001 Introduction—

"So, if you got the chance to meet the infamous Alex Mercer, what would you do?"

He looked at the woman who looked way too much like Rebecca to be healthy for him as he recovered from the Bleeding Effect, pursing his lips. He cleaned the glass, looking at the ceiling as her and her friends waited. One of them was watching intensely, crystal blue eyes just begging him to say something nice. Eventually, he sighed and shrugged, setting the glass down and resting his chin in his hand on the counter.

"I'd punch him."

Rebecca's twin laughed and glanced at the blonde woman watching him, who looked almost upset.

"And then I'd tell him to get over himself."

She stopped laughing. "W-what?"

He straightened, fixing himself a drink. The girls were watching him like stalkers eager to hear some gossip.

"I'd punch him, then tell him to get over himself."

"Why?" one asked, giving him the bedroom eyes as if that would work.

"Because he needs to get over himself and move on. Hell, I lived through the Infection, and then proceeded to be kidnapped and mentally tortured. I'm still a recovering wreck. If I can still be happy, then he just needs someone to kick him in the ass and tell him straight."

"It's not that easy—"

"I don't care," Desmond said, cutting her off as he tipped back his drink. "Neither is getting over all the shit that's happened to me. He needs to get over himself. No one actually thinks that the mysterious vigilante is anyone other than him. Fuck, the man's an idiot, and he just needs to get in touch with reality, dude. And that's something coming from me."

There was silence as he cleaned his glass and set it back in its spot. He paid them no more attention as he finished closing up, walking them out. As the girls left, the blonde one that had looked upset at the punching comment paused. He locked the door and turned to her.

"Would you tell him that to his face?"

"Tell him what?"

"What you said earlier?"

"Yeah, and I'd punch him, too."

Before he knew what was happening, there was an address and time inked on his hand. The blonde vanished with the other women.

"Well, looks like I got a date," he murmured as he looked at the writing.

And sure enough, the next day, he was waiting outside the café he had been told to go to, his hands in his hoodie pockets as he watched the crowds. He didn't even flinch when the ground exploded next to him and the others started screaming and panicking—he was surrounded by morons. He looked over his shoulders to see the Alex Mercer standing there, looking every bit as menacing as he remembered on the news after the Infection. He met the man's gaze once, then before he knew what he was doing, his fist was connecting solidly with the man's face. The man actually stumbled, clutching his nose, and Desmond huffed as he turned back to gaze at the surprised onlookers.

"You're a real pussy, you know that?"

He watched as the man straightened, glaring at him only briefly before something akin to amusement spread over his features. He didn't back down, staring him in the eyes. Alex looked down at the pavement.

"Yeah. Now, I do."

002 Love—

He wasn't sure when, but sometime between that punch and the time he moved Desmond in from that dinky, terrible apartment he had had before, he had begun getting the weirdest illnesses. For instance: he began to hate going out. He liked staying home. And he found himself watching Desmond every chance he got, whether he was cooking, or mulling about, or even sitting beside him.

And whenever Desmond would touch him, that's when things got super bad. His skin would crawl beneath his touch, and he would be torn between moving closer and pulling away all at the same time. He wasn't used to human contact. He wasn't used to the gentle touches Desmond would sometimes give him. He didn't think he could handle something like that. He didn't know what to do with himself. He couldn't breathe properly around him or walk right when he knew he was going to see him. He wanted to make sure that Desmond knew he could be everything for him. He wanted the responsibility of Desmond. He wanted to be there for him during his mental breakdowns. He wanted to be the one to make sure that he was okay. His companion didn't give two shits and shake about the touches as if he didn't even know he was doing it.

And all of his emotions were out of whack. He was so much more concerned about what Desmond needed, what Desmond wanted, what Desmond felt that he began to get worried that the man was taking up too much of his attention. So when he heard "Goodbye Apathy" and "Accidentally in Love" by those bands Desmond seemed to like so much (and he had bought him those CDs on a whim just to see the slight curve of his lips), he finally figured out his illness. He was in love—but he would deny it as long as possible.

He had confessed this to Dana, who always helped him decipher his feelings, and she had taken that information and utilized it to her advantage. When Dana confronted Desmond about how Alex felt, it was as if she had burned the poor man. It was as if he hadn't realized he was in love. Alex could feel himself get angry, confused, and perhaps slightly hurt. He had been sitting on the couch, not actually paying attention as Dana whispered to his partner, and when the man yelped and ran into some pans that were drying, naturally, Alex looked and figured it all out.

Turns out, he had had a bad lover. Shaun Some-thing-or-whozzit had broken his heart. And so had a woman named Lucy—although he seemed even more reluctant to talk about Lucy than Shaun. He got the feeling there was more to Lucy's heartbreak than what was said. Nevertheless, Desmond slowly warmed up to him, and he remembered getting his first kiss on Christmas. It was shy and testing, overly cautious as a man who had just had his heart broken.

Alex swore mentally he would never do that to him.

003 Light—

To Alex, Desmond was the Virgil of Dante's Inferno or the angel in the furnace of Nebuchadnezzar. Despite the frantic moments when Desmond had a panic attack or when he broken down into a fit, there was something irreplaceable about the man. He didn't mind the Bleeding Effect at all—he reminded him that he wasn't the only one with incurable voices whispering crazy things in the back of his mind, phasing through walls and trying to take over his mind. It told him that he wasn't alone in the giant, crazy world—that he wasn't going to have to suffer by himself.

Still, it pained him to see Desmond going through almost the same stuff he was going through, that he was forced into this Hell—this dark and foreboding prison with seemingly no light at the end of the tunnel. He hated that his partner had to go through such painful memories and that he had to live with them.

What surprised him most is that he felt more pained about him going through this rather than himself. He supposed that he had a natural barrier. The virus itself was programmed to block out the memories that he didn't want and keep them stored safely away until he needed them. Desmond didn't have that ability: it wasn't in his genetic coding.

Sure, he struggled with all the people he had eaten—all the side effects and unpleasant things. But Desmond was suffering worse because he was human, and humans couldn't file things away in their brains as easily as a virus programmed to kill.

Nevertheless, his partner held a certain kind of hope for him. When he would sit on the couch and comfort him from a nightmare or an all-too-realistic moment of the Bleeding Effect, he would feel like the most powerful man in the world. He felt as if he were finally proving his worth. He felt as if he wasn't just a monster, a creation, or an experiment. He finally felt as if he could begin to move forward.

And when Desmond would finally calm down and give him that soft, thankful smile, Alex found himself almost smiling. Every time it happened, he had a thought, and if something was repeated enough, the virus knew that someone could start believing it. So when he looked down at Desmond as he relaxed into his hold, or when Desmond was milling about and would stop, flop on the couch, and ask how the football teams were doing, or when they walked down the streets of Manhattan, he would let that thought cross his mind time and again. When he would join Desmond on the couch as they ate ice cream from the tub, he knew that he could convince himself yet. And he was right: he began to believe what he had yearned to believe for years now—he was becoming human.

Of course, it helped that Desmond was right there, every step of the way, shielding him and guiding him with his own light, just as Virgil had guided Dante, or the angel protected Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego in the fires.

004 Dark—

The dark was Altair's favorite thing. It hurt less than the light, and he didn't have to shield his eyes in the middle of the night because the moon was bright and glaring. No, the dark was a welcome guest, one that seeped into the castle, through every crack and crevice. It enveloped the novices in their beds, the assassins out on their missions. It spread like honey over every stone and creature, swallowing them whole as it continued its mission to cover everything. It was a comforting caress like a lover's, and Altair had always been one to welcome it readily.

It made missions easier. In the dark, he could approach, kill, and leave without someone noticing. Blood was harder to see in the obscuring black rather than in the glaring day. It made it harder to see the person collapse. Of course, the assassins were at the advantage in the dark. The gift of Eagle Vision they had made no distinction of "light" and "dark." It made walking at night easy. However, there were few assassins who did have it—Altair was just a lucky one. There were a few others within the order, and Altair believed that Malik had it even if he always denied it.

He could creep in the dark much easier than in the light. That made it much easier to gather Intel about a target. He could slip around the home in the middle of the night and listen in on everything they were saying, cloaked in the shadow of the night. His ears would greedily eat every word they said as they failed to realize they were being listened in on. He could peer into a hole or a window with little problem and not be caught. The shadows were a wonderful thing, and the dark was even better.

But there was something even better about the dark. Something that, if exposed in the light, would force him to flee. Something that, if exposed in the light, would cause his life to come tumbling down around him. Something that, if exposed in the light, would ultimately be his ruin. And it wouldn't even be from the assassins, who accepted everything, who passed few judgments so long as their mission was accomplished. But whispers spread, and there would be someone who wanted his head.

The dark gave him the cover he needed to love Malik. It gave them the cover they needed to fondle and caress and grope under the blankets, shedding their clothes as snakes shed skin and pressing closer—touching, wanting, needing. It let him pound into Malik night after night without the fear of being caught, and it let him fill his most primal urges as well as his most feminine ones. He would never admit that when they spooned together under the covers or kissed softly and languidly that his heart skipped a beat, but the darkness made all of that okay.

Altair liked the dark.

005 Seeking Solace—

He used to seek solace in his brother's room, sitting on his brother's cot and just being. When a mission went wrong, no doubt that Altair or Abbas would rub it in, and he would respond with anger, as per usual, but then his anger would leave him, and he would be upset and lonely. He would trudge his way into his brother's room and sit on his cot, and his brother would come over and give him a hug. He would talk in hushed tones with his brother, and eventually, Kadar would act like enough of a goof that he couldn't help but smile softly, shaking his head and telling his brother he loved him. His brother would smile, kiss his cheek, and tell him to stop looking so down because he would always have one fan. Too bad "always" rarely happened.

So when "always" failed to happen, he sought comfort in the fact that he was away from everything. He was nowhere near Solomon's Temple. He was nowhere near Masyaf or that wretched prison of a castle they lived in. He was in a secure, bunkered-down bureau in the rich district of a rich city. He was a few minutes away from everything that he could've needed without the added pain of walking up and down a steep hill. He made friends with the guards, and they would sit together sometimes, smoking from a hookah and swapping tales about fights. They became more loyal to him than to their job. Of course, he didn't stop them from harassing Altair. He couldn't tell them he was affiliated with them. He found solace in being away from everything, and he promised himself he would stay here forever.

But when "forever" came to a screeching halt, he wasn't surprised at all. He merely blinked and went with the flow. He didn't, however, appreciate that he was moved back into the one place he had been avoiding. He didn't appreciate that he had been roped into helping restore the Order. He had liked Jerusalem and didn't want to leave. But everywhere he looked, he was reminded of things he didn't want to be reminded of, and he was left with no more places of solace.

Until he found that the Grandmaster's arms were a good way to hide from everything. His arms were a good way to hide from his pain and find comfort in an otherwise uncomfortable world. He could tuck his face into the crook of his neck and sit there, in his lap, with his fist curled in his robes and the Master's arms around him, rubbing his back, and he could ignore all the pain for a while. He could be comforted in the quiet of the Grandmaster's chambers and the soft sound of him breathing, the steady rise and fall of his chest and the soft ruffle of his hand rubbing over his back. And when he felt himself drifting off to sleep, he could find comfort in the warm body beside his.

006 Break Away—

Altair had seen the relationship between Malik and Kadar. It wasn't that he disapproved of it: it was just that he disapproved of it. He didn't care if they were fucking or kissing or what have them: it was that they were so dependent on each other. It was almost frightening. It was a big weakness, and Malik needed to stop indulging in it, or else Kadar would never become the assassin he needed to be. They relied on each other as a parasite relied on the host. Kadar was becoming a soft spot for Malik, and Malik was stunting Kadar's growth as an assassin. This was going to be a problem—one that he regularly confronted them about.

That was why Malik hated him so much. They were friends, but Malik acted as if Kadar wasn't his biggest weakness, and Altair knew that no matter the fact that he could match him blow for blow in a ring, or that he could kill just as efficiently as the rest of them, if Kadar kept being Malik's greatest weakness, then there would be problems down the line. There would be problems if Kadar was ever captured, or if something bad happened to him, and he didn't want to be there when it happened.

But when Kadar did die, Altair certainly wasn't expecting the result. He had warned him to break off from him before he became too dependent on his little brother, but Malik hadn't listened. So, when he had accidentally gotten Kadar killed, he most certainly wasn't expecting this.

He was replacing Kadar—or, rather, Malik was making Altair fit the hole that Kadar had left. Malik was growing in and around him like a creeping vine. He was worming his way into his heart like a parasite and making it impossible not to think about him. He was replacing Kadar, and if that was what Kadar felt like, then no wonder he was in such deep shit as a novice. The man consumed his thoughts and actions, and Malik didn't even try to deny he was doing it to the Grand Master, just demanding he shut up and hold him at night or fuck him silly into the blankets. He used Altair's weakness against him.

But that didn't mean it was just for his gain. Malik seemed to become dependent on him for comfort. It was his way of dealing with the pain, and he couldn't stop him from worming his way into his every thought and action, into his dreams, into his bed. He needed to break it off before things got too bad, before things became like Kadar.

But he got the sinking feeling things were already that bad, and that now that he was an assassin, there was nothing that could make history repeat itself. He needed to cut off this overwhelming relationship.

But by now he knew that if he tried to remove Malik from his life, then he would be removing a big part of himself.

007 Heaven—

The novices all whispered in the hallways, concerned and curious. It was an astounding landmark for the Grandmaster assassin. He would shuffle down the hallway in his old age, a rosary of Maria's planted firmly in his hands, mumbling to himself under his breath. He would have this little knowing smile on his lips, the beads on the rosary well worn by now and replaced several times. They knew that he didn't know the prayers that went with it: they knew that he didn't particularly support the Catholics, so the question that went through everyone's mind and whispered under everyone's breath was, "Why?"

They huddled together like women to gossip, contemplating just why he carried around a rosary. None of the assassins were religious. It was just the way they were. Some even went so far as to hate religion, saying it wasn't fair that they were protecting others and would be damned for doing so. Nevertheless, even they were silenced when he walked by, talking quietly to himself. None of them saw that charming little smile on his lips that would've said he heard them.

They had roped Sef and Darim into asking for them. Sef had approached his uncle, Malik, who was always with them, and Malik had just rolled his eyes. He didn't know, and he blamed it on the stupid little things. Altair was obsessed with the Apple, and it probably told him to do so. Sef had shrugged, saying he was just curious because it wasn't like his father. When he left, he knew that Malik would pry into him. The man was just like him, and when he was curious, he was sure to keep pushing until he found out why.

Darim asked his mother, and she had laughed quietly, sitting in the comfortable bed as she recovered from a back injury. She was getting older now: all of them were. She simply told him that he was an intelligent man, and that his logic was sound. They prayed together every night. He tried to pry a little more, and she simply shook her head, saying that if they knew, they would wrinkle their noses in disgust and make those gagging sounds that all little kids were prone to making. Darim was thoroughly offended.

When later that night Altair returned to his chambers, his lips pressed against that little crucifix figurine as he talked to himself, hobbling along in his old age, Malik confronted him. The novices huddled by the doorway, listening in eagerly. When his best friend asked, Altair gave him that small knowing smile and told him. When he didn't understand what he meant by the fact he had all he could ever want right there and right in front of him, Malik scowled. Altair had tried to explain it, but some things were just too complicated, so he showed Malik what he meant.

As far as Altair was concerned, God had given him Heaven, and if he wanted his soul so badly, he could have it.

008 Innocence—

After the birth of his first son, he truly felt sorry for his wife, pitying how much pain she had gone through. He had always thought that when he had his first son, he would strut like a rooster all over Masyaf and perhaps even brag to Malik. Everything was a race between them. He thought that he would be the one to come strutting in like the king of the world and look the man straight in the eyes.

"I have a son," is what he would say.

And he would have won. He would've been able to say that he finally beat Malik, and that he was never going to lose again. Of course, Malik wasn't even married—he had no reason to, since he had both Altair and Maria to sleep with—since they shared everything equally. Everything was theirs: what Malik had, Altair had, and what Altair had, Malik had. That was the way it worked.

That didn't mean that they didn't have a friendly rivalry going on to get things first. It was just how they worked.

Nevertheless, he had expected to get an overwhelming sense of victory—he had been waiting anxiously to see just who's child it was, since both men shared the same woman. But when Darim came out, there was no denying that he was Altair's. Those golden eyes were unmistakable, and he couldn't wait to tell Malik the child was his.

Still, when he first held the child, he was stunned into silence. The baby was so tiny inside of the swaddling clothes. He was afraid he might crush him. Those golden eyes were staring straight at him, and he felt trapped where he stood. The doctor was astonished at how quickly the child quieted, how strong he was, but Altair's heart was beating too fast and too loudly to hear him. The child in his arms was his, not Malik's, and he looked so tiny and frail that Altair was afraid to move for fear of dropping him or crushing him or, Heaven forbid, killing him. He would never live with himself if he took such an angelic life from the brotherhood.

And he knew that Malik was standing by Maria, talking quietly to her in hushed tones, and he was sure that they were laughing at him as he continued his staring match with the newborn baby. He swallowed thickly, and the baby yawned mightily. He tensed. He didn't know what to do. For once in his life, he was useless. He was terrified. He was proud.

And as the child fell asleep, he was released from the trance he had been in, his head snapping up to look at his two lovers. Maria was shaking her head tiredly, and Malik had been laughing at him. Still, there was no sense of winning, he noted absently. There was no sense of "I was first." There was just a small smile creeping its way onto his face as he looked at his wife and whispered, "Thank you, Maria."

009 Drive—

Altair loved missions. He loved getting on the horse and riding far away, pushing the horse to its limits to get there faster. He loved slipping into the crowds and gathering Intel. He loved the death. He loved his life.

And there was always a passion beneath it: something was always there to make sure that he was kept moving. He was never cold at nights, not even if he was forced to sleep under nothing at the desert nights, because the memories of the sun on his back as he rode to his mission were all he ever needed to stay warm. It was funny how the human mind worked sometimes. He felt right at home where he was, wherever he was, because that was the place he needed to be. He loved to do his missions. He loved everything about it.

His favorite part, though, had to be the return. Returning home after a successful mission was the best, that power behind him. It was what compelled him to push the horse harder, push it faster, push it father until it was worn out completely. He would have to stable it for the night and switches horses in the morning because they were so thoroughly used from him that he couldn't use them for almost a week afterward for any strenuous work, and it pissed him off that they lacked the same power and motivation he had to get back.

Regardless, it was actually getting home that made him happy. It was actually getting off the horse and strolling up to Masyaf, every nerve in his body alight with satisfaction. He knew that he would be rewarded, and he knew that he would be praised, and if he was lucky, he would get so much more than that. There was something that he would get that no one else would ever get, no one else would ever dream of getting. It was all his, and he would never trade it in for anything else.

It started out with him strolling into his room arrogantly. He would enter like a king, strutting and smirking and basking in his job well done. And then there would be some sort of degrading comment, some sort of derogatory statement that set his nerves on fire and stirred his most basic of needs into action. His roommate would scowl at him, and Altair's smirk would simply grow. He would pull out a feather from his back pouch, a beautiful eagle feather collected from one of the perches he frequented and stained with the blood of his target, or a soldier, or a horse, or what have him, and that scowl would turned to pursed lips, and even though he always denied it, his partner's eyes would light up with glee like a child with some honey, and he would hand it over delicately. His partner would examine it, set it aside where he kept all the feathers, and then came the reason why Altair always rushed back.

He would get the chance to kiss him.

010 Breathe Again—

It would start out simple enough. He fell asleep in Alex's arms, curled up tightly under the warm comforter and the cozy sheets. Then Alex fell asleep, much more slowly than himself. The clock kept on its steady pattern, the exact reason they bought the thing, the quiet pattern of "tick, tock, tick, tock," a soothing sound.

"Tick, tock, tick tock," went the clock.

Desmond's breathing slowly evened out, lured into sleep by the hopeful promise of a better night's sleep. His eyes fluttered closed, and he felt himself surrounded by Alex and everything the man was. The heat the virus gave off was astounding, and it never failed to make him sleepy. He could drift off to sleep comfortably.

"Tick, tock, tick tock," went the clock.

Alex fell asleep next, an internal struggle on whether to stay awake just in case or to just let it overtake him. When he slept, he always had nightmares. Visions and other lives weren't usually a problem: they were tucked away neatly by the virus, hidden somewhere in his flesh until he would need it. Still, he hated falling asleep because then he would see things, and he hated it. He wasn't a monster anymore. No, Desmond had proved him otherwise, and he refused to go back to that.

"Tick, tock, tick, tock," went the clock.

There were several hours of quiet before the twitching began. Desmond always twitched first, the remnants of his ancestors' lives bleeding in and causing him nightmares. His foot or his fingers twitched violently, then his lip curled, and he growled softly. This in turn set Alex's nightmares into motion. Alex tightened his grip on the man, snarling, his hand twitching for several minutes or his legs kicking.

"Tick, tock, tick tock," went the clock.

Then Desmond started thrashing. He kicked and growled, twisting and turning as he fought off invisible adversaries that didn't actually exist. Alex tightened his grip again and began to wrap him in the virus to hold him still, now battling an imaginary foe that he had tried to keep out. He snarled and grunted as his lover also fought.

"Tick, tock, tick, tock," went the clock.

Desmond woke with a scream, a blood-curling, bone-chilling scream, yelling and hollering as he tried frantically to move and brush off whatever it was he saw the tentacles as. This, in turn, woke Alex with a start, who retracted the tendrils immediately and snarled as he grabbed his head to try to control himself.

"Tick, tock, tick, tock," went the clock.

When they calmed down, they looked at each other. No words were said as they settled back down. Alex spooned against him, running his fingers through Desmond's sweaty hair to assure himself that Desmond was alright and the man was still alive, and Desmond cuddled back as his pulse calmed, soothed by the kissed and the touches what were meant more for his lover than him. They fell asleep again until dawn.

And night after night, "Tick, tock, tick, tock," went the clock.

And night after night, their routine was a gridlock.