Hope you like it, folks! ;)

~*VIII*~

Stuck in the Middle with You

There was a stiffness in the way they talked and gestured. Subtle, muted, yet every movement felt like an angry slash of the sword. It had begun shortly after she and Giovanni had left the office to find Federico had not left the foyer. There was an expression Tristan just couldn't read on his face. Relief? Frustration? Bewilderment? With a passing look her way that easily translated to "stay," Giovanni brushed past her to take aside his eldest. She couldn't help but notice he deliberately escorted him to the far side of the courtyard— just out of her hearing range.

But what her ears couldn't hear, her eyes made up the difference. And it only took a couple of minutes for Federico to begin scowling while his father teetered on the precipice of what appeared to be either vexation or anger— if not a tired disappointment that only fathers seemed to have mastered over the centuries. The very same expression she dreaded to see on her own father's face after getting her ass out of the fire. Or worst, Tristan winced, a close encounter with the inside of a jail cell. Yet as a million scenarios ran through her head, she could not conjure a single one that would possibly explain what Federico could have done to merit this. Save for one, and at risk of being called arrogant, she would make the argument it was probably something to do with the Tristan-sized elephant in the room. Hey, at least it sounded good, anyway.

Tristan shuffled from one foot to the other in an awkward waiting game as the two had their verbal brawl. Her eyes drifted over to the nearest bench that was flanked by a variety of potted plants. She knew she had been sitting for the last half hour or so, but given it beat standing for who knew long, she opted to sit on it, resting an elbow upon her knees and cupping her chin with an upturned hand as she continued to spectate. Whatever they were discussing, she just hoped it wouldn't last too long. However, it didn't take long for her attention to be taken elsewhere as something off-white caught her eye. She was surprised to find that the rest of the bandages just lying haphazardly next to her— as if they had been thrown down in a hurry. She glanced down at her bandaged hand, clenched it, and then went ahead to grab the rest of them, stuffing them into her poor already-full bag. Who knew, she may need them later. She was not given much time after that as the conversation ended with Federico bowing his head in contrition, but not before Giovanni putting a hand on his shoulder. His father said something in return before dropping his hand, and as a result, Federico turned on his heel and stiffly walked out of sight through the closest entrance.

She noted he didn't even look her way.

Until he disappeared through the doorway, Giovanni watched his son, his shoulders sagging as if a great weight had settled upon it with each step. However, it only lasted mere seconds as a willow of a woman breezed in from the direction where Federico had disappeared. Definitely some kind of maid if her simple homespun clothes were anything to go by. Plus, her demeanor and actions as she stopped and curtsied to him gave it away as well.

Once again, she was too far away to hear what they were talking about. Just that Giovanni's voice barely ascended above a buzzing drone as he conversed with the housemaid, sometimes gesturing Tristan's way. This time, she knew for sure what they were discussing, and she stifled the urge to frown as another hand was waved in her direction.

"Hey, see this poor sack of human waste over there looking sorry for herself?" Tristan muttered under her breath in a mock deep tone.

"Uhm, yeah?" she lightened her tone and watched as the maid glanced her way. Likely questioning why Tristan was talking to herself. "Why do you ask, sir?"

"Well!" She switched back to Faux Giovanni, "Due to timey shenanigans, she's staying with us for god knows how long. Could you conjure a living space out of thin air?"

Unfortunately, the humorous monologue she supplied was cut short as movement from the corner of her eye dragged away her attention. The Auditore home must have been a popular destination as another newcomer entered. But this one was a man polite in his arrival—and quiet too, since no one had noticed him yet save for her. A fact he seemed content with that as he folded his hands in front of him. To Tristan, who was curious in that typical bored nothing-else-to-do fashion, he looked like Mr. Clean's jovial Uncle, whose face was set deep with crags and crowfeet showing decades worth of smiles and typical life stress. An Uncle well-fed, judging by his waistline too. However, her curiosity soured when she stumbled across a strange miasma about him. Something lurked just under the surface, and for the life of her, she just could not put her finger on it.

But she didn't know why she was experiencing this sudden sense of hostility. He wasn't particularly exciting in the slightest, not his appearance from the tipped cap on his balding head to the cracked leather boots that scuffed the stone floor. Nor the drab clothes he wore that were nothing but grey, white, and black. Nothing bright or fancy at all. It was a humble outfit that would befit an equally humble, jovial man, right? He didn't even send a look of antagonism her way, just one of passing curiosity before returning his gaze to Giovanni, patiently waiting. Yet, as he stood there, there was something about him that didn't quite fit in the picture. Too humble. Too uninteresting. As if he was trying too hard to look monotonous-which was suspicious within itself. Tristan blinked, and she sat back down on her bench upon realizing what she was doing and hid a scowl, tearing her gaze away before she got caught staring. Or perhaps it was nothing at all save for her imagination gone wild, she chastised herself. Not everyone was someone terrible in disguise.

And yet... she lifted a hand to make sure her cap was still in place. Something told her that long red-streaked hair was nothing to flaunt in front of this strange man.

Giovanni paused in his conversation and indicated for her to come over. He and the housemaid both looked at her expectantly. Had he said something? Judging by the way his eyebrows were climbing, she'd assume yes. "Of course," she automatically said, standing up, not quite sure what she agreed to— but the assumption was he wanted her to follow the maid and be escorted to her new room. She hoped she was right because that would be awkward otherwise. Tristan walked over, turning to her new host and inclining her head. While reluctant to admit she was grateful, she did her best when she outwardly voiced her thanks. "Thank you for offering your home to me."

He offered her a quick nod in return and gestured at the housemaid. It wasn't the sincerest gesture of goodwill, and she figured as not. Who was she but a stranger in a strange land? However, she blew a stray strand of hair out of her face; it was miles above their first encounter. Then again, practically anything was better than being nearly stabbed.

She was pulled from her daydreaming as Giovanni spoke— but not to her. It was clear her situation was tied up for the time being and something he'd get back to it eventually. "Ah, Uberto, I did not see you arrive. I am sorry, but-."

The newly named man, Uberto, simply lifted a hand and waved it, sporting a light smile. "There is no need for the apologies, Giovanni. I did not wish to disturb you."

The last Tristan saw of both of them was shaking each other's hands- like dear old friends, and walking inside Giovanni's office. The door shut shortly after that, leaving Tristan in an empty foyer save for the maid whose name she forgot and the plants-and at least they were wanted.

She must have been caught gawking because a polite cough had her blinking, flushed in embarrassment. "Sorry I—."

"That was Uberto Alberti, my lady," she explained in a civil tone that was both neutral and dripping in disdain. In another life, Tristan mused, she probably would have made a fine retail Manager having to deal with customers too dumb and full of themselves to read the fine print on their expired coupons. "He is the Gonfalonier of Justice for the city."

The words and their meanings flew over Tristan's head. Once upon a time, she probably had been told this by some tour guide, but currently, she was trying to frame the words she heard into concepts she could chew on. A process she was monumentally failing at. The what of what now? His title had sounded official though, whatever it was— which explained the clothes and demeanor. No wonder he didn't wish to bring attention to himself. "Errr, I'm sorry, the what now? My Italian is..." She drawled, trying to buy herself time to find the right word. Nonexistent? Lacking? Being fed through by a translator she didn't fully grasp? She finally settled on one, rubbing the back of her head sheepish. "...rusty."

A slim eyebrow rose, but that tone never wavered as the help continued, "Pardon my wording, milady, but I am surprised that an Englishmen as yourself would not have heard of one. But here in Florence, his roles are many. As standard-bearer, he is one of the most powerful men in the city, elected to oversee civil matters and to ensure the city and her citizens remain safe in trying times."

"So," Tristan's eyes flicked between the office door and the maid, a coldness dripping down her spine as she mulled this new bit of information. "He's like a law-keeper?"

The maid— dammit Giovanni had dropped her name she just knew it— merely shrugged, turning on her heel. "I suppose that would suffice, milady, but truth be told, we really should be on our way. These matters are not meant for our ears. Now come, your room is this way."

The maid didn't give her much time to comment, setting off through a different door than Federico had exited through. But Tristan glanced back one last time, not quite shaking the terrible not-good feeling she was getting off of this Gon-G-whatever-fellow. Even if he and Giovanni clasped hands like old buddies and disappeared into his office for evident Assassin matters— there was something rotten. And it stank to high heaven.

No, no, and no. "Don't put your nose where it doesn't belong, old girl," she rumbled, adjusting the strap of her bag before turning on her heel and following the maid.

She was in enough trouble as is.

It took a bit for her eyes to adjust from the bright Mediterranean day to the dim interior of the building. What it lacked in modern amenities like lighting, she found it was rather cozy— a stark contrast to what she had been used to on those stuffy museum tours the school had her attend for credit in undergrad. There was furniture, handmade and definitely expensive, adorned with reds and scarlets and other warm colors she had no name for. Elegant tapestries and paintings were hung on the walls; some even looked fairly familiar too.

In fact, one painting in particular had her stalling mid-step. And as she stood there, studying the strokes and figures, her heart did a cartwheel as she recognized the style. Is that—? She swore she had seen the painting before, but it had been behind thick glass and guarded by an angry security guard. She didn't have time to process it— much less ask about it or even enjoy its beauty, for her guide was a ruthless escort. In this maze of halls, rooms, and stairs, the maid glided past without much thought until finally, they came to a door.

The maid, her name already having entered one ear and left the other apparently, barely even spared her a glance before shutting the door and leaving her to her own devices.

It did not take long for Tristan, who just stood there staring at the door, to curse herself when she realized she hadn't even remembered to request a brush.

She didn't know what to expect when it came to her stay as she turned, but it surely had not been any of this. The room was about twice the size of her own apartment back home, with gallant carpets and wallpaper that found a balance between elegant and humble. While yes, there were lamps and candles, most of the room's light was supplied by the set of four huge windows that looked out over the city. To her right had been a small alcove and towels-something she had definitely used to wash out any gunk still remaining on her skin and hair. She didn't see any, ahem, bathroom accommodations and figured there must have been some other room for that. A thought she blanched at but one she would deal with later.

Before long, Tristan found herself leaning against the sill and watching as the puff of white smoke rose lazily through the air and out the open window. The lit Camel in her hand bounced once, twice against the window ledge before she brought it up to take another long draw. It was a nasty vice— one she had sworn to Mom she'd never take up again after graduating. Yet given the circumstances and all, here she was, hitting it once more. Truth be told, she doubted anyone would particularly blame her for falling weak for nicotine right now. Still, she sighed, raking her free hand through her freshly cleaned hair. She probably shouldn't indulge. Not here. Not in this place. The same hand dragged itself across her face as a long, deep, and dare she say, a tired sigh escaped her.

What a clusterfuck this was turning out to be.

She averted her gaze from the cigarette to below her. While yes, she could see the streets and the people milling about, immediately below her window was a small garden that was cut off from the public by a lattice-work fence that reached about halfway up the wall. Her room— the one that was kindly supplied to her for an indefinite stay, had been built on the Palazzo's outer rim. Honestly, the view was breathtaking, and it wasn't difficult to imagine herself in some glitzy Airbnb. One exceptionally vast window offered a picturesque vista of the city's skyline with surprise! The big Dome that dwarfed Florence and seemed like the imposing Big Brother that never went away. Even the big window had the appearance of glaring at her suspiciously. You don't belong here, it seemed to accuse her. Which... to be fair, it wasn't wrong. It didn't stop her from defiantly shooting a glare back and mentally pasting googly eyes over the panes. It managed to extract a quiet giggle out of her, but she stifled it with another pull.

She turned her attention back to the wide streets. As of now, the main boulevard was teeming with citizens of every color and age available. Kids laughing and playing with their parents looking on with small smiles, Workers milling about, probably off to get a quick drink. Merchants selling, talking, haggling. If it weren't for the clothes and context, she'd figure it was just a typical day of city folk and tourists walking the streets of post-Christmas Florence. She furrowed her eyebrows. They... did celebrate Christmas here, right? She scowled at the dumb question rolling her eyes. Why wouldn't they?

She took one last puff before putting out the cigarette on the ledge, mindfully wiping away the ashes it left behind until no trace could be seen. Tristan then stepped back and secured the large windows shut, and turned away from both the city and sunlight. It was not as grand as the one in Giovanni's office, but the fireplace built into the room was doing its job nicely and acting as a home to a newly birthed fire that licked at the logs in hissing hunger.

There was a small jumbled pile in front of the blazing fire— the remnants of Tristan's poor bag. Truth be told, she had meant to clean it out for a while, but she never would have thought it was to spread them out to let them properly dry. Her clothes and socks were hanging in precarious locations to get the most out of the heat, and some of the more unfortunate victims of her dip—mainly paper receipts and other trash, went straight into the fire. She winced at the sight of her well-used charging cord sitting by itself to the side, now forever useless as it was separated from not only its iPhone but electricity itself. That was probably going to be the most challenging part of this. No phone was one thing— she had done it before. But no music? She would have to manage without her tunes. She chewed her lip, the tips of her fingers beginning to twitch as she eyed the cigarette in her hand.

She kneeled in front of the fireplace and flicked the used butt into the bowels of the flames, and with one last reproachful look, she threw the rest of the pack in it as well. A necessary sacrifice, she told herself, despite her hands tightening into fists as she resisted the urge to save it from the fire. She clucked her tongue and to distract herself, mentally marking off the list of the other items that would probably be useful in the coming months— if not years. A box of Aspirin, slightly used; a damp but still chewable pack of gum-to which she popped one in her mouth, wincing at the bland flavor, some pads for that time of the month (Thank god), the notebook, her drawing pad...

It made her realize she hoarded far too much in her bag as she scraped across the bottom, not liking how still damp it was. She grabbed it and hung it up on the mantle, hoping the steadily rising heat of the fire would be enough to start drying it off.

Tristan stretched out her hands towards the flickering flames, warming them and making peace in her surroundings as she watched the last of the carton burn away to ash. A painful sacrifice. She could get used to this. Would get used to this. She had to. Wasn't that what her father wanted? For her to be flexible? Roll with the punches? She stifled a frustrated growl, pinching her nose. This wasn't even comparable to being thrown out on the streets and fending for herself until the next pickup. This was time travel they were talking about. Actual legitimate time travel! She resisted looking at the Piece of Eden glinting on the nightstand by her scarf. Instead, her eyes were drawn to something else...

She wouldn't lie- the bed called her name far more tempting than any partner she had before. Exhaustion, pure and simple exhaustion, washed over her. "I shouldn't though," she muttered under her breath, rubbing at her increasingly heavy eyelids. And then a yawn soon followed.

Why not? Not like she had any deadlines coming up for work anytime soon. Or worst, she resisted a shudder, never. Besides— didn't she deserve it after tossing and turning in a damn roof garden in the middle of the wintry night? Like a siren song, she became enraptured with the idea enough to stumble over to the large inviting bed. She swept aside some of the discarded clothing to the floor. A couple minutes of shut-eye wouldn't hurt anyone, right? If there was an answer, it was shooed away as soon as her face met the pillow. And any other thought for that matter.

It felt like not even five minutes had gone by until there was a knock on her door.

Tristan jerked her face from the indentations that were neatly set on the pillow's surface. Wiping the drool she had accrued with the back of her hand, she scooted off the bed and noted the sun's position with a puzzled frown. Just how long had she been asleep then? Another knock, more insistent this time. Grumbling, Tristan breathed a sigh of patience before lumbering towards the door.

She didn't even have the door fully open before a neat pile was thrust upon her. "Wha—?"

The housemaid did a polite curtsy and failed to hide her curiosity as she straightened again, giving her a once-over, focusing far too much on what was probably the world's worst rat's nest that consisted of her hair. Tristan, on the other hand, stared. For she was having difficulty remembering her name again. If not Anita, then was it Anya? No, that wasn't right. Ana? No. Crap. Annie— oh! Annetta! That was her name! Damn naps. "Master Auditore had noticed that your choice of clothing was... wanting and believed that these would serve as a suitable replacement until proper vestments are commissioned."

Tristan's brow rose, but she fingered through the pile all the same. To her surprise, they were clothes. Shirts, vests, pants, even a handful of dresses— it looked to be about her size too. Being given a room was one thing but clothes too? Remembering her manners, she endeavored her best at performing a curtsy herself— which felt weird and gained her a confused, if not a panicked look in the process. Perhaps guests didn't do that. She straightened again., keeping her face neutral and that she was owning the day and not actually cringing into oblivion. Oops. "Thank you. Please extend my humblest gratitude towards... uh Signore Auditore for supplying these."

Judging by the maid's face, she, or her entire existence, was nothing more than an erroneous error on the universe's part. Probably even used the wrong word too. Ugh— or maybe it was some weird translation thing due to this whole Babel fish phenomenon. How did that work anyway?

She had to quit dwelling on the subject if she wanted to maintain what little sanity she had left.

The maid, Annetta, carefully smiled before curtsying again and walking off. Tristan watched as far as the woman turned the corner before shutting the door. For a brief second before she remembered her current hairy situation.

She heaved the door again, "Wait—!" Annetta, impassive and probably tired of her shit right now, pirouetted and looked on in what Tristan could only describe as the "Customer service" stance. "I'm sorry, but is there a possibility I could use or borrow a brush? Even a comb? I, uh... misplaced mine, and I'm in desperate need of one." She pointed at her hair, adopting the most pitiful helpless look she could muster. Frankly, she was surprised she hadn't turned anyone to stone yet.

Annetta followed her hand and dwelled on the mess. Tristan's moving story must have worked, for her face softened into a more sympathetic nature. "Certainly. It will be but a moment." She curtsied again before disappearing around the corner.

Feeling slightly better about being one step closer to tackling the wild beast on her head, she shut the door and walked over to the now rumpled bed, tossing the pile on it. She had an inkling that these were mere hand-me-downs. A fact she shrugged at since it beat wasting away in a closet somewhere getting consumed by moths. May as well try them on to test them out.

She was just about to dance out of her old pants (or trousers, is that what they were called here?)— when she heard it.

Click.

It was soft. Others with untrained ears probably would have missed the cue. But to hers, they were as crystal as a morning bell. Outwardly, Tristan did not react or turn to face the door, but inside she was hyperaware with all senses on overdrive. She knew damn well she had locked that door after Annetta had left.

Even as it opened and shut on that of silent hinges, she carried on as if nothing was going on, even humming a quiet tune as she grabbed the corners of her shirt and pulled it up in one deft motion, all the while listening with a perked ear. Was there a possibility it was the maid sneaking in to drop off more things? No, the footsteps that cautiously entered her room were far too heavy for that of a housemaid. It was definitely a man. Besides, whomever those feet belonged to knew what they were doing.

A subtle scrape on the wood boards as the ball of their foot touched down; a light pad when they transferred themselves to the rug. She noted they even avoided the squeakiest part of the floorboards too.

Ooh yes, Tristan knew that this sneaky little bastard was good.

But she was better.

The tune she hummed transitioned into that of the Jaws theme as Tristan set the bundled shirt down onto the table and picked up the knife in the same motion— the little one she usually stuffed into her boot. Dull as fuck, but no one ever needed to know that. One step, two steps. A barely discernible puff of air. She pretended to be browsing something when in reality, she allowed her shoulders to loosen and flipped the knife to have the blade pinched between her fingers. Couple more steps and he abruptly stopped as if finally realizing that he wasn't alone. Did it take him that long to notice? And... there!

She twisted on the ball of one foot and lined up the shot with her shoulders. Before the intruder could get his senses about him and escape, she threw the knife in one deft motion. She watched as it lazily flew through the air in a sideways wobble before bouncing harmlessly off the chest of a totally surprised Federico.

They both watched as it clattered to the floor, and slowly ever oh slowly, he lifted his head again, looking sheepish as he looked upon a triumphant Tristan who was doing her best not to grin.

"You missed," was all he said while he bent down and picked up the knife, nimbly spinning it before he set it down upon the table closest to him. In the same movement, he picked up an apple from the bowl of offered fruit that had been provided.

She rolled her eyes and reached behind her. Her hand dipped, rose, and came down again; this time, the knife that flew from her hand pierced the apple mere inches from his lips. He closed his mouth and stared at it, switching his gaze from it to her in sheer bewilderment and mild outrage.

"I always carry two," she deadpanned, although a little smile was threatening at the corner of her lips as he tried to save face, despite flushing, and pulled the knife out of the apple.

"I—" he cleared his throat, blinking. "I stand corrected." He gave both knives to her. "That is quite a skill you have."

"Thanks. But if you really want to be impressed, you should see what I can do with an axe," Tristan hummed as she wiped the rest of the apple juice off the blade and set it down upon the table with its twin. It took all of her willpower not to crack up laughing since the look on his face had been absolutely priceless.

"Now, what you are you doing here?" She crossed her arms, leaning against the table, but an inquisitive brow rose when she noticed he was staring at her face a little too hard, and she became concerned. "What?" she asked, lifting a hand up to rub at her cheek. "There something on my face?"

Tristan turned to see her reflection, but all she could see was herself with only a camisole and a bra on that left little to the imagination. Only then did she realize why he was staring at her face. She dropped her hand, her upper lip threatening to break out in another grin. Oh. "What? Never seen a woman talk to you without a shirt on before? Need I remind you that you came in here uninvited."

"Of course, I have!" He scoffed, although his cheeks were flushing a dark color as he averted his eyes. "This is different, though."

She shook her head and waved a hand at the bed with a chortle. "Well, since you're here... may as well make yourself useful. Toss that... thing over here." She, of course, was indicating one of the dresses included in her homecoming gift.

He obliged— a little too fast, she noted, and soon the dress flew the distance between them, one she easily caught, but not before it smacked her in the face. "Thanks," she pawed the cloth away.

"Speaking of skills," her words became muffled as she went to pull the fabric over her head. After much searching, her head poked out, but it turned out it was the wrong hole. What the hell. "Would I be correct in guessing you know how to lock pick?"

He was relieved for the topic change for he leaned against the wall, still juggling the apple between his hands. "Ezio often got himself locked in a closet while we were younger." He shrugged with a fond whimsical smile before taking a few bites. "A key would have taken too long to find. That and I knew I would have had my hide tanned for letting him get stuck in there in the first place."

Tristan snorted, grasping the material and scrunching her nose at the miniature circus tent she had been given. Oh, this was going to be fun. Her head turned to look at the mirror that was attached to the dresser. Eventually, she pressed the dress against her chest and frowned when it didn't necessarily look right. It was a beautiful color, and yet it didn't seem to match. "And now you're using to sneak into a room where the woman was in the middle of undressing."

She didn't turn, but her eyes did flick to his reflection. Tristan could see that he palmed his neck, flushed in further embarrassment. "Er, yes. That... that was not my intention," he muttered.

"What?" she said innocently. "You mean you're not running to avoid your dad?"

"Actually, no—" he flicked his eyes to her and then back to the floor. "It is my mother. She heard word about a particular incident that occurred yesterday and is on the warpath as we speak. I wish not to be scolded twice on the same day. Especially for something that Ezio started." She could practically hear the eye-roll.

Federico then tilted his head and took a few more bites from the apple, an indecipherable gesture as he debated with himself. "And not 'running,' per se. Just... avoiding using the front door for the time being."

He finished and then threw the apple into the fireplace, clearly frustrated.

She finally turned, setting a hand on her hip. "Through my room, though?"

"Well..." he drawled before shrugging. "Yes? But no offense— this room is usually unoccupied." When her eyebrows dipped low, he backtracked and put his hands up, "I, of course, didn't mean to intrude, learned my lesson, and swear I won't do it again."

She could only pinch the bridge of her nose. If it was going to be like this all the time, this was going to become incredibly old, very fast. The last thing she needed was a little pervert sneaking into her room late at night when she was asleep. But, even upon thinking it, she knew that wasn't right. He was genuinely ashamed that he had snuck in while she was changing. Like... even now, he was finding it difficult to look at her. She doubted he was going to do it ever again.

With that in mind, Tristan let out a long sigh dragging her hand down before she sidestepped and jerked a thumb at the closest window. "Well, it's unlocked if you still want to go on your merry way."

Federico, confused, switched his gaze between her and the window. "Wait, you mean—?"

"I've had to jump out windows once or twice," she thinly smiled. "My mom just preferred to use shoes." She then waved him off, and with a little courage, went to slip on this dastardly torture device in disguise. "Just do me a favor, okay? Next time, knock. I can't assure you I won't purposefully miss next time."

"Well..." His eyes flicked back and forth, still unsure if this was a trap or not. It really wasn't. And when he realized that, he looked more than grateful as he bowed. "Thank you, Tristan. Truly."

"And..." his words tumbled to a stop as he straightened again, one brow creeping up. "What... Are you doing?" He said flatly, stuck right in the middle between perplexity and mirth as he folded his arms.

She threw a hot glance after managing to get an arm through-but only just. How did anyone from this period get dressed in these infernal contraptions? "Well, if you must know, I'm trying to change, but I have a rather obstinate spectator who insists on staying despite my saying he can egress."

Federico snorted, rolling his eyes. "Well, that I already knew, but I also meant... that." He lifted a hand to loosely gesture her general direction.

"What does it look like? I'm trying to get into a dress!" Tristan huffed, a weak attempt to sound like she knew what she was doing— but they both knew she didn't. A fact that practically had him snickering.

"Is that what you're trying to do? Here was I thinking you were fighting it to the death. And I must say," he lifted one hand to point, not even trying to hide his amusement. "I think it's winning."

"Noted. Now, are you just going to stand there and continue to comment, or are you going to eventually decide to step in and help?" She snapped back, willing herself and the dress to cooperate just this once.

"Help?" Federico spread his arms, adopting a helpless manner. "How? I know nothing of the sort when it comes to these womanly things." He then turned cheeky, waggling his eyebrows. "I know how to get someone out if that's what you want instead?"

Tristan threw a heated look from her precarious position. "Not. Helping," she hissed. Which only made him laugh again.

"Just..." He shook his head, trying to keep it together. A trait he was failing at miserably as he returned to the bed and sorted through the haphazard pile, picking out some articles of clothing. He shortly came back and shoved them her way. "Tristan. Stop what you are doing and put these on instead. You're obviously more comfortable in these than that."

She stopped to stare. "But..." How else was she supposed to blend in otherwise?

"Tristan," he said again, this time more sternly as he further extended the pile to her. "It's clear you are not at ease with this. And that is fine. Besides— clothes are one thing, but how did you plan on hiding that hair of yours?"

"Uhh, a hat?" She meekly supplied— one that was met with a raised eyebrow. Truth be told, she hadn't brought that into consideration. Her shoulders sagged, and she dropped the dress, aiming a kick at it.

"...okay, fine. You win." She then made a twirling motion with a hand. "But only if you turn around."

Federico chuckled, "First you tease, but now you insist on privacy? You are an enigma," but he conceded in her request and turned. She sent a suspicious glance his way a couple of times before being satisfied and yanking her pants off.

It only took a minute or so before she was fully dressed, and she cleared her throat as a go-ahead for him to turn. She had to roll up the sleeves, but everything else was surprisingly pretty snug. From the maroon and black-colored vest to the white shirt— yeah, he had been right. This was more like it.

He made a humming sound and, upon being given permission in the form of a nod on her part, came forward and adjusted some things before stepping back and nodding in satisfaction. "Much better. It certainly suits you."

"That bad, huh?" She sighed, shoulders sinking. Lord, this was going to be a challenging time if she couldn't even dress the part of a lady.

"Eh a little," he put a hand on her shoulder, patting it. "But don't take it to heart. Everyone starts from somewhere. I'm sure you'll get the hang of it eventually."

"Oh good, I'll keep that in mind when you have to put on your first dress." She laughed when he did a double-take, afterwards staring in disbelief. "What? It's only fair," she said sweetly. Which earned her an unamused snort and an exaggerated roll of the eyes.

"Much as I would love to continue conversing about this exciting topic—" he scooted closer to the window, opening it with barely a sound. "I really should be off before my mother decides to look up here. Take care, Tristan."

She flapped her hands at him in a shooing manner. "Yeah, yeah, go gallivant about and steal women's purses again, you fiend. Or whatever it is that you do this time of day. I'll be here." God, I hope so, at least. She palmed the back of her neck and watched him leisurely climb out. "Although—" she crossed her arms and cocked a hip. "You do know you don't have to call me Tristan all the time, right?"

He paused, one leg in and one outside the window before turning to face her with a puzzled frown. "But... it's your name?"

"You can call me other things?" she offered with a helpless shrug. Ah yes... this must be an alien concept to Federico. "Like Trish? Or even a "hey you" would suffice? I don't want to feel the odd man out when I'm the one making nicknames and calling you stuff like 'Rico. Moreover," she did her best at hiding a grimace, "I should add I have a feeling we're going to see each other- a lot, for the time being. So, let's just... not be formal, okay?" She sighed. "Please."

He mulled over her words with a careful silence and scratched at his chin. "You have made a valid point." He turned, making his way further out the window, but not before cracking a grin over his shoulder, "It will be... difficult, but I'll keep that in mind for the future, Ms. Meyers."

Tristan glowered at his back as he proceeded to clamber out the open window. "That's not what I meant, and you know it—," she trailed off into the land of confusion and skepticism as a tiny sliver of distrust wormed its way through the back of her head. He had said, Miss Meyers.

It wasn't unusual, she supposed with a tinge of annoyance, for a Renaissance-era man to revert to chivalry and manners. They had probably been beaten into his head since he had been a kid. And honestly, him being his little smartass self, she walked in on that. But... then there was the unusual thing-she never remembered telling it to him. As a matter of fact, she also found it odd he never asked why she was staying?

And so, her mouth thinned into near nonexistence. All of this smelled funky. "Wait." Federico had been almost out before he paused, an inquisitive brow already pasted as he turned to face her. "Hmm?"

She opened her mouth then closed it, frowning, briefly considering the possibility that she was overreacting. And yet. She closed her eyes, stifling a sigh. Didn't hurt to ask, she supposed. "I... I'm sorry, I must be having a lapse in memory," Tristan pasted an easy smile to hide her suspicion. "Remind me again if you can— when did I tell you my last name?"

She was shocked when he froze. It was temporary, not even a millisecond, and yet she saw the reaction anyway. First sign he must have fucked up in something.

"I believe you let it slip in one of our conversations—" he tried to play it off, look cool and all that. But the way his eyes flicked between her and the freedom of an open window and how a hand was rubbing at his neck; those had been the second and third signs, respectively. It was by then she knew her suspicion had not been unfounded.

Tristan crossed her arms, and he grew even more panicked when she stepped forward, clearing the space between them. "Federico," she said calmly, leaning forward just slightly to make him squirm. "We both know that's not the case.

"So, I'm going to ask you again," she started, a sharpness beginning to put an edge under her words. "Very nicely— how do you know my last name?" Each word was gritted out despite her suddenly racing heart. How did he know? A thousand and one possibilities swirled in her head. She couldn't recall when or how he would, not when the last time she had spoken both of her names was—. It then hit her, and her teeth came down with an audible clack, louder than any gunshot. And just as painful too, for Federico winced. "That's how," she slowly said, quiet anger bubbling under her words, despite fear weaseling into her gut.

"You eavesdropped."

~*End*~

Dun dun DUNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN. It's going down, I'm yelling TIMBER!

TK's History Fun Facts

Words are hard: Tristan has every right to be confused since "Messere," "signore," and "signor" all kind of mean the same thing. In our time, "Messere" is an archaic term, derived from the Old French monsignore (loosely translated to "my lord") and not necessarily used in modern times, but in the 1400s? Probably pretty common. Signor is what would be used if the person in question has a surname. (For example, Ciao, Signor Auditore. come stai?) while Signore is generic and is used for one without. (Ex: Come stai, Signore?)

Say Yes with the Dress: Renaissance dresses are no joke. Unlike our simple modern-day dresses that are pretty easy to slip in and out of, the Renaissance had some styles that had upwards of five layers! They often required the need for a housemaid. Perhaps it's best Rico didn't help, else he'd probably have torn something valuable!

The Signoria: Not to bore anyone with politics and civil offices, but this is one of the trademarks of Florence as a Republic between the years of 1250-1532. The Priori consisted of nine men who ran the city and could only hold offices for two months. They were randomly selected in a ceremony hosted at San Croce where names were pulled out of borse (roughly "purses"). They had to be over thirty, had no debt, not served a recent term, and have had no relation to the names of men already drawn. The eight came from the guilds (basically think merchants), while the ninth member became the Gonfaloniere di Guistizia (Gonfalonier of Justice). Along with the voting rights of the other Priori, he was also in charge of the internal security forces and the maintenance of public order. Tl;dr version, Alberti was practically as powerful as Lorenzo the Magnificent.

Thoughts? Theories? Random bouts of screaming? Lemme know! Reviews and constructive criticisms are always welcome. If you wish for a more prompt response or just want to chat you can hit me up on my Discord! (The username is in my profile.)

And oh! I have a special announcement next chapter since it's the TENTH CHAPTER! So stick around for that

And as always, stay frosty guys.

Until next time

-TK