Shaun felt a surge of shock that mirrored Malik's at Altaїr's loud, blushing confession, an explosion of words and gestures that left them both reeling
Malik gripped the counter with his one hand to steady himself, Altaїr's words pounding in his ears, repeating, over, and over, and over again. I love you, and I have always loved you, and Don't you get it, Malik? His vision narrowed, a dark tunnel with Altaїr at the focus, blood rushing through his veins, roaring through his head as his heart raced—-it had been anger, that easy rage that floated up effortlessly whenever Altaїr was around, but now? He was not sure.
All Malik knew was that, apparently, he had been completely wrong about Altaїr. As wrong as he could have been. Something jerked within him in protest when Altaїr spun on his heel to leave with dread written on his face – plainly, his declaration had been entirely unintentional and now all he wanted was to avoid having to face Malik's inevitable rejection.
"Don't you dare leave now, Altaїr. Sit down." Malik gestured at the worn wooden table against the wall to his right when Altaїr paused in his retreat, glancing back over his shoulder from under his hood, expression hidden.
"I will not trouble you further, Malik. Safety and peace." Still, he hesitated, to Malik's satisfaction.
"Altaїr." The name came out as a low, dangerous growl, one that brooked no argument. "If you leave now, know that you will never be welcome in this bureau again. Do you understand me?" That may have been an empty threat; Malik was not sure he truly could engineer such a prohibition, but he would surely make the attempt, and at the very least make Altaїr's life hell.
"I- Yes."
"Good. Now sit." Malik wanted to roll his eyes when Altaїr bristled at being ordered like a dog, but he had more pressing concerns than Altaїr's pride, so he merely focused his glare until the other acquiesced. "I must think."
Malik reclined against the bookcase behind him and leaned his head into his hand, propping his elbow up on a shelf, then closed his eyes. Over the past few months, the all-encompassing anger, regret, emptiness, misery, everything had given way to something indefinable, as the more he heard from others suggested an entirely unexpected transformation of character, and indeed, even his own experience could provide evidence to that end, though he had wanted to ignore it. Sometimes, Malik had to admit that he did not want to feel better, did not want to forgive, to let go of the feelings that had sustained him after the colossal nightmare that was Solomon's Temple. It was easier that way, and so bitterness became reflex. He turned his forehead into his palm, considering Altaїr's exclamation as his fingers worried his hair, nails scraping his scalp absently.
For someone who claimed to have always loved Malik, Altaїr surely had an interesting way of showing his affection. Every memory Malik had of the other man consisted of unreasonable rivalry, barbed insults and, of course, Altaїr pulling rank at every conceivable occasion, when all else failed to end an altercation. He tried to imagine himself as Altaїr, tried to imagine love and pride existing concurrently, then shook his head.
I love you. I have always loved you. Malik could not deny that, at least before, those feelings had been reciprocated. Why else, he thought, would I have gone after him when he confronted Robert de Sable? I should have let de Sable take his life. He would have never known Kadar and I were there, and we could have completed the mission properly. That would have been the sensible way to handle the situation, but something had overcome him when he saw Altaїr approach the Templar. And now, for all that he had contemplated colorful and creative ends to Altaїr's life, in the end it came down to petulance, a child-like desire for revenge. He had felt betrayed, in more ways than one, and let that feeling consume him.
A quiet groan escaped his lips as he felt that flicker of affection re-ignite, and he cracked an eye open to glance sidelong at Altaїr, who was perched on a stool, leaning against the table and staring down at the extended hidden blade protruding seemingly from his knuckle, while his right hand discreetly worried the hem of his robes. Altaїr turned his wrist, watching the light reflect off of the gleaming metal. Malik had to wonder if Altaїr was thinking about his missing finger, whether he compared it to Malik's arm, and whether that troubled him at all. Given what Malik now knew about Altaїr, it probably did.
He cleared his throat, pushing himself away from the bookcase, and Altaїr looked up at him, the blade retracting back into the bracer, expression unreadable. While Malik struggled to find the right words to say, Altaїr held up a hand, brow furrowing.
"Malik." He sighed, lowering his hand to his lap to worry the hem of his robes once more. "I. . . am sorry."
Malik blinked. "What?"
"For everything. I'm sorry. I was. . ." He shook his head. "I didn't want you to know, so I pushed you away. I was a fool."
"Not that I disagree, but. . ?"
Altaїr gave him a look. "How do you think I felt, being in love? Having a weakness like that." Even now, he sounded slightly disgusted with himself, and he muttered, ". . .Too proud."
Malik's eyebrows rose a little. "You are being surprisingly frank about this."
"I do not have much else to lose. Though, you could always kill me, as would be your right. I should be grateful you haven't already." His eyes closed as though in preparation for such an act, calmly waiting for his end.
"I have no intention of killing you, Altaїr, for all that you owe me a life." Pulling his robes tightly around him, he made his way out from behind the counter, kicking the gate open then nudging it closed again with his foot from the other side. He paused there, a few feet from the white-robed assassin.
"No? Even though I have caused you so much harm? You surprise me, Malik."
"Do not think I have not considered various and sundry methods to such an end," Malik snapped. "I have come to the conclusion, however, that you are not the same man now as you were then, so I cannot accept your apology." When Altaїr looked painfully confused, Malik had to smile just a little-- an old, unfamiliar contortion on a face long used to more somber expressions. "And you were not entirely at fault."
"What? If it weren't for me—"
"You are not the only proud man here, Altaїr." His hand clenched around his robes with that near-confession, and he hoped Altaїr would comprehend his meaning without having to spell it out.
One does not become a master assassin with physical skill alone—one must be clever and perceptive, among other things. Malik could forget those other requirements while wallowing in self-pity and self-righteous anger, but the look in Altaїr's eyes and the way his lips slowly curled into a smirk as comprehension dawned served as an adequate reminder.
Blood pounded in Malik's ears once more when Altaїr stood, a fluid, confident motion that had Malik thinking perhaps the man hadn't changed quite so much after all but maybe he did not mind that, no, he definitely did not mind that, not at all, because Altaїr's hand was on his, forcing it to release his robes so he could bring it to his lips; Malik's eyes rolled up and he closed them at that tiny gesture, felt the heat in his face and the tiny breath of air that escaped his lungs as finally he felt alive.
And Shaun had to make Rebecca swear on pain of death to never, ever tell anyone ever about what happened next, and spent that night, as with every other night since he'd been in the Animus, staring at his ceiling, this time remembering strong hands on his body, desperately mapping out every inch, every contour, every dip and curve, every imperfection, even his ruined left arm, and the mouth that followed, tearing shameful gasps and moans from his throat; remembered words whispered like a mantra over and over again in his ears as their sweat-slicked bodies pressed together, clutching, holding on for dear life, because if they let go they might never find each other again
Shaun was not. a. vailable. He had been staring at his computer screen for several minutes, hardly believing he wasn't in the Animus, wasn't reliving Malik's life, hadn't been in days and in all likelihood never would be again. Not that he disliked research done the traditional way (as though his desire to see what transpired in the Animus had anything to do with historical data rather than voyeurism and wish-fulfillment); it was something he specialized in, after all.
But he couldn't shake the thoughts of scarred lips on his own, quick and needy over the bureau counter before Altaїr left for a mission, or the memory of that gnawing worry that ate him from the inside out when Altaїr insisted on confronting de Sable once more; thoughts of Masyaf with the trees in bloom in the Gardens, feeling foolish and romantic when pale pink petals, sweetly aromatic, tickled his face, Altaїr's rare laughter caught and carried by the wind
It took Shaun a moment to realize Rebecca had been speaking to him, possibly for a few minutes, prattling on and on about something Shaun was certain he did not care about, until she said Altaїr, and Animus and Templars and Lucy and finally he had absolutely no idea what she was on about but figured it might be a good idea to start listening, especially since she just asked him a question.
"Um." Shaun could not escape his own razor wit, which hissed, Oh, brilliant response. Clearly, years of post-secondary education did not go to waste; well done, lad, well done.
"I swear to god, Shaun, you've been like this ever since we had to stop putting you in the Animus. Were you even listening to me?"
"Of course I—" At Rebecca's narrowed eyes and disbelieving snort, he pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. "All right, no, I wasn't. Sorry. You were saying?"
The knowing smirk and wicked gleam in her eyes put an uneasy stirring in Shaun's stomach, and she said, "Oh, nothing much, only that Lucy's gonna be coming back in, oh, two hours or so, with some guy the Templars picked up.Apparently," and now that mischievous grin really unsettled Shaun, "they just got done running him through the same memories you experienced. Except he got to see them from Altaїr's point of view."
Which meant he got to see them married, somehow still maddeningly in love even as they swore loyalty to another at a short, shared ceremony, and their wives had to have known, must have seen that at that moment they were more wed to each other than they could ever have been to any woman but they never said anything, never questioned or made demands; it meant he saw them fight--those painful, terrifying moments when it seemed they would never reconcile their differences, the gap between them so great that when they finally made up it was the sweetest blessing, swearing empty oaths to never let it happen again
"Oh. Oh god." He knew his horror was painted across his face, plain as day, and he wondered if he could maybe hide under his desk or work from his bedroom for all eternity, completely unashamed of his cowardice.
"Relax, it's not like he'd know you or anything. You don't look a thing like Malik."
"Then why do you look so delighted?"
She snickered a little. "Oh, Shaun, I just like seeing you squirm."
"You are evil. You're evil and I hate you."
Rebecca just cackled and rubbed her hands together from behind her desk, then turned her music up. Evil. Shaun barely registered the pain of his forehead striking his desk.
Judging from the shocked expression on Rebecca's face mirroring his own when Lucy waltzed in (as though she hadn't been absent for seven years), she had not anticipated the striking resemblance Desmond bore to Altaїr either. A surge of entirely inappropriate affection welled up within him, carrying him over to greet the Abstergo escapees with uncharacteristic friendliness, and by the time he came back to himself he was in front of his computer once again, staggered by the way the part of him that felt what Malik felt and wanted what Malik wanted had nearly grabbed Desmond and pushed him into the nearest available surface, covering that scarred mouth with his own and Christ, why did he have to have that god damned scar?
And then, then, he was talking to him and oh god, he needed to say something say anything to get him away, so he drew from the best of his worst side and maybe a little bit of Malik's and it was with some relief that he felt more than saw Desmond's bemused retreat following some nasty barbs. He waited until Desmond was out cold in the Animus before burying his face in his hands, anticipating Rebecca's inevitable peal of laughter.
It never came. A quick peek over his shoulder revealed Rebecca just staring at him, with Lucy pursing her lips and shifting her gaze between them, suspicious. Cocking a fist to her hip, she said to the air, "Oh, it's good to see you, Lucy! How have you been? How about those Templars, huh?"
Rebecca recovered first, "Sorry, Luce! We were just, uh, startled. How-- how are you?" Shaun groaned and once again contemplated hiding under his desk, because now Lucy would ask why they were startled, and then they'd have to spill everything, and she would either kill them both or . . . He wasn't sure what else, but he imagined it would be unpleasant.
"Startled by what? You knew I was coming."
"N-not by you. . ." Shaun wanted to shout at Rebecca to stop digging their graves please but that would hardly have been any more sensible so he merely kept his mouth shut and hoped. Just hoped.
"Desmond? You knew he was coming, too. What is going on, you guys?"
"W-well. . ." Looking over his shoulder again, Shaun saw Rebecca staring desperately at his back, so with another miserable moan he waved his hand at her in hopeless assent, then turned his chair to face them.
She tried again. "Y'see, Luce. . . Ah. . ." Apparently, Rebecca was having difficulty articulating their unfortunate breach of protocol, and Shaun's patience snapped. Dodging around the subject would only make it worse.
"Oh, for Christ's sake. Lucy, sorry, but we got bored, and I went in the Animus."
"You what?" Surprisingly, it wasn't the crushing rage he'd expected; though that was very likely to come, once she got over the shock of their impetuous behavior.
"Right, that's not the fun bit, actually. Turns out—"
"Malik is his ancestor!" Ah, at last, Rebecca's tongue found its way around words again, cutting across what Shaun was convinced would have been an eloquent explanation of the situation, but was now reduced to four short terms.
"W-w-what—I don't—" Lucy was shaking her head, unmistakably baffled.
"All right, actually, that is still not the fun bit. As it turns out," and he glared at Rebecca, warning her to not interrupt him again, irritation overruling his terror, "Malik and Altaїr were. . . lovers."
Dead. Silence.
"You have got to be shitting me," Lucy finally said in a low voice, eyes wide, a strange, half-smile on her face, as though she just knew they were fucking with her, and any minute they'd start cracking up and say, Fooled you! Welcome back, Lucy! Except they didn't, and so that smile faded and she just stared at them, then at Desmond.
"Oh, god. Shaun, I don't think he knows."
That startled him. It had never occurred to him that Altaїr's descendant wouldn't have experienced the exact sequence of events he had, would not have seen those intimate moments between lovers, and it was inexplicably heartbreaking, to not have someone he could share that with, had he chosen to. Not that he would have, but he liked to keep his options open.
"Oh. Really?" Tried to sound nonchalant. Didn't quite fail.
She shook her head, and he tried to ignore the way Rebecca shot him a look of pity, as though she knew something he didn't, or wouldn't admit to. "No. Nothing. . . nothing like that ever came up in Altaїr's memories, not in the Animus. Just business, from Solomon's Temple to defeating Al Mualim."
"Ah. Well, good." He nodded decisively.
"Now," Lucy said, rounding on Rebecca, "Just what the hell were you thinking, letting him in there?"
Sensing he was somewhat off the hook for the moment, Shaun decided it was safe to tune them out, so he returned to the task at hand, reflecting on the fact that Desmond hadn't explicitly seen their relationship in the Animus. Except Shaun knew that at least a few of his memories from Malik came from those periods the Animus skipped, but still unlocked in his brain, and if he got as far as that final confrontation that had nearly broken Altaїr, there was still a chance he knew, and so it was a pearl of hope and dread that nestled there in his chest as he sat at his computer, feeding information into the Animus database.
Things only got worse for Shaun, the longer Desmond was around. He wanted to reach right back in time, grab Malik by his stupid, oversexed neck and shake the life out of him for making everything impossibly difficult. Productivity declined markedly whenever Desmond was awake, either from sleep or the Animus, so Shaun ended up taking extra-long nights to make up for it, though even then he was uncomfortably aware of Desmond's presence on the bed on the other side of the room. He almost regretted ever deciding to use the Animus, if it meant Malik would always be there, somewhere within him, feeding him memories.
Like when Malik was at a loss for what to do, because Altaїr would not stop using the Apple, and no amount of cunningly worded arguments could counter the immutable "No," so he finally broke down and confessed his concern to his wife, and while he never voiced what she must have already known, she merely fixed him with a level gaze and told him: if words were not working, perhaps his actions would be more convincing, and it took him a minute to fully grasp her meaning and--
Shaun let out a growl of frustration, forcing that thought aside because it was hard enough to focus without Malik swooning and angsting behind the scenes, what with Lucy putting Desmond through the paces in the warehouse, and all he could think about was that agile body he knew so well—-except he didn't know it, and that was incredibly frustrating. It didn't help that Desmond evidently meant well, and probably just wanted to fit in with their little group, and if Malik hadn't been clawing, trying to force his way out of Shaun's skin he might have been perfectly receptive to Desmond's overtures, though at some level he appreciated, and liked that the other had even taken an interest at all, and continued to ask questions, navigating around the wards Shaun threw up desperately to keep himself from behaving rashly.
The way Lucy avoided his eyes when she returned without Desmond made Shaun inexplicably nervous, and when Desmond didn't return until much later in the evening, giving Lucy a look and a smile that made Malik growl jealously, Shaun was floored, even as he snapped at his ancestor for hypocrisy and inconsistency, because both he and Altaїr had wives, so why was this any different? But he knew the answer. Desmond was not his, and that was horrible even if he didn't want to admit it.
He couldn't look at anyone. Blank shock had taken hold, and he knew if he saw that pity in Rebecca's face again he'd lose it, if he saw whatever Lucy had to offer him he would lose it, and no matter what Desmond did, he knew he would lose it, so he sat rigidly in his chair staring at his computer, forcing his fingers to move on the keyboard and cursing himself and his ancestor for making such a goddamn mess of things.
Conversation, if it could be called that, with Desmond became considerably more strained thereafter; at least, it felt that way to Shaun, who could not get the image of that smile and the way Lucy wouldn't look at him out of his head. That little bit of hope within him had died. Finally, when his resentment began bleeding over into other aspects of his life beyond Desmond, Lucy confronted him in the hallway, pinning him with a hard glare.
"We need to talk."
Shaun knew better than to sass her; she could very easily hand his ass to him on a platter if she were so inclined, so he kept his tongue in check. "If you insist."
"I do. Listen, I respect that you have something of a prior claim on Desmond, which is why I'm going to give you a week."
Speechless, Shaun could only open his mouth for a few moments before his vocal tract would function once more. "A-a week? For what?"
"To sort out whatever is going on in your head and make your move. Don't." She held up her hand when she sensed a scoffing protest. "You've been a miserable bastard to deal with. 'Becca assures me you were fine before Desmond showed up, and we both have seen how you look at him." How Shaun looked at Desmond? He hoped faintly that this was a nightmare, or that the floor would open up and swallow him, or anything, just so he didn't have to continue experiencing this mortification. She smiled, a little sad. "One week. After that, I'm going to assume he's fair game." She patted his arm, and then left him standing there in the hallway, drowning in uncertainty.