Alex knelt there on the roof, staring at the gravel beneath him. He was utterly speechless, incapable of forming even a simple thought. The images that flashed through his mind made him twitch and flinch, but he was otherwise still as words, unbidden, passed his lips.
"Who's Elizabeth Greene?"
Hearing the name aloud made him want to cower in fear and praise the heavens at the same time. It was a chorus of angels' voices and a thousand cats scratching the largest blackboard in the world. Five syllables made his mind tremble and his bowels turn watery.
"You're crying," a deadpan voice said.
He raised his eyes to settle on Altaïr's pale, sweating face, and he frowned in confusion. He touched his own cheek, and his fingers came away wet. He smiled shakily and said, "So I am."
What was that? Zeus asked in a voice that trembled. What...who is she…?
"I don't know," Alex said, shaking his head. "But Blackwatch has her." Something about that statement angered him, made him want to disembowel those who would dare to lay a hand on this woman he had never even seen.
Through the anger, he saw Altaïr's expression change from wariness to weary fear, as if he had become so accustomed to the adrenaline and heightened senses that it was now a chore to be afraid. The assassin grimaced as more blood trickled from the wound in his chest, and he labored to breathe.
Alex shook himself and came to his feet. "We need to hurry up. We have somewhere we need to be."
"I don't want...to go," Altaïr wheezed.
"I'm not leaving you somewhere to get chewed on again," Alex said, but his words had no force, no conviction; they just hung in the air, waiting to be heard.
"No," the assassin coughed, "I don't want...to go...with you." He met Alex's gaze, and although he looked like something death would cough up after a particularly dairy-rich meal, there was a heat in his eyes that made Alex rather nervous. It was a reflection of the prideful man that he'd handcuffed to his bed not so long ago. In that moment, Alex realized what he was so attracted to in this man. It wasn't his body or even his mind, it was the purpose that drove him. The experience and the weight of his life that kindled the heat and passion in those eyes. And now, those eyes were watching him as if he was about to attack.
"Don't be such a baby," Alex said quietly. He walked over to the second soldier he'd brought to the roof and grabbed the man by the collar of his shirt.
In a blur of motion, the soldier twisted himself like a cat and kicked Alex's legs out from under him. The man flipped himself over, and when Alex grabbed his ankle, he twisted around and kicked him squarely in the nose.
"Fuck!" Alex snarled. Blood poured from his nose in the instant before the break healed, splattering the gravel beneath them. He wiped the blood from his lips and snarled, "Okay. Now I'm pissed." He sat up and dug his fingers into the soldier's calf, garnering some small satisfaction from the man's cries of pain. He stood and dragged the bastard backward, ignoring his panicked sobs.
"No," Altaïr said fiercely. "No, absolutely not."
"Who's the one with a hole in his chest?" Alex snapped. At the reproachful look Altaïr gave him, he knew the assassin understood. He grabbed the hair on the the top of the soldier's head and pulled him up. Then, before he could really think about what he was about to do, he pushed his fingers into the wound on the man's scalp, sliding them under the skin along the smooth skull beneath. The soldier howled in agony, spittle flying from his lips until his eyes rolled back in his head. He collapsed, unconscious again, and Alex met Altaïr's gaze.
"Was that necessary?"
"No, but it made me feel a little better," Alex lied, ignoring the voice that jibbered in hysterics in the back of his head. It wasn't Zeus...it was his own conscience. But he rarely had time to consider that part of himself anymore, so he tucked it away in a dark recess of his mind to let it have its fit. He'd deal with it later.
"I won't do it," Altaïr said firmly.
If he'd had enough energy to be irritated, he would have been. Instead, he met the older man's eyes and said plainly, "I'll rephrase, then. I can't carry you all around Manhattan, toting you from building to building until you heal on your own. If you do this, you'll most likely heal in a few seconds."
Confusion clouded the assassin's gaze, and he shook his head the barest fraction of an inch. "I don't understand," he said in a thready voice. He was obviously in great pain, but was either too stubborn or too prideful—likely both—to understand that Alex was trying to help him. "you want me to kill this man?"
"That's usually how it goes," Alex agreed. "You could take just enough to heal yourself. The wounds are small enough that it wouldn't take much...but you don't want to. You can never be sure what you'll take and when. Could take his liver, or a lung...maybe part of his heart.
The confusion gave way to frustration and uncertainty, and Altaïr demanded, "What are you saying? Why are you saying these things? I am not like you, Alex. I cannot kill a man and...and…."
"And what?" Alex challenged tiredly. "Eat him? Use his life to fuel my own?" He snorted humorlessly and said, "Isn't that what people do every day all around the world?"
"People do not eat each other," Altaïr pressed. "Savages do!"
Savages, Alex thought. Kinda like the ring of that one. What do you think?
There was no response other than a quavering uneasiness that made Alex's skin crawl and made his stomach flip nervously.
"We're not people," he said. "Not anymore, anyway. I don't really know what we are, but it's nothing good. Especially not if we have to eat people to survive."
A sickened look darkened Altaïr's expression, and he asked, "Why do you keep saying we, Alex?" Tears gathered in his eyes, and his face twisted into a sudden expression of indignant fury. "What happened in that hallway, Alex?"
So he told him. He told him about the river, about almost drowning, and about Cross pulling him out and trying to save him. He carefully omitted the part where Zeus practically orgasmed while he infected Altaïr and finished the recollection with, "When that was all said and done, I was so hungry, I would have eaten anything." He looked down at the rooftop and said almost ashamedly, "Even you."
Uncomfortable silence yawned between them, and Alex squirmed under the pressure of it. Something in the back of his head kept telling him that he had to go, that he had somewhere to be very soon. And if he didn't get there in time, he just knew that something truly awful was going to happen. He had to stop it, he had to.
"I know you're angry with me, but there was nothing I could do. It was either that, or let you die, and—"
Something hit the side of his jaw, making it crack painfully, but not so badly that it would break. He rubbed his jaw out of reflex as Altaïr sagged back against the air conditioning unit, his fist still tight and his face pasty white as he tried to ride out the pain he'd just caused himself.
"D-Didn't have...a choice…," the assassin panted, "...my ass." He bared his teeth in an agonized grimace, and Alex noted they were stained red with blood. He reached forward as if to help Altaïr sit up, but the man passed out before he could.
"Jesus Christ," Alex sighed, shaking his head. "That couldn't have gone any worse." He was fairly certain that it could have indeed gone much, much worse, and that he should feel lucky that the assassin was too injured to come after him with any sort of accuracy.
Regardless, he didn't have time to sit around waiting for permission, and he was still convinced that an important deadline was nearing.
He grabbed one of the soldier's arms and then took Altaïr's hand, holding them both tight. Then he closed his eyes and focused on what he was about to do. By rights—and logic, for that matter—this shouldn't have been possible, but Alex had never submitted to the idea that what he wanted to do and what was possible existed in separate realities.
"Alright man, we're gonna have to work together here," he sighed. "You gotta help me out. Don't fight." He squeezed the assassin's hand and started to consume the soldier. At the same time, he turned his attention to Altaïr, imagining their palms becoming one. He felt a warm tingling in his hand and shuddered when he felt the connection. It was hard to split his attention enough to consume the soldier and not the assassin, but with a grunt of effort, he finished the man off and pushed the energy through his body. He bared his teeth in concentration, picturing the energy as warmth spreading from his arm, through his shoulder, into his torso, and down his opposite arm into Altaïr.
The assassin gasped, but didn't wake. His fingers spasmed, and pain radiated up Alex's arm. The bastard was trying to eat him!
"Oh come on, that's just rude," he panted. He pushed back against the pressure, forcing the last vestiges of the meal out of his body. Once he was sure it would stick, he pulled his hand back, hissing in pain as their fused skin tore apart.
The wounds Altaïr had suffered healed slowly at first, tissues and skin lacing together in tight layers. Within thirty seconds, the wounds were completely healed, going so far as to stitch the man's shirt closed and reconstruct his shoe.
A tense moment later, Altaïr's eyes slowly opened, and he blinked several times. His brows knit together in confusion, and he asked, "What happened?" He started to sit up, hesitated as if expecting it to hurt, and looked down at his torso when it didn't. His eyes widened, and he looked at Alex. "What did you do!"
"Calm down," Alex said sternly. "You needed to heal, so I-"
"You bastard!" Altaïr snarled. He came to his feet in one fluid motion and attacked Alex. The assassin feinted a blow at his head and buried a fist in his stomach. The blow drove the breath out of him, and he didn't even have time to straighten up before Altaïr pile-drove a knee into his chin, breaking several of his teeth.
"Fughk!" Alex squawked, reeling back both in shock and an attempt to give himself a moment to catch up. The damage healed almost as soon as it'd been inflicted, but the rapid strikes were confusing, disorienting, and even with all of Alex's strength and speed, he got his ass handed to him in a fifteen-second bout with a trained fighter.
"You killed two men!" Altaïr shouted as he strode across the rooftop. "And you show nothing! Not even as shred of remorse!"
Something about that accusation hit too close to home, and Alex immediately jumped on the defensive. "How the fuck do you know what I'm thinking? You don't know anything about me." He shoved the assassin away, resisting the urge to deck him. "You don't know how I feel about the shit I do!"
"I know that when a man ends another man's life, he shouldn't smile," Altaïr said so fiercely that his voice trembled.
Alex opened his mouth to retort, but found no words to speak. Did he smile when he killed? He couldn't remember ever choosing to do so, but...he recalled the pleasure he'd felt when Zeus infected the man before him, and he recoiled in revulsion. What was he becoming?
"Jesus," Alex sighed. He rubbed his face with his hands and took a step back. "Okay, look. I know you're pissed—"
"You know nothing!" Altaïr snarled. "I have lived my life according to three rules. A creed that is the very core of my being." The anger that lit his eyes was a shade away from blind rage, and his voice shook when he continued, "And one of those rules commands that I stay my blade from the flesh of innocents. In forcing this decision upon me, you have spat in the face of that which I hold dear."
"Well technically," Alex said—and it should be worth mentioning that at this point, his brain recognized the train wreck and tried to stop it, but his mouth just kept chugging along—with a hesitant, almost sheepish grin, "you didn't use a blade. I acted like a transistor and—"
He tried to block the sudden attack, but Altaïr was, again, too fast. The assassin snarled in rage and grabbed the front of his jacket. Without even a heartbeat of hesitation, Altaïr headbutted Alex so hard in the nose that he felt the bridge of his upper jaw break. The pain literally blinded him, and he didn't notice he was falling until he hit the street below. It took his body a few agonized seconds to sort out the damage, and only once he had healed did he feel the weight of another man on top of him. The weight that was groaning in pain.
"Oh, for fuck's sake!" Alex shouted. "You didn't let go when you shoved me off the building? What kind of assassin are you!"
Altaïr lifted himself slowly, setting his hands on either side of Alex's shoulders to do so. "A damned good one," he groaned, "though I admit, I am as shocked as you are that I lived through my youth. I was even more reckless then."
"I couldn't have guessed," Alex said blandly. "Now, if you're finished, get the hell off of me."
The assassin gave him what likely was supposed to be a withering look, but the effect of the expression was lessened when they had to untangle their limbs and work together to stand.
"You're lucky you landed on top of me," Alex snapped. "That was a twelve-story drop. I didn't just get the pulp beat out of me for you to go and break some more bones."
"I'm still angry with you," Altaïr growled, "but I believe it would be prudent for us to leave."
"And why do you think that?" Alex asked nastily.
Instead of speaking, the assassin pointed toward the other end of the street, where a low grumbling had been growing steadily louder. Gathered at the far end of the sidewalk, a group of infected watched them with heavy-lidded, heady eyes, drunk on the anticipation of the chase.
"Yup, that's a pretty good reason," Alex sighed.
"Why aren't they attacking?" Altaïr asked.
"They don't want to mess up my pretty face?" Alex suggested. "I don't know, shut up and come on."
As soon as they started walking, the infected started snarling and braying as they gave chase. The two men fell into a run, but the twists and turns of Manhattan's streets slowed them down too much.
"We can't keep running at your pace," Alex said. "Pick up your feet, or you're gonna end up as a chew toy again."
"Where are we going?" Altaïr panted. "I cannot sprint like this for long."
"Christ, are you good for anything?" Alex muttered, rolling his eyes. He grabbed the front of Altaïr's shirt and flung him down an alley. "Climb the building. There's a fire escape you can use to—"
He hadn't even rounded the corner before Altaïr grabbed a pipe as thick around as his wrist and ripped it off the building to their left. "You go. I've grown tired of running," the older man said. He twirled the pipe in a slow circle, testing the weight of it as he shook out his limbs. Before Alex could protest, the first of the infected skidded around the corner and barreled into the alley. It lunged for Altaïr, mouth gaping, saliva flying from its jaws, and was met with a vicious swing of the pipe. The metal shattered the creature's teeth, nearly folded its skull in half, and sent it howling out of the alley.
Three more of the monsters streamed toward them, and Alex watched Altaïr dispatch them. He moved like a dervish, swinging the pipe with enough force to, in some revolting cases, burst pustules of infection and even crush skulls. His body strained and stretched, his muscles moving in fluid grace as if he'd spent his entire life caving in skulls and shattering the bones of his enemies. For all Alex knew, that was exactly what he'd spent his life doing. This man wasn't some docile pup that sat around begging for scraps from scholars, this was a man who trained for battle, who honed his body and mind for the purpose of destruction just such as this. Despite how vehemently he denied it, Altaïr was an assassin—a killer through and through.
A snarl that didn't come from the throat of one of the infected drew Alex's attention, and he shook his head. Why was he just standing there? He should be helping. He started forward, but found himself locked in place.
Wait, Zeus said quietly. Let him find himself.
This isn't some guru, self-help bullshit, Alex shot back. I don't know if he can be killed, and I'd rather not find out.
Thirty seconds, Zeus said. Give him that, and if he needs us, you can help him.
Although Alex didn't like the idea, he agreed and, instead of interfering, stood there feeling like a fool. Yet, even as he watched Altaïr beat the infected back, he slowly realized the assassin didn't need his help. The pipe was bent and twisted by now, and when it came too warped to use, Altaïr threw it away and attacked with his bare hands. He roared in challenge to the beasts that surrounded him and pummeled them with sharp jabs of his fists, swift kicks that made his attackers howl in pain. And when he tired, his strikes became less coordinated, less flourishing, but no less fierce. If anything, Altaïr became more savage as time wore on.
The stream of infected puttered out before long, and just as the last decided it would be smarter to retreat, Altaïr grabbed the beast by the throat and hauled it off its feet. He shouted wordlessly, and with a wild look in his eye, he plunged his hand into the infected's belly. It squealed in pain, writhing as blood and worse leaked from around Altaïr's wrist. It took only a moment, and it was messy, but the assassin consumed the infected, leaving only a thick puddle of ichor at his feet.
They stood there in the alley, silent but for Altaïr's ragged breathing. After a subjective lifetime had passed, Alex cleared his throat softly and said, "I've done a lot of stupid shit in my life...that was by far the dumbest brave thing I've ever seen another man do."
Without even the ghost of a smile to hint at whether or not Altaïr had heard him, the assassin turned and walked away.
"Where are you going?" Alex called after him. When the other man ignored him, he cursed and jogged to catch up, trying not to splash through the remains of the battle that had just taken place. He pulled ahead of Altaïr and placed his hand on his shoulder, starting to ask, "Hey, what happened back there-"
Altaïr spun around, grabbed Alex by the throat, slammed him against the alley wall and leaned in so close that their faces were a bare inch apart. Alex could feel the warmth of the assassin's breath on his lips, and in what must have been the worst timing in the history of man, he felt his pants shrink several sizes around his groin.
"The only reason I have tolerated you thus far," Altaïr said in a calm and quiet voice, "is because I needed you. Now that you've given me this power, that ceases to be the case. I'm faster, stronger, and more capable than I have ever been. I believe the end of our relationship has come at last." He broke eye contact with Alex to lean forward and breathe against his ear, "And if you touch me again without my permission, I will demonstrate on each of your limbs why armies retreated and kings bent their knees to my people."
As abruptly as the moment had begun, it ended, and Alex was left leaning against the alley wall, breathing hard and feeling rather hot under the collar. He touched his neck where Altaïr had grabbed him, shivering at the lingering warmth there.
He watched Altaïr walk away and grimaced as a pit of despair formed in his chest. He couldn't just let Altaïr leave...not now, not after everything he'd done to help him. Not, at least, until he had a chance to work out his feelings toward this violent, stubborn, asshole of a man.
Give me control, Zeus said suddenly. His voice was urgent, as if he'd just hatched a plan.
Hell no, last time I let you—
Do you want him to leave? Hurry up! He's getting away!
Alex hesitated, unsure if it was wise to let Zeus take over. Even if he had all the time in the world, he couldn't have listed all the reasons this was a bad plan, not the least of which was the idea of loosing this madman on Manhattan.
I'll give control back as soon as I stop him, Zeus said hurriedly. I'm not strong enough to fight you. If I do something you don't like, you can stop me.
That was as close to a guarantee as he was going to get, and it was the the best he could hope for. So, with no small amount of apprehension, Alex surrendered control of his body and took the back seat.
He'd been rash, too quick to act. It was like he'd been thrust back in time to Solomon's temple and was rushing Robert de Sable again. The shame of that hasty decision weighed heavily on Altaïr's mind as he walked away from the only man who had shown him any kindness in this time.
He hadn't been lying about being capable enough to strike out on his own, but it was less a question of ability, and more about efficiency. If he was going to find a way home in any kind of timely manner, he needed someone who knew the area, knew the time's technology. Hell, he needed someone who knew the culture. If he went around questioning people, would he be met with hostility? He had no way to know. Alex would be able to talk to the locals, get them to open up one way or another—
That idea derailed his train of thought, and his lip curled in a sour expression. Alex would get the information, alright. By any means necessary. Even if necessary meant killing for no good reason. How many lives had to end before Altaïr recognized Alex for what he was? Had he truly allowed himself to be so blinded by culture shock that he could look at Alex and see him as anything but what he was? A killer, a mad man, a manipulator of the highest order, and Altaïr had ignored it all. What kind of man, especially one who held God's ideals so close to heart, could stand aside and just watch as countless people were slaughtered? What kind of person could idly observe as an abomination such as Alex Mercer swept the streets of this city?
Altaïr stopped in his tracks and stared at the concrete, as if it would come to life and give him the answers he needed. When no such divination occurred, he chewed his lip and closed his eyes. What would he do if he was in his own time and a man was murdering people left and right? He certainly wouldn't stand aside and watch him do it.
You know exactly what you would do, a niggling voice in the back of his head said. You just don't want to say it.
Truly he did know, and the voice was right. He didn't want to think of what he would do, because he knew that it was a permanent solution to a temporary problem. This wasn't his time, nor was it his life. Why should he care about lives that would never impact his own? The thought alone made his face burn with shame, and he discarded it immediately. Of course he needed to solve this problem, it didn't matter whose lives it affected, Alex Mercer needed to die.
How do you know you could do it? the voice challenged.
Altaïr bristled at the insult and grimaced in irritation. Had he not proven himself again and again in battle? Why did no one believe what he was capable of?
I've become complacent, he thought. My judgment is compromised. I no longer know what is and is not right…. The realization stole his breath like a cold, winter breeze, and he had to lean against the wall beside him so he wouldn't fall. For so long, he had been firm in his beliefs and values. To have that stripped away so suddenly was like having warm covers ripped from his naked body and being plunged into frigid waters.
Good God, the voice mocked, you'd think the world was ending because you didn't say no to the bad guy for once.
Altaïr didn't have time to question the voice or why it was mocking him before he heard hurried footsteps behind him. He turned to see Alex skid to a halt five feet away, and he took a cautious step back. The other man's eyes were wide, his lips were parted slightly as if to speak, but he said nothing. His expression twisted in series of emotions and finally settled on terror seconds before he closed the distance between them.
The assassin raised his arms as if to defend himself, but felt no pain, no blows to counter. Instead, Alex grabbed his face with a hand on each of his cheeks, and a moment later, Altaïr felt gentle pressure on his lips. He was...he was being kissed?
Altaïr froze in pure confusion. Had he not just threatened to do horrible things to this man if he so much as laid a hand on him again? And not five minutes later, the maniac was kissing him! He didn't know what to be outraged about, the denseness Alex was exhibiting, the audacity in the act itself, or the fact that he was so arrogant as to think something like this would be acceptable.
When Alex pulled away—because he was the one to pull away first, Altaïr was still too stunned—he avoided the assassin's gaze and instead stared at his chest.
"I know someone who can get the Apple to work," he said suddenly. And without even waiting for a reaction, he plowed on, "If you stay, I'll help you get home. If you go...there's no guarantee you'll ever get off this island."
In the wake of his words, silence stretched between them. Neither dared to speak, because neither knew what to say. Altaïr watched uncertainty flicker behind Alex's wide, blue eyes, and something like fear followed close behind. Then, without warning, he stretched up and tried to kiss Altaïr again.
The assassin reached around to grab the hair on the back of Alex's skull and wrenched his head back. The other man's face contorted in fear, then went slack. Any emotion drained from his expression, and his eye suddenly fluttered closed as he became docile and limp.
Altaïr grimaced and wanted to pull away, but Alex's fingers were locked in his shirt with a dead man's grip. He had just started to pry the man's fingers up when they loosened and finally released. He met Alex's eyes from inches away and frowned. They were different now, not afraid or uncertain, rather challenging, as if they dared Altaïr to make a move.
"I just kissed you," Alex said, and it was more statement than question.
"Yes," Altaïr said.
"That actually happened? I didn't just imagine it?"
Altaïr cocked a brow and asked, "Do you often fantasize about kissing me in dark alleys?"
The beginnings of smile crossed the other man's lips, and he finally met Altaïr's eyes. "Don't suppose it'd make a difference if I did?"
Altaïr, who had still been deciding whether or not to take offence to the unsolicited embrace, felt his amusement drain away. What exactly was Alex expecting? Praise? Did he want Altaïr to pat him on the head for a job well done?
I'm married! Altaïr thought, though he didn't trust his voice not to break if he spoke those particular words aloud. On top of that, I am amanof God. I will not risk a pyre for anything this man could offer me.
This man, the petulant voice hissed. This man, this man, only this man? I see another, younger, less experienced, certainly closer to your heart—
Malik was different, Altaïr thought snappishly. You would do well not to mention him again.
He remembered the nights they had spent together in Jerusalem, shrouded in blankets and mounds of pillows to stave off the cold desert nights. He remembered whispered promises that this time would be their last as they shared passionate breaths and wild fantasies of leaving together, never to return. They'd been indoctrinated into this war by birth and had known nothing else—no matter what they wished, they could never leave.
Yet when he recalled those nights, he longed to return to them, to the moments after when he could clean himself up and leave if he so chose, to the freedom he so craved to make his own decisions and have them affect no one but himself. He had been a 'man of God' for so long that he'd forgotten the pleasures of throwing caution to the wind. Perhaps for good reason…
Could he allow himself this brief lapse of faith? His better judgment had already abandoned him, why should he not take advantage of it?
Would He forgive me? he wondered, glancing at the sky.
The big guy's got more pressing issues nowadays than worrying about where you stick your—
"While it makes no difference how often you imagine me at your disposal," Altaïr said much too loudly, "the only thing I must insist on is that you keep your kisses to yourself." He released Alex's hair with a little shove and stepped back.
Alex stumbled and caught himself on a light pole, turning back to study Altaïr with quizzical eyes. He grimaced when Altaïr didn't come after him, and it took the assassin unbuttoning his jeans for him to understand what was happening. "Here?" he asked, pointing at the ground.
"Where else?" Altaïr said.
Apprehension flickered through Alex's eyes, and that same fear from before returned. "Now?"
Irritation made Altaïr's voice harsher than was appropriate, and he growled, "Yes, now."
The other man opened his mouth as if to speak, closed it, and glanced over his shoulder. "I...I need to be somewhere. I mean, I-I...can't we do it later?"
Altaïr's eyes narrowed, and he reached out to grab Alex's jacket. "No," he said. "Now, or never. You have thrown me around, gotten me shot, abandoned me and coerced me into killing. That is more than anyone has ever gotten away with where I am concerned. Now, it's my turn."
"What the fuck do you mean 'it's my turn'? What are you—ow! Hey! This isn't how this works, you bastard." Even as Alex protested, Altaïr hooked a foot around the other's knee and gave a sharp tug. Alex sucked in a pained breath when his knees hit the ground, but he was stunned into silence when he Altaïr opened his jeans and pulled himself out. The astonishment vanished, giving way to indignity. He demanded, "And just what do you want me to do with that?"
"Have you never seen one before?" Altaïr said. "You were the one complaining of places to be, and you started all of this with your unsolicited kiss! So either do it quickly or deny me so we can leave."
Alex stared up at him for a subjective lifetime, uncertainty clouding his expression. He clearly wanted to, but either lacked the knowledge or the conviction to do so. This was made ever more apparent when he reached out and clumsily grabbed hold of the assassin's body.
"You truly never have," Altaïr said, certain now.
Obviously flustered, Alex readjusted his grip and started moving his hand. "I haven't exactly had the time or reason to do anything like this, so forgive me if I'm not the Da Vinci of handjobs."
"Then don't use your hands," Altaïr said gruffly. He batted the other's hand away and stepped forward to corner him against the building behind them. He leaned an arm against the alley wall and looked down at Alex, who looked like he was about to have a fit.
"I-I don't know if I can do this, man," he stammered nervously. He tried to slip out from between Altaïr and the wall, but the assassin threaded strong fingers through his hair and guided him back.
"You're a smart boy," Altaïr said dismissively. "I'm sure you can figure it out."
Alex peered up the line of Altaïr's body, but the eyes that met his did not belong to the man at his feet. They were different, and significantly so. The color was the same, but their weight had changed, there was no haughty defiance, none of the arrogance or anger Altaïr had come to associate with the younger man. The expression on Alex's face was one of uncertainty and…resignation? He'd resigned himself to this? He didn't want it.
Of course he doesn't want it, another voice in his head all but shouted in his ear. You're insane!
I have never been more in my right mind, Altaïr snapped in reply.
You're a killer from another millennia, and you've cornered him in an alley with your cock in his face. Does that sound like something a sane person would do?
He wanted to argue, but this voice—unlike the countless others whose numbers seemed to grow every time he turned his back—had a point. A normal person would not do this, would not expect something like this because of something as insignificant as a kiss. God, what if Alex hadn't meant anything by it in the first place? It wasn't odd for men to show affection toward each other, perhaps by kissing him, it was Alex's way of saying he cared about him? The look on his face surely didn't speak to wanting anything more.
Altaïr sighed in annoyance, and just as Alex had taken his member in hand and was about to start, the assassin pulled back. "Don't," he said.
"What? Why?" Alex asked, trying not to sound relieved.
"Get up," Altaïr ordered as he tucked himself away in his jeans. He zipped them up carefully, wary of the metal teeth so near his unmentionables. "We're leaving."
"Wait, I'm confused," the younger man said, "one minute you're throwing me around and pinning me against walls, the next you're Mr. Manners and giving me an option? What the hell?"
"I don't believe indignation is the appropriate response for someone in your position," Altaïr said. "Now if you're quite finished, we clearly have somewhere we need to be."
Alex shot him an unfriendly look, but didn't argue.
If Alex had been less fanatical about this deadline, he would have demanded a do-over. Because whatever had just happened between him and Altaïr had left him very unsatisfied. He had reasserted dominance over Zeus while the assassin readjusted his clothes, and he stood in the alley trying to ignore the complaints from his nether regions and failing miserably.
Yet even as he entertained thoughts of grabbing the assassin and throwing him down on the ground, his frustrations were swept away by an urgency unlike anything he'd ever felt. It was like he could feel someone holding a gun aimed at his head and was just waiting for them to pull the trigger. It was maddening, like he could feel impending doom zeroing in on him.
"So," Altaïr sighed. "Where are we going?"
Alex shook his head as he tried to think past the near-panic. "I…don't know. It's just this feeling, like something horrible's going to happen."
"Is this feeling pointing in a direction?" the assassin prompted.
"Sure, let me pull out my vague-feeling compass," he shot back. "Just shut up and give me a minute to think, you asshole."
Altaïr didn't make another wisecrack, but Alex was certain he'd pay for the insult later. In the meantime, he closed his eyes and pictured the city in his mind's eye. God knew he'd spent enough time on the rooftops to have a decent mental map of the place, but it was cloudy in the parts he hadn't often visited, appearing as a bright, ghostly blue or red according to which areas were and were not safe. He focused on these areas, trying to pinpoint where the distress signal was coming from.
One area seemed particularly bright, but he doubted it could be coming from there…that was right in the middle of a military zone. In fact, if he remembered right, that was…that was the Gentek building.
"Aw fuck," he sighed.
"What?" Altaïr demanded.
Alex leaned his head back and stood there for a moment, regretting every damned decision that had led him to this moment.
"We have to go to the Gentek building," he groaned.
"What is that?" Altaïr asked.
"The last place in the city either of us should go anywhere near," he said.
Before Altaïr could make any snide remarks about how they could go anywhere they damn well pleased, Alex said, "Let's get this over with so I can get some sleep. I'm dead on my feet over here. Come on."
The Gentek building was about twenty blocks away from where they had started, but the distance meant nothing to either of them. Altaïr obviously still had issues with running quickly over long distances, but he kept the vigorous pace Alex set so that it only took them a few minutes to reach the building.
As they neared, Alex gestured for the assassin to stay back. He made a minor effort of will and transformed into the last soldier he'd consumed, grimacing as he shrank several inches in height and gained an annoying amount of hair. He brushed it out of his eyes and jogged toward the entrance, where two other soldiers stood guard.
Gentek's headquarters weren't enormous, but it was in the middle of a courtyard that caused the road to split around it, which made it look more significant and important than it probably deserved. It also meant, though, that the guards in front of the glass doors had all the time in the world to sum Alex up as he trotted toward them.
"State your business, soldier," the one on the right said.
"On orders from Cap'n Cross to do a headcount before he arrives," Alex said. "He should be right behind me, don't wanna keep him waitin'."
The two soldiers exchanged a look, then lifted their weapons to point at Alex. "Captain Cross has been here for twenty minutes," the one on the left said. "Wanna try again?"
Alex looked at the two of them, rolled his eyes and sighed, "Not really." Then he broke one of their noses with the heel of his palm and grabbed the other's head, slamming it into his knee before the first had fallen. He consumed them both in short order and shivered as silvery visions flickered through his mind.
On orders to keep our mouths shut and forget anything we hear, the voices of the soldiers he'd just killed said. The Captain's putting an end to all of this, he knows what he's doing, he's a good man. He'll end this shit storm.
The voices faded, leaving Alex crouched on the ground feeling for all the world like a child who'd been sent to the principal's office for breaking rules. He shuddered as he stood and gazed up at the too-bright windows of the building.
"She's in there," he whispered. "And Cross is going to kill her…."