The room was illuminated by the sunlight pouring through the open windows, dust motes visible as they floated within the light. It was quiet, silence only broken by the soft sounds of breathing and the scratch of pencil on paper.

The latter paused for a moment as the artist stole a quick glance towards the window, seeing few people milling about the street. Beyond those that remained the sun could be seen beginning to set, slowly tinting the land ochre. He returned to his drawing, satisfied. He would have time to finish.

Beneath his hand, the image of a hood collapsed around limp shoulders was beginning to form. Frequently he looked up at his unwitting model, frowning at each of skewed features or lines before correcting them.

The man had come in exhausted, bloody, and near unconsciousness. It wasn't anything new; the artist had since become used to having to take care of the idiota when he got himself into such messes in the times he was in Venezia. He became too arrogant for his own good often, and it was a wonder he had managed to survive when Leonardo wasn't around to save his skin.

The man lost consciousness before Leonardo could even start to try and bind the gashes. He spoke to himself half-heartedly about the man's stupidity as he worked, finishing as good as he could without the heavy fool's conscious cooperation.

That had been two hours ago, and still he hadn't shown signs of stirring anytime soon. While he had other things that he should have been working on, starting a new project was just too tempting to pass up. It would be just a sketch, nothing more, for his own enjoyment, then it would be back to his paintings in the morn. He had nothing but time, anyhow.

So he had cleared away the masses of papers from his table, making a small spot for a fresh start.

It was nice, able to know that his companion was alive and in one piece without the fuss and worry the man held for his tasks. The assassin rarely slept unless he was in a state such as this, where he had no choice. He was stubborn, always wanting to work. So unlike what he had been as a child- always dozing off in his chair despite a good night's rest, and living a life without care.

Leonardo had watched him grow over the years, gaining a feeling for the boy that he assumed was something close to fatherly. As time went by, he became more serious, rarely relaxing, though there were a few times that he would, one way or another, be still for a while.

It was these times when he was less like a savage and more like a man.

At the moment, if Leonardo hadn't known better, he might have thought there was nothing different about Ezio from the others that roamed the streets. The robes that marked his order were discarded a ways away from where he lay, joined with the armor he wore during his work. Now all the fanciful garb was gone, only the simple pants and thin shirt that he wore to keep the metal armor from rubbing against bare skin.

The artist gave the slightest nod to himself as he drew a stroke that was passable as the scar that crossed the partially open mouth a few yards in front of him, content, if not pleased.

With a few finishing flourishes of his hand he finished the details of the drawing. It was laid atop the plans for a new blade for the other man. The artist closed the fabric to cover the dying light completely, watching the sleeping man for a moment before he lightly touched the assassin's forearm.

"Buona notte e songi d'oro."

He shook his head, laughing quietly. "Sciocco."

An amber eye half opened to watch the artist's retreating back down the hall. A smile slipped across his face as he replied in a whisper quiet enough that his friend wouldn't hear.

"E a voi, Leonardo."