Here is my very first AC fic. I hope I don't disappoint.

Malik was very observant. His keen sense for his surroundings often prevented him from getting into a lot of trouble. The welfare of an assassin relied heavily on his ability to observe and react to their surroundings. It was not surprising, then, that these little additions to his bureau had not gone unnoticed.

They started off small at first. Things he could easily pick up himself from the nearest vendor. Paper from the stall three streets down, or an ornamented inkpot from another in the richer section of the town- things he needed, he found on the counter. He frowned at first, but brushed it off as some overeager novice, trying to either curry favor with him (who knows why) or repaying him for the guidance he gives. Then, one day, he found a glass bauble on his desk. He was sure it must have been expensive, and if it came from one of the novices he was equally sure it was stolen. He picked it up and held it in the little streams of sunlight that entered the room, watching the light refract and play along the glass in an entrancing spray of colors that made him pause a moment and simply gaze. The middle of the glass was full of sand that looked to be made of crushed gems or something like it. It shone sometimes blue, sometimes purple. It was perhaps not the most thoughtful gift, but it was beautiful.

On the next day, Malik found a beautifully carved chess set put into place in the back of the bureau. Since he'd arrived there, the table had been left empty. Few knew of Malik's enjoyment of the game. The opportunity to test tactics, strategy, and his own skills of observation never ceased to entertain. Now he was sure that it was not a novice who brought him these gifts.

Today, Malik looked around the bureau. He found himself to be slightly disappointed. He realized with a start that he was expecting the gifts now, and scolded himself. To his shock, there was an answer to his disgruntled muttering. He followed the noise out to the closed fountain area, where the assassin's dropped in. There was an ornate, carved wooden box filled to the brim with a plush cushion. Inside it laid a well groomed white cat. A leather collar graced its neck, flowing Arabic script carved into it.

'Peace.'

Malik's lip twitched. The cat looked up at him with startlingly golden eyes. It stood and stretched before coming to him. He knelt and held out his hand, letting the cat come the rest of the way to him. It sniffed his hand before mewing and rubbing its head along it. Malik couldn't help the soft smile that graced his lips then, and he obliged the cat by petting it.

In a moment he felt the weight of eyes upon him, and Malik whipped his head up, but only the flash of white cloth that disappeared from view. Malik cursed his missing arm. He patted the cat one last time before picking up her- he figured it was a she- box and moving it to the main office of the bureau. On his way back, he grabbed the large stick to move the cover of the entrance to the bureau and then went about getting the bureau ready for the day, his body moving out of force of habit. His mind however was busily hatching a plan catch the mysterious benefactor.

That night, Malik conserved his energy and went to sleep early, intent on waking before the sun rose. He slept lightly, waking when he heard the cat get up and leave the room. Malik guessed that it was early in the night still, and debated going back to sleep, when he heard a rustling from outside, followed by the cat's mewling and a low curse. Malik froze at the sound of that voice.

'… no. No, no, no…' He got up slowly, making sure to make no noise, and crept towards the doorway. A soft breeze chilled him, and he regretted wearing only his pants, but the extra clothe just made more noise he needed to stifle. He peeked around the corner, spotting the white hood of an assassin immediately. The cat was curling around his leg, obviously enjoying the attention.

"Shh… You'll wake him up, Naimah…" The low voice traveled across the room, igniting an automatic response deep inside Malik-annoyance. Malik crossed the room three strides, amazingly keeping himself silent until he was right behind the other man.

"Altair, what are you doing?" The reaction was instantaneous. The other man instinctively jumped up, a hand on the hilt of his short sword, the other poised to release his hidden blade. In retrospect, Malik realized that sneaking up on an assassin was not the brightest of his ideas. He brought his one arm to catch Altair's left arm, staying the hidden blade. "Wait, you idiotic novice!" The name seemed to jar something in the other man, and recognition flowed onto his face, followed swiftly by apprehension.

"…. Safety and pe-"

"You have been sneaking into my bureau every night and the best thing you can come up with is that?"

Altair's hooded face did little to hide the guilty look, although Malik noticed with some aggravation that his gaze held some petulance, as if he was the victim. Malik's eye twitched.

"What do you think you're doing?" Malik's voice was terse. Altair frowned, but did not harden his own gaze. Instead, he focused on the cat that was now weaving between their legs.

"I just wanted to get you some things... I saw that you needed supplies, so I brought some," Altair shrugged as if that were obvious. Malik finally gave an exasperated sigh, bringing his hand up to his eyes.

"Yes, I saw that. I suppose I should thank you for the consideration, however, that does not explain the last few gifts and…" Malik's gaze was finally drawn away from Altair. On the ground was something new. Malik rested his hand on Altair's shoulder to push him gently aside, but Altair merely pulled Malik's hand off of him, his touch lingering, before he went to retrieve the object. Altair brought it, holding it out for inspection. It was a short sword, beautifully crafted with simple, but elegant designs on the hilt and at the base of the blade. The steel shone in the early sunlight, showing a smooth, unwavering surface.

"… Do you like it?" Altair's voice startled Malik out of his reverie. He looked from the blade to Altair. Altair's face was calm and collected, but his gaze was thrown fitfully about the room, never settling on one thing for too long. He was nervous.

"Yes, it is a fine blade, but… Altair, I do not understand- why are you doing this?" Now it was Altair's turn to look dumbstruck. Malik wasn't sure what kind of explanation he was expecting, but the last thing he thought he'd see was Altair's embarrassed fumbling.

"Malik, is it not your birthday today?"

There was dead silence.

"… It is?" Slowly, realization dawned on Malik. Numbly he looked down at the short sword. "Oh."

Altair sighed, smiling softly.

"You forgot, didn't you, Dai?"

"Well, yes? I have been busy guiding your new novices, as I'm sure you recall." There was an awkward silence then, both men unsure how to continue. At length, Altair coughed, and held the blade out to Malik, hilt first.

"Would you like to try it out?" Altair's voice was soft, open, no pressure added to the suggestion. Malik paused for a moment, and then reached his hand out, feeling the roughened grip of the hilt warm under his touch. He drew it from Altair's hands, testing the feel and weight of the blade. He was swinging it about a few times when he noticed Altair had walked to a corner of the room, taking off his hood and weapons. Malik put the sword down on the counter and began to stretch. When he was finished, he found Altair looking at him, those sharp gold eyes taking in everything. Malik rolled his shoulders, picked up the sword, and then he was ignorant of everything in the room. There was only the sound of his blade singing through the air as he flowed from stance to stance. He marveled at the ease with which the blade could be used. It was light, but solid, every thrust and swing feeling solid and sure. His bare feet dug into the smooth ground and he felt once more like he once did, full of power and devoid of fear. He was death once more, graceful and swift, the one-armed rafiq of Jerusalem no longer inhabiting his body.

When he finished, he was panting, and sweat covered his body. As he caught his breath, he began to search for Altair, only to freeze as he felt warm arms wrap themselves around his waist. Malik would have flinched, but his workout left him feeling weak and spent.

"Altair…?" Malik whispered softly, his voice cracking. Lips descended on the back of his neck, kissing a trail down to his shoulder blades.

"I knew the sword would suit you. You are beautiful…" Altair's compliment was nothing more than a breathy gasp against his skin, but his words sent Malik reeling. He felt that some part of him should feel slighted by the compliment, but instead he felt warm. Altair's mouth moved further down, and Malik could feel every contour of his mouth, the rough scar on the side of his slightly chapped lips, his teeth gently grazing the sweat-soaked skin, and his tongue darting out at intervals to complete the action. Malik's blood pumped swiftly through his veins, and the heat traveled with it. Altair had moved so that he stood on Malik's side. His hand traveled down the rafiq's well-muscled side, causing the man's breath to hitch in response. His other hand, however, moved down the remains of Malik's missing arm, stroking the recently healed skin, and then fingers were replaced by his cheek, and then his cheek was replaced by his mouth, and Malik felt all his senses hone in on the other assassin.

"A-Altair… I don't…" Malik was unsure how to describe what he was feeling, but the sight of Altair kissing at the wounds he himself had indirectly caused took his breath away. It was the most intimate thing that had ever happened between them. Altair stopped to look up at him, obviously expecting to be stopped. There was a few seconds of silence before Altair began to back away, apology and explanation ready on his tongue.

Before he even realized what he was doing, Malik's hand had reached out and gripped the white robe and wrenched the other man towards him. Their mouths met roughly, just barely missing a collision of teeth, and then Altair was kissing him deeply, hands tangled into his hair and gripping him tight. Malik's one arm wrapped around his chest, fingers digging into the rough material of Altair's clothing, and he could taste the tang of sweat on Altair's tongue, feel the desperation in his hands and the nervousness in the body flush against his own…

Finally, the need for oxygen got the better of them both, and they stopped, resting their foreheads against one another and catching their breath. Altair's hands would not stop their roaming, exploring panes of dark skin like he could not stop.

"Happy birthday, Malik." Malik could not help but laugh at that. Despite all the confusion, all the heat, all the intimacy, Altair's single-mindedness shone through like a beacon. Malik put his head onto the man's shoulder.

"Thank you for the best gift you could have given me." Malik felt Altair's head crane towards him.

"Which one is that, brother?" Altair's voice was genuinely confused. Instead of answering, Malik only looked at him, hoping to convey the deep feeling inside, the feeling of being wanted, of being appreciated, even, just maybe, of being loved. Keeping that thought close, and those feelings closer, Malik kissed Altair softly, a sharp contrast to their earlier, rushed kiss, and into it Malik put those feelings, and once again, Altair thought he was beautiful.

AN: So yeah... I wasn't terribly happy with it, but with any luck one of you like it. ^^; Thanks for reading! Comments are greatly appreciated.