A/N: Thanks to everyone who reviewed last chapter! I'm so glad everyone likes it so far. Just a head's up, next chapter is going to be, like, all smut, so either prepare yourself or just skip over it. I do enjoy my smuts. Anyways, two more to go after this one, and then I have to find something to do with my time.
Chapter 7
Altaïr finished cleaning his hidden blade, making it gleam in the candlelight before dragging the medicine box over. Malik watched with heavily lidded eyes, trying to decipher the curiously blank expression on Altaïr's face. Was he angry? Hurt that he had been left like a whore's bed before sunrise? Malik had no sympathy, if such was the case. Duty came first, before anything, and Altaïr knew this better than most.
"Disrobe."
Malik heard the object of his thoughts' order as a threat, and he winced as he raised his hand to his shoulder, trying to push his robes off. His wrist hurt, ached, and his fingers didn't seem to want to work. He didn't even care enough to undress, truly; he just wanted to rest. Altaïr watched Malik struggle before moving to help, batting his trembling hand away and removing his hood. His eyes widened at the sight of Malik's cheek and the blood staining his skin.
"Why didn't you say sooner that you were injured?" Altaïr demanded angrily, his hands flying to undo the belt buckle and harness around Malik's chest.
"It's just a scratch," Malik insisted, sitting still while Altaïr stripped him down to his waist. He didn't want Altaïr dressing his wounds. He didn't want Altaïr to see he had been injured at all. He'd only fuss. Neither wound was deep or life-threatening, as Malik discovered when Altaïr took his hand and lifted his arm to look at the gash there. Both were just painful and irritating: nothing he wasn't used to.
"Altaïr," Malik said when he made a small, rude noise of disbelief, "I am fine. Almir is dead and I was not seen."
"You do not know that," Altaïr said, gathering a soft wet cloth in hand and dabbing at the wound on Malik's arm.
"True," Malik conceded, watching as the blood washed away, "but I completed my objective. I was successful."
"So it would seem."
"Cryptic words do not suit you. If you have something to say to me, then say it."
Altaïr remained tight-lipped, however, and continued to clean Malik's arm. In the candle light his skin shined with a fine sheen of sweat, probably from the warmth in the air. His hands trembled a bit, Malik noticed as Altaïr rubbed cool salve into the wound. He also refused to look up. He was hiding something. Malik sighed and closed his hand around Altaïr's wrist before he unrolled the bandages.
"Both of us are too old to be acting as children," Malik said. "Please, my friend, tell me what is bothering you tonight."
Altaïr paused for a moment, rolling the bandage roll around in his palm before continuing to tend to Malik.
"I was worried for you," he finally said. "You left before I awoke."
"I have always been an early riser," Malik assured gently.
"Yes, but…I wish you would have warned me you were setting out."
"So you could follow me?" Malik asked bluntly, staring at Altaïr and daring him to look up and meet his eyes. He received no response and scoffed. "That is why I did not wake you…I wanted to do this on my own."
"You think I would have interfered?" Altaïr asked, winding a long strip of linen around Malik's forearm, making sure the binding was tight.
"I know you too well to fool myself into thinking you wouldn't."
"Turn your head, brother, let me look at this…"
Malik turned his head and, in doing so, caught a glimpse of Altaïr's finely shaped hands, strong and long-fingered. They were still as warm as they had been last night and when Altaïr touched his jaw he shuddered at the memories which rose, unbidden, to the surface of his mind.
The smell of blood was strong as Altaïr began wiping his cheek clean and more than once Malik scrunched his eyes shut at the sharp, stinging pain. Altaïr made no mention of the wounds other than to clean them, and Malik was grateful for his silence on the matter. He had completed his objective, after all, had proven to himself, all of Masyaf, and to Altaïr that he was still worthy of his assassin's robes.
Perhaps things would change. Perhaps Altaïr would trust him more. Perhaps…perhaps they would be able to determine where they stood with one another. Such thoughts reminded Malik of Altaïr's other promise, that they would talk come morning. It was early evening now, and they had yet to broach upon the subject of last night. Malik winced, thinking Altaïr couldn't possibly hold a grudge over something so trivial, but knowing better.
"Altaïr," he began, wondering how to best word his apology.
"Hm?" the other hummed, not looking away from what his hands were doing. He dipped his cloth in a clear liquid from one of the jars and made to swipe it across the cut on Malik's cheek. The stench was acrid and overpowering.
Malik jerked back out of instinct and caught sight of Altaïr's sleeve; flecks of brown stained the white material and as he focused on the aberration he felt a lurch in his stomach. Though his arm pained him, he grabbed Altaïr around the wrist and forced his hand back so he could look at the suspicious brown spots that looked so familiar.
"Malik, what—" Altaïr started to say. He too glanced down at his sleeve and cut his words short as he caught onto what made Malik act so strangely. He paled and his eyes widened, which only confirmed Malik's suspicions.
He glared and released his hold on Altaïr, who very nearly shied back, but returned Malik's look with an expression of grim determination. Malik shook his head, overcome with disgust and hurt. After everything, after all that had been said, especially after last night, it all came down to this.
"You followed," Malik accused. It was not a question and Altaïr didn't bother to deny.
"Yes," he said, rubbing his wrist, "of course I did."
Malik drew in a sharp breath, as if he had been struck. Dried blood on his sleeve—he had been careful, discreet. The sweat beading across his forehead and the flush on his cheeks: he had taken the rooftops, most likely, and had run off before Malik had spotted him. It also explained his lack of questioning, and the fact that he hadn't been at all curious. His presence explained the missing archers, at the very least.
Malik knew Altaïr thought he had performed a great favor. Anyone else would be grateful for the assistance. Anyone else would simply bask in the success, shared victory or not. Anyone else would let such a thing slide. But Malik was not just anyone else and he felt a sudden desire to see Altaïr shot through with a dozen arrows.
"Get out," he snapped, holding his injured arm close to his chest. "Get out now!"
"No," Altaïr replied, his tone quiet and steady, throwing Malik off. "I will not allow you to make me a villain! I did nothing wrong."
"Did noth—? You broke your word to me! You promised Almir was mine!"
"And he was. I promised you his life, which you took. I never said anything about archers or guards or—"
"What do you think last night was about?" Malik asked furiously, trying to scoot away from Altaïr, whose mouth fell open at the impromptu confession. He stopped trying to make Malik cooperate, stopped trying to tend to his cheek, stopped everything to look at Malik.
"What do you mean?" he asked, eyes flashing as he tried to reign in his temper and indignation.
"Do not feign ignorance," Malik hissed, "don't you dare tell me you didn't know what last night was about," He was tired of the deceit, the lying, and the games. Why couldn't Altaïr keep his word just for once? Was it too much to ask of him?
"No," Altaïr yelled back, "I don't know what you thought about last night! Why don't you tell me?"
"I bed you to get what I wanted," Malik spilled eagerly. "You offered yourself to me and I took advantage of the situation to force a promise out of you while you were too deeply immersed in pleasure to think otherwise of the situation."
Altaïr sat back on his knees, shocked. He blinked and pursed his lips, looking so pitiful Malik couldn't help but hail him with a barrage of new insults.
"What," he sneered, cupping the stump of his left arm almost protectively, "you thought perhaps you could distract me so well as to turn me from my own desires? That your body incited my lust to the point I forgot all else? You are a fool, Altaïr, a fool and a pathetic excuse for an assassin. Were Al Mualim alive he'd be disappointed in you once more. How anyone ever got to your position without the grace and guidance of Allah I'll never know. You just can't seem to keep from making novice mistakes, one right after the other. Furthermore…"
He continued on, building on his anger until he felt his chest might very well explode from the tight pressure in his heart. Altaïr, on the other hand, instead of flying into a rage and entering the argument with Malik, sat still, his gaze focused on his knees. He didn't appear to absorb anything Malik was saying, but remained close-mouthed and expressionless. At a lull in the hurtful tirade he looked up and, seeing Malik in the middle of taking a huge breath with which to continue his nonsense, quickly said his piece.
"Fine, brother," he murmured, lowering his eyes in deference, "fine…you win. You are right. I concede."
That halted the rest of Malik's rant right on the tip of his tongue. For a brief moment he looked as if he might carry on, just because he didn't believe Altaïr. Since when had he ever conceded anything? But no, Malik remained silent, for Altaïr was not finished. He dipped his cloth, which he had been clenching tightly the whole time into a bowl of lukewarm water to rinse it out.
"I do not care if you say you despise me," he said, wringing the water back out. "I made a choice I do not regret. If I am not allowed to provide even the smallest bit of assistance for a man I…I care greatly for, then can I even call myself a friend? I would do it again if—"
"Because you enjoy outclassing me—" Malik interrupted.
"Because I enjoy seeing you alive," Altaïr said sternly, his gaze so harsh and commanding Malik faltered through what else he had wished to say. "Had I not interfered," he continued, leaning forward to press the edge of the cloth to the wound, "you would have died. The archers saw your first kill. Two had their arrows strung; they would have felled you before you were even aware of their aim."
"You lie," Malik said, refusing to believe him. He did not want to admit that he may have not been as diligent as he used to be. He hated to acknowledge even the possibility.
"I would not have stepped in otherwise," Altaïr said, dabbing a bit of dried blood away. "There is no doubt in my mind you are a very capable assassin…but we all make mistakes. It could have happened to any of our number and I would have done the same to ensure their safety."
Malik chewed on the inside of his cheek thoughtfully. Altaïr had changed, for the most part. He had matured greatly over the past year and a half, almost into a different man. He had no real reason to lie, and Malik suspected that his "care" ran deeper than he wanted to admit out loud. Not that he planned on forcing a confession out of him, but it was good to be aware.
Also, he wasn't so bitter that he couldn't recognize his anger for what it was: jealousy, toward Altaïr, for having saved his life when he had tried so very hard to prevent such a thing from happening. Malik knew he was behaving badly for a grown man, and Altaïr's elder. He sighed as Altaïr prepared another cloth with a strong smelling salve.
"Forgive me," he said, "I do not…it has been too long since I last expected anything more than self-serving from you. I was wrong to lash out."
Altaïr shrugged and leaned forward again.
"I have deserved nothing more," he said, pressing the cloth to Malik's cheek.
The harsh sting of the salve made Malik clench his teeth and hiss, but Altaïr was right there, leaning even closer, puckering his lips to blow on the wound. He was so close… Malik stared. How could he not? Another chill ran down his spine as he focused on Altaïr's lips, so fearsome he almost questioned his sanity.
He had spent one night with the man and now he could concentrate on nothing else? It was his expression, he told himself, nothing more. It was that saddened look of reluctant acceptance that Malik couldn't ignore. It was those honey-colored eyes, so brilliant and deadly when he was angry, like an eagle's.
As Altaïr continued to blow on Malik's wound, he didn't notice a hand creeping forward until he felt a tug on his sleeve. Next thing he knew he was pulled forward and into a rough kiss.
