AN: Written for the kink meme, though I totally flubbed up and treated it as an exercise in writing other culture norms (with admittedly questionable intentions at first). In a nutshell, a kiss on the lips and hand-holding can be considered as purely platonic gestures. The requester wanted something romantic, but I am doomed to screw up all the good prompts, and the fic veered off into friendship territory, which I think suited this particular story better.
I have been unhappily picking at it since posting it on the meme (full of typos and bad grammar, omg) but I think I'm at the point where I have to just step back and let it be.
There were a couple of buildings being built near the city walls of Jerusalem and Malik had put it upon himself to inspect the new district. Though inner workings of Jerusalem's Bureau were no longer under his direct responsibility, the newly appointed rafiq was still getting his bearings around the city and, remembering his own time as a bureau leader, Malik was more than willing to help the other man out.
He circled around the construction area by ground, noting the new alleys and wooden beams with quiet approval; the building would make for excellent climbing, especially for the trainees. Already, a map was being drawn in his mind's eye, and any details his memory might let slip were quickly scribbled on a folded piece of parchment with a small piece of charcoal.
Satisfied with his observations, he started to make his way back to the Bureau. He would have to cut through the crowded marketplace, but if he was lucky, maybe the fruit vendor Malik was fond of would still have a few oranges left to sell. With that cheering prospect, he tightened his grip around the scrolls he carried and quickened his pace, almost missing the fluttering shadow that passed over his head.
It could have been just a bird, but Malik had long since been trained to scan the rooftops for guards or anything out of the ordinary. His steps did not falter or slow down, but from the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of a telltale red sash trailing behind a white blur before it disappeared behind a taller building. Malik did the sensible thing and moved on, pretending that he had not seen anything at all.
The fruit vendor did indeed have a few oranges left over, hidden beneath a few apples, and he couldn't help but suspect that the woman was purposefully hiding them from other buyers for his benefit; perhaps because Malik never bothered to haggle—didn't felt the need to, not with his true occupation—and it pleased him that it somehow worked to his advantage. He happily bought three oranges and put them in his satchel. It was a shame that he could not eat one right away, as peeling was a sad and difficult task nowadays, but they had always been his favorite fruit.
Drifting back into the crowd, Malik passed by a group of silent priests and almost jostled into one of them. He turned his head, feeling a curious pressure against his side where his bag rested against his hip. Looking down, he wasn't at all surprised to see part of a hand sneaking into it, ring finger cut short.
"There is nothing but oranges in there," he said, already annoyed at the would-be thief.
"I know," Altair replied with a grin. He withdrew his hand, fingers splayed out to show that he had taken nothing, but Malik's attention was drawn to the bristled tip of a feather, half hidden under Altair's belt and stained dark red.
"Hm," Malik hummed, and leaned forward to brush his lips against Altair's, light and brief and strangely familiar, despite all the times Malik had loathed to even look at the other man just months before. Though, more importantly, it gave him the opportunity to murmur "the Grand Master of our Order should not be accepting any more contracts" before stepping back and saying in a louder voice, "—there are others of a more appropriate rank who can manage that."
Altair shook his head, thumbing the feather deeper within his belt so that it was out of sight.
"The Grand Master's second-in-command shouldn't be sent scouting around this city either," he shot back, falling into step with Malik as they walked with the crowd. He reached over, pulling the scrolls from Malik's arm. "Maps? Do you not trust Harith's skill? I had thought he was a decent cartographer."
"Harith is an excellent cartographer, but he is a little overwhelmed at the moment," Malik said trying to take back the scrolls, but Altair had tucked them under the crook of his right arm and his free hand went on to grasp Malik's own, so there was no helping it.
"Overwhelmed?" Altair repeated, sounding a shade incredulous. His grip tightened for a moment, the glove hard and rough against Malik's bare palm. "He is overwhelmed? Malik, I—whatever he is doing, that is nothing compared to what—"
There was that hint of Altair's old arrogance, and Malik felt the echo of his hatred coil in the pit of his stomach. He let go of Altair's hand, unsure if he had been deliberate or involuntarily repulsed.
"We are all doing what we can," he said, trying to check back a flare of anger—if Altair responded in any supercilious way, he would be forced to raise his voice, crowd be damned. "Harith performs his duty admirably, given the circumstances."
For one awful moment, Altair's expression darkened, a stubborn line pressed between his lips. He was a fighter through and through, Malik thought with a mingled sense of resentment and admiration, and years of haughtiness could not be undone so easily. Yet after that quick flash of ugliness in Altair's eyes, his chin lowered, fractionally, and his gaze drifted to the space between their hands.
With some satisfaction, Malik saw that the Grand Master's cheeks had turned ruddy, as if he realized what he had said and was ashamed by it.
"I may have spoken in haste," Altair admitted, sounding a little mortified but entirely sincere. The scrolls crackled under his arm, almost crushed, but Malik supposed that he would have to forgive Altair this time.
"You are not to tell me who I can or cannot give assistance to," he said, and abruptly realized that a gentle reminder sometimes worked far better than a harsh reprimand. He hesitated a moment longer before taking Altair's hand to continue walking.
"I'll remember that," Altair said, his expression losing a bit of its guilty wretchedness, and the grip on Malik's hand became firmer.
They reached the Bureau in silence. Altair took to the roof's entrance, possibly impatient to talk with the rafiq, and left Malik to take the longer route with the hidden passageway. When Malik finally slipped inside, he saw Altair exchanging a few quiet words with Harith in the main chamber, the stained feather twirling between his fingers. The scent of citrus was oddly strong over the usual cloying incense.
With a frown, Malik checked his bag and found that one of his oranges was gone. He glanced at Altair, irritated, but unwilling to interrupt his conversation with the rafiq. Altair caught his glare and gestured over to the front table where he had set down Malik's maps and the missing orange, freshly peeled, though one section was conspicuously absent.
"Well then," Malik muttered to himself, and picked up the fruit.
He supposed that he couldn't tell Altair who to help out either.