"No, that is not right; again, you are supposed to‒"
"Enough of this!"
With a long-suffering sigh, Malik gave up on his work, tossing the quill he'd been using onto the unfinished map in a fit of frustration, uncaring of the small blots of black ink that it scattered. He placed his hand on his hip with an indignant huff, glaring over the surface of his desk at the Assassin who stood on the other side, looking as innocent as you please.
"Enough of what?" Altaïr asked, tilting his hooded head to one side, the picture of polite curiosity. It was hard to tell from this angle, but Malik swore he could see the corners of his damnable mouth twitch up into a barely-detectable smirk.
"I am not going to humor you by continuing this ridiculous debate on strategy, of all things," Malik explained, resisting the juvenile urge to reach over the desk and yank that white hood further down Altaïr's obnoxious face. "I suspect you do not even fully understand what we're talking about; you are just being argumentative for the sake of it."
Altaïr made a sort of humming noise, as if considering Malik's words, before folding his arms over his chest and fixing the Dai with a stubborn look. "'Argumentative' is not a word," he stated, deadpan and completely serious. "It is 'argumentive.'"
"Oh, for Allah's sake!"
The heaviest object within Malik's reach - a round inkpot - went soaring, shattering with a crash against the wall as Altaïr expertly ducked out of the line of fire. He fled the room in the blink of an eye, white robes billowing behind him as he rounded a corner, and Malik heard his laughter continue even after he made his way out of the courtyard.