."
His movements freeze like water and even with cheeks as dark as his, a blush can still be seen. His eyes narrow in to a sour glare and when he speaks, his voice holds the indignity of a woman caught changing:
"Altaïr! What do you want?!"
Malik can see a smirk forming on the assassin's face from beneath the shadows of his hood.
"Do not let my presence disturb you," Altaïr insists playfully, "You are good, continue at will."