Disclaimer: I do not own nor profit from Assassin's Creed or its characters.

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Altair watched the younger man through hooded eyes, his posture rigid on the cathedral tower. This was no ordinary citizen. Yet he did not move like the arrogant guards. Nor with the underhanded slink of thieves and murderers.

The breeze blew through his flowing stark white robes, breathing air through the dry landscape. An eagle swooped by, giving a short cry of greeting. An unused smirk graced the Arab's features for a moment, before he looked down and saw brown eyes widening up at him from the streets.

By the Creed. How had the boy singled him out in the tall structure? No one ever looked up.

The boy started to run.

Altair, face set in curiosity, gave chase.

-o-o-o-

Shit.

Desmond had no idea what happened. There had been no animus. Not this time.

No memory bleed effect.

No fuckin' warning at all.

He just woke up and here he was, back in what had to be the Middle East in Altair's time.

No dank hiding place. No beep and whir of the computer equipment. No Shaun bitching at him for some reason or other. Not even the smell of the morning coffee.

Scratch that. There was coffee in the air, but mixed with the spices drifting from Arabian stalls.

Not to mention the bustle and chatter of a busy marketplace.

People were giving him strange looks about his jeans and hoodie, so he... liberated a beige robe and dark sash to cover up.

He was doing relatively well not freaking out about the whole thing, and fell back on his training to blend in with the crowd, but he couldn't keep the nervous set of his shoulders as he walked aimlessly.

He was trying to get his bearings, about to consider getting to higher ground to map the terrain, when a familiar bird cried out. He looked up sharply, only to startle when he found an even more familiar figure crouched on a high steeple. The white and red of the assassin robe was unmistakable. The hard glint of amber eyes clenched it.

Altair.

Fuck.

He shouldn't have ignored that creeping tingle up his spine. The feeling of being watched.

Not wanting to face the consequences of a meeting with his ancestor, Desmond took off down the streets, praying his training would be enough.

Slipping and brushing past the crowd, Desmond lifted his feet and pelted it down the alleys and street corners. He spotted a shadow from the rooftops, keeping pace. He tried to switch it up.

He took a sharp corner, swinging through the vendor stall as he did so, surprising the hell out of the owner.

Then, of course, some guards came into the picture and things got a little more heated.

-o-o-o-

Altair had to admit, he was a little surprised at the ease the stranger eluded the crowd. Almost as if...

But no, if he was of the brotherhood, Altair would have recognized the young man a mile away.

The sweep through the stall, a clear attempt to shake Altair's trail, was nearly flawless. Only nearly since he had impeccably high standards on such maneuvers. That and he had yet to meet someone who could match his own class.

He snorted though, as the stranger practically stumbled into a standard formation of soldiers.

'Amateur' His inner voice chided.

He considered jumping in to assist, if only to have someone alive to question and possibly kill himself. But then the stranger continued to surprise him.

The glint of a hidden dagger, and suddenly two of the guards fell, fatally wounded before their weapons had left their sheaths. Then the stranger was off again, the rest of the guards scrambling to follow.

Amused, Altair merely kept pace, watching from a distance.

He admitted begrudgingly, the boy had skill. He slowly weeded out the throng of guards that kept accumulating, up to at least 30 at one point, by taking the alleyways and shortcuts, and killing them by assassination or outright brawls. At one point he even lost sight of the boy for a second -not something he would EVER admit while he was still breathing- only to snort when the stranger suddenly discreetly popped from a haycart and flung a poisoned dagger at the guards running past.

As the crowd parted to watch the flailing and frothing guard, none too sad about the incident, the stranger took the time to drag a few unsuspecting guards into the hay with him.

Altair snorted to himself.

All right.

So the boy was creative and fast on his feet.

He was also that much more dangerous since his loyalties were still in question.

-o-o-o-

Desmond used the poisoned guard as a distraction to covertly kill a few more guards on the sidelines, before springing forth from his hiding place to take care of the rest.

He was done with running.

Facing the throng of guards after stabbing two simultaneously through the face, Desmond realized he would need more than his hidden dagger to get rid of the remaining handful.

Standing wait, arms out as though calmly beckoning them, the first to get over his nervousness at the sudden disappearance of his comrades, charged.

Grimly smiling, Desmond counted his breaths.

One.

The guard swung his spear straight at his torso.

Two.

Desmond twisted his body ever-so-slightly to the side, a step taken as if he were dancing.

Three.

He twisted his dagger around the shaft, looping his arm around to forcefully wrench the weapon from his enemy's grasp.

Four.

The look of utter shock as the man found his own spear sticking out his back, body curled over the shaft almost intimately.

Desmond stepped away from the dead man, who was slowly sinking to his knees, as he surveyed the remaining enemies. He was prepared for an all out brawl. Guards coming from all sides. That, and his relentless training, were the only things that helped him survive the oncoming onslaught.

Ducking under another thrust of a lance, Desmond tossed the attached guard up and over, using the guy's momentum against him. He spun as he took a wide step, dancing out of the path of a spiked club, before gliding smoothly under the bladed kiss of a sword.

"Oh, you need to learn to play fair." Desmond admonished sternly as he grabbed the hilt of the sword, plunging it into the guard's comrade, who likewise clubbed the bladed man as Desmond agilely turned his head, dodging the fatal face smash meant for him. Releasing both as they dropped dead and dying, Desmond tucked and rolled backwards as a large axe cleaved the air where his midsection had been.

An arrow lodged itself where his foot was before he sprung forward just in time.

Cursing, he drew out his throwing daggers. He tossed one just as the big guy with the axe came at him again, throwing off his aim. He heard the soldier on the rooftop cry out, hit but not down.

He charged the guy with the axe, only to have to spring to the side as another arrow missed him by inches. Fed up with the rooftop annoyance, he sprinted towards the wall, preparing to scale it, but the armored lug moved fast for his size, blocking him with a crash of his axe, chipping the ground in front of the assassin.

"You have got to be kidding me." Desmond groaned, exasperated.

He faced the behemoth, only to start as he heard the whiz of a projectile. And suddenly he was stuck.

He had a moment to glance down and see the arrow sticking the end of his stolen robe to the ground, before the big guy grabbed him, holding him in place.

Realizing he was well and truly screwed now, Desmond grunted as he was yanked to face the rooftop guard. Execution by arrow with a burly, sweating guard holding him.

Great.

"Can't we talk about this for a sec?" Desmond threw the question to the man behind him, brown eyes focused on death from above notching his crossbow a final time.

Just before the killshot, a blur of white flashed across the rooftops. The archer went down with a gurgled shout, crossbow flying over his head as the Syrian assassin covered him like a fatal cloak.

Seconds later everything around Desmond erupted in a cloud of smoke, stinging his eyes. He took in a painful breath of it before his training kicked in and he held it, exhaling slowly as he elbowed the coughing guard. Altair had thrown a smoke bomb, and Desmond took full advantage as he tore his cloak free and sprinted away after stabbing the guard swiftly through his jugular.

Running through fences and alleyways, he ducked onto a bench when he felt he was far enough away. The two elderly on the bench barely glanced at him, continuing their whispered conversation about the corrupt youth of the era.

A few minutes later Desmond watched impartially as the straggling guards ran past. He still found it funny how close they come, but never truly detect him.

Once they are past, he stands, brushing himself off as he nods farewell to his bench partners.

They hardly give him a second glance. But he's too relieved to care. Killing and eluding that many guards always filled him with a sense of euphoria.

Until a certain pair of amber eyes stopped him dead in his tracks.

"Shiiiit." Desmond cursed inaudibly under his breath.

The assassin stood calmly on the rooftops, looking down at him expectantly.

How did he find him?

Well... master assassin...

Guess it made sense.

Really not wanting another repeat of the previous events, Desmond seriously considered heading up to meet the inevitable.

That's when he saw a flash of swirling glyphs and lights. He felt inexplicably drawn to it. The weird thing -besides the fact that it was there in the first place- was that it swirled like a round doorway straight into the side of a wall.

Hope sparked in him. Could it be... the way home?

He shot one last glance at Altair. A deep frown appeared on the Arab's face, body tensing.

-o-o-o-

Altair frowned.

He wouldn't-

Then Desmond was off like a shot, sprinting down the narrow corridor.

Hissing in frustration at the boy's impudence and obvious lack of forethought, Altair races along the rooftops in pursuit.

-o-o-o-

So close.

Desmond felt a cold shiver tap his spine in tandem with the silent running footsteps of the deadly assassin above him.

But if he could just reach that portal-

-o-o-o-

Altair saw a strange light. But he paid no heed to it. Mind focused solely on his quarry.

He leaped gracefully from the rooftops, knees drawn taut to his body, arms extended as though to maneuver through his rapid descent.

He prepared for impact.

-o-o-o-

Desmond reached out. Just a few steps more.

Then the breath left him forcefully as a muscled body dropped on him from the sky.

A string of curses left his lips as they tumbled, stopping just short of the glowing runes on the wall.

Desmond grit his teeth as his left arm was pulled at a painful angle behind him, front and face pressed into the dirt as the weight of a trained killer rested on his back.

"Your name. And why you are here. You will tell me these things at once." Altair's voice was callous and demanding, leaving no room for error.

Desmond gave a brief, nervous laugh. To think he would be at the mercy of his own ancestor, with the ruthless tactics he himself has applied through the animus.

Altair mistook the laugh, and twisted his arm harder.

Desmond hissed in pain before he answered shortly, knowing what the next steps would be should he refuse. Altair was not a patient man.

"Desmond. Desmond Miles. And I just want to get home." He grunted, managing to keep the discomfort out of his tone.

"Dez-munhd... Miles... such an... uncommon name." The Arabian commented off-handedly with a frown, his pressure loosening at Desmond's compliance.

A little irate at being pinned by the man, and now having his name made fun of at the first meeting with the master assassin who had accomplished so many incredible things, Desmond shot back defensively, "Hey, I like my name. It suits me just fine. Besides, it's more common back home where I'm from."

He could feel the man's frown deepen behind him.

Great, Desmond, why not shove your foot in your mouth a little deeper?

"And where is that, exactly, Dez-munhd?"

About 900 years or so in the future, give or take.

"A place far away from here. You haven't heard of it." Desmond replied evasively.

"I have studied for many moons and seasons under the tutelage of masters well-versed in their respective areas of expertise, geography included. Try me, Dez-munhd Miles."

"No I'm serious, Altair, you wouldn't-"

Suddenly Desmond found himself flipped over on his back, the dust settling as he found a bundle of honed and muscled assassin still sitting atop him. But suspicious and angry. Very angry.

Especially if the bite of the hidden blade pressed coldly against his neck was a good indicator.

"Do you work for the Templars? Which of the order did you kill to get your weapons. And HOW. Do you know. My name?" Altair drew dangerously closer at each bitten statement, dagger held at ready.

Desmond swallowed slowly, his throat suddenly dry. His adam's apple bobbed painfully close to the cold blade.

The look in those amber eyes could freeze hell itself. Those eyes had witnessed a thousand deaths. A thousand dying souls rendered as such by Altair Ibn-La'Ahad's very hands. Ruthless. Calculating. Efficient.

And they were focused on one utterly disbelieving Desmond Miles.

And they held no qualms to end him then and there if he did not answer. And no promises to keep him from death even if he should.

Desmond's heart fluttered rapidly in his chest. Never had he held such fear and uncertainty in his own well-being. He had faced Templars, Borgia, dangerous men. But none struck the type of fear that the single gaze from Altair inflicted on him.

"I..." Desmond cleared his throat as he found his voice trembling, albeit slightly, before continuing in a more hardened tone, "Am not. A Templar."

"Your next words could very well be your last." Altair warned, eyes very intense as they searched Desmond's brown, one hand fisted in his chest as the other held the hidden blade steady, "Who are you?"

"My name is Desmond Miles. I am part of the Order of Assassins. Enemy to any and all Templars. This I swear on the Creed..." He swallowed deeply before following with, "and on my very life. I am no enemy to you Altair."

The man stared silently down at Desmond, unmoving.

The younger felt a stiff breeze trickle past, making the sheen of sweat on his skin drop his temperature a degree or two. Though the fact that Altair remained, neither pressing nor pulling away the blade, may have played a large part in that as well.

"Please... you gotta believe me. I am no enemy of yours." Desmond said hoarsely.

He couldn't believe he had spent his whole life fighting Templars, only to have it ended by someone who would be a great potential ally were he still alive in his time.

"I know..." Altair's words sent a shock through Desmond's system. Little did Desmond realize that the fist at his front was doing more than holding him in place. Altair had been tracking his pulse, through touch and sight from the corners of his eyes. A lie detector in human form.

"Then what- why..." Desmond gestured towards the both of them.

"I am deciding what to do with you." Altair pulled back, withdrawing the blade as his calculating gaze weighed heavily on Desmond.

While it was infinitely better than the raw death he had seen in those amber eyes moments before, the options still didn't sound too good to the younger assassin.

From the corner of his eye, he could see the sparkling glyphs taking form and shapes. First he could make out a gondola, then the narrow canals, and finally the familiar buildings of Venice.

It was so close he could just reach out and-

"I'm sorry, but I can't stay here." Desmond reached for the wall.

A firm hand grabbed Desmond's wrist, stilling his movements. Then Altair finally noticed the light beside them, "What-?"

Using the distraction, Desmond shoved his elder off of him, hand slapping the swirling wall beside him.

As the Arabian marketplace dissolved around him, Desmond heard a distant shout of his name. But he was already being pulled more than 300 years into the future, his atoms being rendered to pieces before building slowly back up again.

That's when he realized a fatal flaw to his plan. The picture he had seen from the glyphs, it was suspended from at least three stories height in the air.

He gave a short shout as he free-falled, hands unable to reach anything much less scrabble for purchase.

He landed with a loud 'oomph' not to the painful crack of broken bones, but to the solid feel of sturdy arms and a chiseled form that knew how to absorb the shocking motion of a hard fall.

"Scusa me, but you are not my Rosa." One highly confused Ezio Auditore de Firenze looked down at Desmond with dark brown eyes.

A splash off to the side was followed by a feminine shriek, "Bastardo! You know how I hate to get wet!"

"Mi dispiace Rosa!" Ezio said with a grin, turning with Desmond still cradled in his arms, "But it seems I have acquired a lost sparrow."

But the thief was too busy grumbling and stalking off in the opposite direction, concluding the practice session they had been holding. Though why a master assassin would want to practice such novice skills was beyond her. And now she was drenched. And pissed. And she could care less who or what he found.

Thankfully, Ezio knew well enough not to chase after her, "We shall just meet later, no?"

Then those dark brown orbs turned to take in the young man in his arms, "Do not mind Rosa, little sparrow, she gets a bit excitable sometimes."

Desmond spluttered, suddenly noticing the parts of his body touched by the burning heat of the Italian assassin. One arm curled under back and the other cupping uncomfortably close to his ass, Desmond was pressed against the chest of the one man who's mere form whispered sex, before promptly fucking you hard underneath its essence.

"Don't compare me to a damn sparrow. If anything, an eagle." Desmond growled.

"Ah, but little sparrow, such titles are to be earned. Why are you squirming so? You do not like your pet name?"

Pet name? Oh hell no.

"No, I do *not* like it. My NAME is Desmond and you'd better put me down before I hurt you."

"Ah, the sparrow is not so helpless after all." Ezio grinned down at the struggling youth, enjoying his flustered reactions. Something about the boy seemed familiar. But more than that, the youth was attractive. It had been a while since he had thought about that of another man.

The flush that reddened his little sparrow's cheeks suited him well.

How did Ezio keep such a strong hold? Desmond didn't want to hurt him, but he was starting to panic from the hint of feral possessiveness in the man's gaze. He didn't like it. It made his insides churn and his stomach do a little flip he wasn't used to.

"Release me or else-" Desmond quashed his steadily rising nerves in favor of anger.

But Ezio interrupted his threat, dipping his head lower as his breath brushed softly against Desmond's ear, practically purring, "Or else what? Hm?"

"I... Uh..." For the second time that day, Desmond's throat failed him, shriveling up. He could feel his face flush a little deeper at the invasion of space. If he didn't know any better, he'd swear Ezio was coming onto him.

Then suddenly a thick Arabian voice shot from the rooftops, "Release the boy to me, or else heads will roll, including yours."

"Mi dispiace, but what business is he of yours?" Ezio demanded, pulling his head back to keep the second intruder in his sights.

Unconsciously, Florentine fingers tightened around the boy ensnared in his arms.

Altair's amber eyes glinted dangerously, "He is mine."