Altair smirks at the sight of Desmond, who looks up at him despondently from the floor. It's the fifth such time his young descendant has lost, and Altair decides that he rather enjoys beating people. There's something innately thrilling about winning and leaving your opponent in the dust. He turns and slips away, vanishing into the shadows of the training equipment.

While his ancestor does mental victory laps, the cranky bartender hauls himself over to a bench and curls up to sulk. A hand comes down to rest on his shoulder, large and calloused from years of free running. Desmond doesn't look at Ezio, but he leans into the gesture a little, enjoying the gentle encouragement. One day he'll be able to beat Altair. Ezio already can, sometimes. It's just a matter of getting to that point where you trust yourself and move instinctively. Ezio's told him that many times.

Yawning, Desmond closes his eyes and smiles appreciatively as those warm hands rub out the knots in his tired muscles. Ezio is always there as a source of wisdom and guidance. It's so rewarding, unlike the harsh treatment Altair gives him. Why does the Syrian act so grumpy, anyway? You'd think someone beat him as a kid, the bartender mused.

"You're wondering why he's so...irritable, si?" Ezio rumbles softly.

Desmond looks around, and since he sees no Altair he nods. "Yeah. What's his deal? Even in the ANIMUS I can never really get into the why, just the what, y'know?" His voice sounds small and pitiful, because it hurts to be shunned - that's what Altair does, after all - by his ancestor. Is it too much to ask that the Syrian might be a bit nicer to him? That the guy might actually give him some praise for once?

Without a sound, the Italian joins his descendant on the floor, giving him a hug. The boy needs it after being so confused and upset by their mysterious relative. "Desmond," Ezio sighs, "Altair sees everything very differently from you and I. We think of showing our emotions as a good thing. He has always been taught - and he told me this - that to show your feelings means that you are vulnerable."

"And being vulnerable is inviting death?"

"Or worse, si. He is not easy to get along with, amico mio. But if you try to understand him it gets easier."

Desmond sits there in silence for a moment, mulling it all over. One question refuses to be answered however.

"Ezio...why does he not trust us? He understands that we wouldn't hurt him, right?"

The Italian shakes his head. How can he answer this properly? Keeping a balance between not violating the Syrian's trust and being a true mentor to his young descendant puts such a strain on him sometimes.

"I've never been taught how to trust people." A deep, smooth baritone voice murmurs from above. Ezio and Desmond immediately recognize both the voice and the Arabic it is spoken in. The American looks up at the figure above him, the white hoodie and the dark blue jeans.

"You need to learn how to trust people?"

Altair nods, mouth thin with the tangible tension such a situation instills in him. Talks about feelings! But Desmond has a right to know; Altair admits to himself that he's been difficult to be around lately. So he braces himself for more questioning. And right on cue, it comes.

"Why did you never learn?"

"It wasn't needed. Al Mualim pushed me from the start; I had to be better, faster, smarter, stronger. Trust me when I tell you that that leaves little room for learning to be open with people. Only a few people have earned my trust, and that was only after Al Mualim's death."

The drone of the air conditioning becomes the only sound in the room after that. All three assassins sit in silence, deep in their respective thoughts. Neither Ezio or Altair react as Desmond stands and climbs up to join his Syrian ancestor on the high ceiling beam. Altair's acute senses are all trained on the American, though; he's been an assassin too long to let that habit go. But he takes a Leap of Faith for the boy, because if Desmond could hurt him, he would have long before this.

Tentative, Desmond looks at the hardened killer beside him. He has the nagging feeling that this too is a test - one of the numerous, rigorous examinations the Syrian puts people who try to get close to him through. And the former bartender reaches out a hand slowly to touch his ancestor's shoulder. It feels strangely deep and satisfying to do something this simple. Something that most people do as a normal, friendly gesture.

Below them, Ezio grins broadly.

The great Eagle of Masyaf hates to land, but sometimes he makes an exception...

Wow! That was a fun little thing to write. Anyway, enjoy :)