Chapter 9

Desmond was nervous, ecstatic and scared all at the same time. But most of all, he was soaking wet... As Malik still held his face, a shiver ran down his spine. His clothes were sticking unpleasantly to his skin, and the Jerusalem night air chilled him to the bone. The master of the Bureau frowned as he watched Desmond. The young man looked different from the last time he'd seen him. He was skinnier, his complexion was pale and terrible dark circles highlighted his eyes. He could feel the young man trembling under his fingers; he looked exhausted.

Despite the hundreds of questions Malik wanted to ask the dark-haired man, he decided that his protégé's well-being came first.

- Take off your clothes, sighed the black-haired man.

- Huh?! Wait! M... Malik I...

Desmond's surprised look and flushed cheeks made the assassin smile. Apparently the young man had misunderstood his intentions. The master of the Bureau raised a hand to interrupt.

- You're going to get sick if you stay like this, he explained.

- Ho!

Desmond lowered his head in embarrassment as he realized he'd made a mistake.

- I'll go and get you something to dry you off and get you dressed, continued Malik. In the meantime...

The black-haired man grabbed the collar of Desmond's sweater and pulled him towards him. Their faces were inches apart when Malik breathed out:

- Take it all off.

Cheeks ablaze, the young man nodded. Malik then gracefully left the room under Desmond's gaze. When he was alone, the dark-haired man let out a nervous sigh. He couldn't help it, the assassin had him in a tizzy every time he was near.

Desmond quickly set to work. Getting rid of the layers of tissue that clung to his skin was not the easiest thing to do. He had a particularly hard time with his T-shirt, and ended up stuck with his arms in the air, fidgeting like a maggot. A sigh came from his left and two strong hands rescued him from the overly affectionate fabric. Desmond breathed a "thank you" before opening his eyes. His gaze fell on his ancestor's exasperated ambers. Altair moved away to sit on one of the room's many cushions. The brunet could hear him muttering things like "kid", "completely defenseless" and "surely not an assassin". The redhead was dressed only in baggy pants and was actively drying his hair with a cloth.

Desmond then moved to his pants. Those seemed prety fond of him and didn't want to let him go. In his battle, the brunet tripped over a cushion and toppled backwards, crashing like an idiot. On the ground, the young man was exhausted, panting. He vaguely heard a "You got to be kidding me" coming from the assassin's side. The latter had risen to his feet with the firm intention of making a complete ass of the kid who'd just fell. But when he reached his level, he saw the exhaustion on the younger man's face. Altair was an admitted arrogant asshole, but he wasn't a monster either. With another sigh, he leaned over Desmond and grabbed the edges of his pants to help him. The dark-haired man gave him an apologetic look and lifted his pelvis to get rid of the garment. The assassin also had the hardest time in the world removing those damn pants (which were determined to marry Desmond). Finally, he grabbed the bottom of the garment at the ankles and yanked. At the same time Malik entered the room. The Bureau's master saw the redhead, who had put all his strength into the movement, topple backwards, the pants fluttering in his hands, and fall flat on his face. Desmond, finally free of the fabric, saw Altair's surprised expression before he fell and couldn't help but burst out laughing.

The black-haired man leaned against the door, his hand on his hip. He stared at the two men in bafflement, a slight smile on his lips. Altair straightened up furiously and glared at the young man, who couldn't stop his hilarity. The redhead then met Malik's gaze, who raised an eyebrow mockingly.

- Novice, scoffed Malik.

Wounded in his pride, Altair jumped to his feet, red with embarrassment and anger.

- Shut up! he shouted. I'd like to see you try!

- Really? snarked the black-haired man.

It took a few seconds for the redhead to get the hint. He raised his hand suddenly and groaned.

- No! Keep this between you, I don't want to know anything about it.

After one last glance at the dark-haired man, who was catching his breath, Altair approached Malik to leave the room. But before leaving, he slipped him a few words.

- The kid's clearly exhausted. I don't know what's happened to him, but he's far too thin to be in good health. Take care of him. We'll talk tomorrow.

The master of the Office nodded, agreeing with the assassin. There was no point in questioning the young man when he was exhausted.

Malik knelt down beside Desmond, who was trying in vain not to fall asleep.

- You look awful... murmured Malik.

- I'm sorry... breathed the dark-haired man. It's the Animus...

The black-haired man frowned. He had no idea what the young man was talking about.

- Desmond, can you stand up? asked Malik.

The dark-haired man gave him an unsure look, but tried anyway. It took a great deal of effort and Malik's help to get him to his feet. The Master of the Office then guided him to his room and led the young man, who was almost asleep, to the bed.

- Lie down, sleep. I'll take care of the rest, Malik breathed.

- But... you've got questions... murmured Desmond.

- Tomorrow. Now sleep.

The dark-haired man sank into a deep sleep. He vaguely felt someone gently drying him and covering him with new clothes. Then a warm body joined him in bed and a hand caressed his head for a long moment.

The next morning, Desmond awoke to the tantalizing smell of breakfast. The bed next to him was cold, and he had no idea what time it was. For the first time in months, he felt rested. He certainly hadn't made up for all his sleepless nights, but it had done him a world of good. Slowly, the dark-haired man stood up. Apparently Malik had lent him one of his tunics. He really liked the midnight-blue color, but it was obvious that the master of the Office's musculature was far superior to his own, and he was floating in the garment. He'd never had a chance to see the black-haired man's body, but just imagining it made him feel hot.

The rumbling of his stomach reminded him of his sweet fantasies. So he headed for the source of the delicious aroma: the kitchen. There sat Altair, who didn't seem inclined to leave to Malik's dismay, and the Master of the Office. The latter was placing fruit on the table when he saw Desmond enter. The sight of the young man in his tunic sent shivers down his spine. It was too big and fell slightly over the dark-haired man's shoulders. God, he wanted to bite that tender skin, so innocently uncovered.

- Malik. Let him eat, growled Altair. Both of you can do what you want once the kid explained himself AND I'm far away! Very far away!

Eyelids covered Malik's predatory gaze as he struggled to control himself. The dark-haired boy looked too adorable in his tunic!

Altair heaved a sigh and beckoned Desmond to sit down. He'd never admit it, but he was relieved to see that the kid seemed to be in better shape. In the meantime, Malik pulled himself together and served the young man a hearty breakfast, determined to fill up the skinny boy.

Desmond ate a little, but Altaïr's and Malik's scrutinizing glances made him nervous. The two men were polite enough to wait until the younger boy had swallowed something before questioning him. Finally, it was Malik who broke the tense silence. He sat down next to the dark-haired man and asked softly:

- Yesterday you said your condition was due to the Animus... Who is it?

A grimace formed on Desmond's face. Explanations were going to be difficult.

- It's not someone, he replied. It's a machine.

- What's a machine? cut in Altair.

- Er...

Desmond panicked. How can I explain what a machine is to people who don't know anything about electricity?!

- Let's just say it's an object that lets you do things," the dark-haired man finally replied.

Boy, was he bad at explaining...

- What kind of things? asked a puzzled Malik.

- I... I think before I explain how the Animus works, I'd better start by telling you about myself...

He couldn't possibly tell them about the Animus without first telling them that he was from the future. If they could accept that, the hard part would be over... My God... They'd think he was crazy...

- My name is Desmond Miles and I was born in New York on March 13, 1987," he declared firmly.