"Why? To be. To dance between the raindrops. To eat a strawberry. To feel. To greet the sunrise. To hide in a haystack. To invent. To jump in a puddle. To keep a secret. To need. To play. To run barefoot in the grass. To sing into the breeze. To take up space. To weep. To yearn. To ask."

I have shamelessly stolen from a friend and therefore am not the brilliant mind to have written these words. This was for the Brothel Challenge on the AC Kink meme.

The guards were insufferable assholes, just about anyone could admit this. Granted, some of them were good people, but more often than not they were bullies who took their frustrations out on the local populace for fun. Altair ibn La-Ahad held nothing but contempt for the city watch and their ilk, if it were not for the creed, he'd likely hunt them down in rage whenever one Malik A-Sayf decided to turn his acerbic words in the direction of Altair's pride. Which was the case this fine evening as the assassin found himself prowling for citizens to save, if only to take out his own frustrations. Funny how similar he was to his prey, but he wouldn't linger on that thought for long.

Therefore it was little surprise when Altair threw three knives from the rooftops of Jerusalem when he caught sight of a group of guards harassing a poorly dressed woman in the city's red light district. The throwing knives hit their marks with the customary deadly accuracy and the eagle smirked at the surprised guards. Unsheathing his hidden blade, the assassin dropped from the roof and took out one of the remaining two guards. The last had time to turn on Altair and swing at the assassin before he too became a victim to the eagle's talons.

"Thank you so much, sir. I- I don't know that I would have done had you not come when you did. They nearly made off with me. Thank you."

Altair said nothing.

"If you wouldn't mind, could you escort me back? Those men have friends and they will know it was me that caused this. Fakir," she points to one of the twitching corpses, "the captain, he made me a regular target whenever they'd come in. Please, sir, we'll reward you as best we can."

The assassin paused at the request. It wasn't often that someone he saved wanted to spend more than the customary thanks on him, not after they saw him kill with such efficiency. This woman intrigued him.

"One of our customers is a merchant in the square, we get a good discount, and I know you are friends with the rafiq, I have seen you speak with him, perhaps he could use some new inks?"

"Very well."

By the widening of her eyes, Altair could guess that she had not been expecting him to speak. Rather than speak again, as she was clearly fond of, the woman turned and began to walk quickly down the deserted streets, likely to distance herself from the still-bleeding corpses in their death throes.

She led him through the winding side-streets to a small brothel-bar complex, and smiled.

"Again, I thank you. I did not want to chance another-"

She was cut off by the sound of guards running, calling to one another 'over here!' or 'I see someone!' Altair moved with the swiftness he was known for and pulled the girl into the brothel and to a dark corner. He kept his back to the door and her from view as a few guards crowded the doorway. He heard them question the barkeep and a few of the patrons who all wisely denied ever seeing the girl Altair was currently holding close to his chest. She murmured more thanks into his shoulder as she kept her face hidden.

"You there! What are you doing?"

Altair turned, faced the guard, and calmly lied through his teeth.

"My wife sir, she came looking for me and was rather upset. Our cat, you see, she is very fond of the animal and the cat, he has been sick for days..."

The guard, bastard that he is, doesn't even pretend to be interested in Altair's incredibly fake sob story about a dying cat and walks to the front of the bar shaking his head. The men exit, and the assassin releases his charge.

"Thank-"

"You do not need to thank me again."

"Then I need only extend some form of payment, no? Perhaps we can help you, a drink, or a room? There are always the other women, most of us keep to the back, but I can call them out if you'd like."

"There is no need."

"Then I'll make sure that your friend gets that discount I promised."

"If anything I'd have you ask the man to raise the rates for Malik."

"You'd be so cruel?"

"It's hardly cruelty when it comes to that man."

She leads him over to a corner and pushes him onto a pile of cushions before seating herself at his right.

"Tell me."

He looks confused, rightly so, and she shakes her head.

"About your Malik, I've seen you two arguing in the square, I've heard him shouting though the shop is closed and I've seen you flit from the rooftops scant seconds after he's finished shouting. Are things really so bad?"

"He is the reason why I am here."

"He kicked you out, at night?"

Altair wants to brush her off, wants to tell her that it is no concern of hers, but her desire for speech has rubbed off on him swiftly and he can do nothing to keep his mouth shut.

"It wouldn't be the first time."

She gasps slightly.

"It's a shame. I had thought- but no matter of that. Shall I find you some company, or perhaps mine is enough for a man of your calibre?"

"I do not require-"

"I'll go get them then."

She flits into the back room and Altair is no longer alone at the table. A vigilante, a man whose name he half-remembers, is next to him grinning.

"They will take good care of you, my friend. I take it you are well?"

"I am fine, thanks."

"It is good to see you."

Altair's infamous control must be failing him now as the man, Amir as his mind supplies, can read the shock on his face and is amused.

"Certainly it cannot be that odd that we would be glad to see you, friend."

"It is not something I hear often."

"Then that is a shame."

The girl returns, in a far fancier state of dress though with far less in the way of fabric. She is flanked by a score of other women, some of them perhaps men, Altaïr cannot be sure.

"I hope one of us can be of service, sayyid." She is coy now, rather than chatty, perhaps more comfortable in the brothel's garb than in the fabrics of a beggar.

"I do not need such payment."

"Then you have never received such pleasure as we can give you."

She does not wait for his response, but slides next to him and whispers the names and special talents of each of her coworkers. Altair does not know how to respond, he had never actively sought such situations and was a veritable fish out of water, floundering and without a way to escape. She asked him a question he could not recall and he knew he stuttered a negative response. She and her coworkers clearly did not hear him, or rather, disregarded his stuttering answer as they descended upon him like vultures- preening, stroking, and practically moaning their words. He tried to shake them off, but it did little but entangle them further into his space.

"Perhaps this would be easier if we could see your face." And without waiting even a moment one of the girls pulled his hood down to his shoulders and he felt bare, as if he were still a lost child starving on the streets of Damascus, and he hears the gasps but refuses to look closing his eyes so he could not see the judgment.

"Sayyid," the girl he saved breathed, "how can you- How can such a beautiful man stutter under my gaze? Have you never-?"

"Don't."

"I- I do not understand."

"Do not patronize me. I know what I am."

"Sayyid, I do not think you do. Whatever you have heard, whatever you have thought, pay it no heed. We know what you are better than they, we who have bed so many and dreamed of customers like you. I know well what I see, and you are far from whatever it is that you call yourself." Her words were accompanied by a series of nods and even more petting. One enterprising youth decided to grab his left hand and start playing with his fingers- stroking each and massaging. Another took that cue and rounded behind him, putting strong fingers to work into his muscles. Another still carded fingers into his shaggy hair, tugging lightly, tearing a slight groan from his lips. He felt his face flush and cursed himself for his weakness.

"So tense, sayyid. You should relax."

The assassin used their temporary change in tactics to begin pulling them, one by one, off of his form and pushing them away as gently as possible. The only one he could not throw off was the girl he saved as she grabbed his arm and clung like a crustacean on the hull of a ship. He knew his face was bright crimson and scowled at the thought.

"Sadya," one of the other girls called. "Perhaps you should just get the man a drink and let him go home. I think we all know how much you'd like to bed him, but don't try to flatter the man into it. It won't work on his type."

"His type? Ruxana, you are jealous."

While he followed the conversation, he failed to notice another woman, garbed like a european noble, slide into his lap and pull his unoccupied hand into her own- placing it against the swell of her breast and sliding up to pull at the collar of her dress. He felt his hand move, looked down at the appendage, and almost gagged. He made some form of embarrassing sputtering noise as he yanked his hand away and turned his head. The whore was put off by his actions, stood with a huff, and walked up to one of the other customers. He cradled his hand in his lap and watched with some satisfaction as the group of women around him thinned somewhat.

"Of whomever has shared his bed, yes, they are certainly blessed, but he will not bed you. It is not in his way. He is one of those strong, silent types; they do not speak often and keep to themselves. In all matters."

The other girl, Ruxana, procured a drink for the assassin and dismissed the others, likely back to waiting customers though they appeared disappointed. Sadya turned to glare into a corner, scowling. Had he been able to see her face, Altair surely would have been struck by the familiar arrangement of facial muscles.

"Do not let their occupations fool you, friend, they are good women with good hearts."

"I- I do not understand, why would a good woman choose this type of work?"

"Why did you choose your own?"

"You do not choose to be what I am, Amir, you are born or found. Sometimes both."

"Sayyid," Sadya turned to him, "you ask why? To be. To jump in a puddle. To keep a secret. To need. To play. To run barefoot in the grass. To sing into the breeze. To take up space. To weep. To yearn. To ask. I do this for the freedom that it affords me. I like to talk and to think and to read and these things would be denied me if, like other women, I were to stay with my family. Here I have no father to marry me off, no brother to mind me and shadow my every move to protect my 'virtue' so that I do not dishonor my family, no husband to order me. This is the most freedom I can have, for I am not a man. I cannot walk the market alone and unmarried. I cannot fly from the rooftops or learn to wield a blade with skill. I cannot choose to marry who I will. I cannot choose many things." She paused for many moments, considering her words. "I am at least glad that I had a choice, but your work suits you well."

"I had not thought-"

"I do not think you have ever needed to. Now, who is it who has stolen your appetite and your freedom? Your Malik?" Altair turned his head, noticing the smirk on the vigilante's face. "Do not worry, eagle, in this line of work you learn a few things. No matter what form it takes, some things can never be shameful or wrong, despite what some cloistered monks will tell you. They only condemn what they do not know. Everyone is a deviant in some fashion, most in the bedroom. You are not alone."

At the sign of his scowl and the twitch of his fingers, the vigilante decided to use his self preservation skills and wandered over to one of the other 'hostesses'. This girl, though, she intrigued him; she spoke as if she knew him, and perhaps, in some nebulous way Altair didn't completely understand, she did.

"I do not desire Malik."

"Then perhaps you have not yet realized it. You are used to death, not life."

He turned away

"You called me eagle, why?"

She turned amused on a dime, giggling, "You did not give me your name, and I wasn't going to sit here and call you sayyid all evening, I think you'd have my head for that."

"Altair."

She hummed in question.

"My name. It is Altair."

"It suits you. Now," she turned on him with serious eyes, "tell me of Malik."

Altair did not want to tell the girl a thing, but his tongue had been loosened by the wine he downed and again he cursed. He could feel himself wearing down, knew he would tell her everything, and the assassin would not regret it. He had gone too long without telling anyone of his troubles and it would be easy to break him apart and let the words spill from his normally silent lips.

"Please, Altair, I wish to help."

He was lost. He began to weave his tale, he told her of Solomon's Temple, of his guilt and Malik's righteous anger. He told her of their training, their rivalry and their friendship, he told her of his confusion, of his mind constantly twisting Malik's words in his sleep. He could not help the words flowing from his mind, from his heart, and somewhere in his monologue he realized he cared deeply for the caustic Dai.

"You should go to him. Tell him some of this. I think it might help you, eagle."

He wanted to tell her of his thanks, of how much her presence had helped him, but he knew he could not. All his words had left him after their silken, gilded frames had been heard, and he was back to his silence. He also knew she would not accept his thanks, for they were even now, in her mind. To the assassin, the debt had switched sides, rather than be repaid.

"I know it will be hard, your Malik is a proud man, but even willful men can break. Perhaps, if you need some help, I could teach you a thing or two, to loosen his mind."

"You will be hung, one day, for that tongue of yours."

"And you shall save me. Go now, eagle. I've kept you from your home too long."

And she pulled him up and shoved him out the door, righting his hood in the process. Altair hit the street and shivered at the cool night air, at least he was warmed slightly, the alcohol burning through his veins made sure of that. At least the earth wasn't yet spinning up from under his feet- there was a reason Altair didn't drink. That one incident on the docks was more than enough to prevent him from ever going back down that path to drunken idiocy. He'd never forget the look of absolute horror- His own musings were cut off by an indignant squawk and violent cursing that sounded rather familiar.

"Get off of me you stupid- I am not a cripple!"

Malik.

Before he could register what he was doing, Altair began a dead run toward Malik's voice, not even bothering to remember what streets he turned down as he barreled toward the guards. Those fucking bastards.

He jumped one from behind, enjoying the sound of his hidden blade's plunge into the man's lungs, cut another across the throat, and counter-attacked the third. He slid to a halt in front of Malik, not sure if he should break the silence or let the other. Perhaps, he thought, it'd be best to let Malik start. Tread with caution was his typical motto when it came to dealing with the rafiq.

"You insufferable novice, I should kill you where you stand! What do you think I am? A cripple?"

"No, that was not my intention."

"Then what, were you trying to gain my forgiveness by saving me? Because I will not."

"That was not what I meant."

"Oh, so you usually go around saving poor, helpless citizens?"

"Yes."

Malik turned away, clearly not believing that the arrogant, albeit reformed, assassin in front of him would stoop so low as to save a few women and scholars from sadistic guards. Somewhere between that brothel and the alley, Altair's words returned to him. Fluttering things that plagued him, held him in their grasp, and again he caved.

"We do not take the lives of innocents, Malik, and in that, there is an obligation to protect them from those who would do them ill. Is there not? Or are you just angry that you could not kill them yourself?"

"Get out of my sight, Novice."

"I'm out of the Bureau, like you asked. What more can I do? And you have not explained why you are here."

"I do not have to explain anything to you."

"If it involves me, then you do."

"It only involves you because you insisted on interrupting-"

"Malik, you wouldn't have killed them."

"What? Do you doubt my skill?"

"No, but I know you are unarmed and even if you took out two, the third would get away, your cover blown. I know you Malik, you would not jeopardize the brotherhood just to avenge yourself on some guards."

He lowered his head, hiding from the Dai even as he wanted to embrace him.

"That's your excuse," Malik scoffed. "Save it, novice. I don't need your pity."

And Malik turned away.

"Malik!"

He didn't turn back. Altair knew he'd hate himself for this in the morning, but with the wine coursing through his veins, he couldn't stop his tongue.

"Am I supposed to just leave you to be beaten? Am I supposed to walk away from a friend when I could help? Would you have left me?"

"Altair..."

"Would you have left me?" He was walking toward the other now, yelling rather than questioning, and quite possibly shaking. The rafiq didn't respond, so he kept walking until he was a step away, so he was closer to the other than he'd been in months, so close to a year now. He could practically feel the other man against him, hear his breaths, his heartbeat, see every twitch of his sharp eyes. "Would you?"

Malik twitched again, so close to flying into a rage, the words 'foolish novice' on his tongue before he could properly register the lack of distance between them. When he did, he stilled and fought.

He lost.

"No." It was a strangled sound, the single syllable caught in his throat throughout its creation, and the man looked pained at it's revelation.

"Then why is it pity if I help you?"

"Because I'm a cripple."

"Malik, you're hardly a cripple. You could certainly take down most templars, not to mention these guards."

Altair laughed openly at the look on Malik's face. He probably shouldn't have, because it didn't go over well, but, he couldn't help himself. It was just too funny, that the other believed himself a cripple, and yet he had taken it upon himself to beat the Grandmaster at least once every time they met in a sword-fight which eventually devolved into hand-to-hand combat which was usually just Malik aiming a well-placed kick into one of Altair's old wounds that had never really healed properly and then some pathetic grappling attempts that usually ended in one of them giving up, a surrender that was usually punctuated with a punch in the jaw.

Much as they had changed, many things had gone back to the way they had been, except that lingering uncertainty that had sparked the resentment and hate that led to Altair stalking the rooftops of Jerusalem's poor district. Again.

"Then why did you save me like some pathetic woman?"

"Because it'd be better if you didn't have to worry."

"It would be better if who didn't have to worry, because I don't think it is I-"

"Fine, Malik, I don't like seeing you hurt, is that what you want to know? That I don't like watching people beat you, call you a cripple, that I can't bear the thought of you dying?" As he spoke, he found himself facing away from the man, backing away and prepared to fly.

"Novice."

"I bear myself to you, and that is all you can say?"

"Damnit, Altair, turn around."

Before he could move, the one-armed man spun him around and pulled him into a hug that was quite bone-crushing for being performed with a single arm. He tensed, but quickly relaxed into the embrace, wrapping his arms around the other in a steel cage.

"Novice."

"Cripple."

"We should move."

"Before another group of guards finds us? Probably."

"I said move, novice!"

"I don't know, are you sure you don't need help, cripple?"

"Altair, why do you smell like perfume?"

"Well- uh, there were some women. I saved one of them... She wanted to repay me."

"You rescued a prostitute and a cripple in one evening, I'm shocked. Did she offer herself in payment?"

"Herself or one of her... friends."

"So, I come out here looking for you, to make sure you don't get skewered by some templars, and you're off with a whore-"

"Malik" Said man never knew the assassin could whine.

"Oh, you could not perform, my apologies. She should have expected as much from such a novice."

"Malik-"

"It's alright, many men suffer from such, especially when drinking-"

He hadn't thought he'd do it, honestly had never thought he'd want to press his lips to Malik's and hold the other to him and never let go, as impossible as that was, as much as the other would protest. As little experience as he had with such things, his body seemed to react for him and it was so comforting to fall back on instinct, to just let himself get lost in movements and the feeling of lips and tongue. He was forced to pull back eventually, eyes glazed and mind hazy, and Malik just had to ruin everything. Sort of.

"Not bad, for a novice."

And Altair decided he quite liked his new method of cutting off Malik's insults. That is, until shouts of 'Who did this?' rang through the air. The assassins pulled away, shared a grin, and ran, unfortunately attracting the attention of the guards who began screaming 'Assassins! Get them!' and the ever-so-lovely 'Die infidel, die!'

Neither of them had ever felt quite as alive as they did fleeing the guards, taking turns that would pull them away from one another only to regroup further down the path on their way to the bureau. Both veered to the right, dove into a pile of hay, and waited. When the men had passed, cursing, they jumped out and grinned, moving slowly to the ladder at the side of the bureau, dropping down the lattice work, and laughing.

Under the sound of their shared mirth, he didn't hear Malik sneaking up behind him, only felt the other's arm warp around his waist, smiling lips pressing into his neck. He had stopped laughing the second the other's hand ghosted across his hip and his breathing stilled accordingly.

"Did she press against you like this, or did she fear getting too close?" Malik's hips ground into his own and a small groan escaped his lips at the contact.

"Did she ever get you to scream, to lose that infamous composure?" Lips and teeth dug into his neck, biting, sucking, a tongue laving the wounds. "Did she?"

"N-no, Malik." A smug mouth moved up to tug at his ear.

"Good."

Once he'd had time to recover himself, he spun in the other's grasp, and returned the favor, marking the Dai's neck with a touch of his old arrogance.

"I'm not your toy, Malik."

Said man huffed in annoyance, "As if I'd be so bold-" A bite to his ear silenced him.

"You would."

Altair walked Malik into the back room, neither of them separating from the embrace of arms and lips, but their hands did stray, causing minds to wander, and both knew they'd be sporting some rather interesting bruises in the morning.

"Have you done this before?"

"What do you think?" A wicked bite to a collarbone.

"Novice."

"Doesn't mean I don't know what I'm doing."

Altair again silenced Malik's protests with his mouth and began working off the other's clothes before turning to his own. It was a tangled, messy, process that neither found particularly graceful, but were indeed thankful for the outcome. Soon neither could speak in coherent sentences; just groans of names and whispered commands, the feeling of skin against skin, rolling hips, and throaty moans.

When Altair woke in the morning, he was somewhat disoriented, his mind still clouded from sleep. He cursed himself lightly and moved to sit up, but was deterred by a weight along his side. He looked to the side, stiffened at the sight of Malik pillowed against his chest, but slowly let the tension fade and curled into the other once more. He thought to himself 'Why? To be. To dance between the raindrops. To eat a strawberry. To feel. To greet the sunrise. To hide in a haystack.'

He'd sleep in for once, let Malik work through the morning, and pull the man onto the rooftops in the afternoon. Then he'd ask him about returning to Masyaf.

"Stop thinking."

"Hmm?"

"I can hear that pathetic thing you call a mind exerting itself from here."

"Mal?"

"What?"

"Sleep."

"I have a bureau to run, novice."

"Okay, I'm going back to sleep then." He turned his head back to the pillow, winding both arms around the struggling Malik.

"Oh no you aren't. Get up."

"I don't have to run this bureau. You do. So go be a good cripple, and sit at that desk for hours waiting for no one." He opened his arms slightly, and Malik shifted.

"I have a few novices coming in-"

"No you don't." The arms tightened their hold again.

"What?"

"They aren't ready, they'll need a few more weeks. I sent a pigeon."

"I have a cover to keep." More struggling.

"So, you slept in. You had a guest and he kept you up far longer than you thought. They'll understand, I'm sure."

"Damnit Altair, you insufferable excuse for a man-"

"I did keep you up late."

Sleep could wait, he decided, flipping Malik underneath him. He'd enjoy reliving those last few hours.

"What do you think you are doing, Novice. I have things to do!"

"So do I."

"Novice!"

"Cripple."

A bite, a lick, and a shudder.

"Damn you."

"What?" poorly feigned innocence. "Everything is permitted, after all." He slid down the other's body.

"That's not what it means, fool."

"Does it matter?" A lick, long, languid, and then he took the other into his mouth entirely, hallowing his cheeks.

"Yes, right there, ah- Altair!" He pulled away with a smirk.

"Thought so."

"Arrogant ass."

"You love me."