Title: Curiosity
Fandom: Assassin's Creed
Pairing: Altaïr/OMC
A/N: Frankly I think this would have been an automatic attempt by any curious male plugged into an ancestor's memory in a supercomputer. XD
Rating: NC17

Curiosity

He had been kidnapped by a crazy old man and a possibly equally crazy girl and forced to relive some weird assassin ancestor's memory through a glass and metal machine that smelled persistently of lemon. Oh, and he was very unlikely to survive the experience.

In the circumstances, Desmond decided that he was more than due a little curiosity, and so he snuck out of his room in the middle of the night and gingerly lay down on the Animus.

[Loading Memories

"Uh. Can you load any memories other than these, er, threads?"

[Affirmative. Please specify, User.

"Since I'm his descendant he probably had a girl from somewhere, or somebody, anyway."

[Affirmative. Stable memory blocks available. Please specify, User.

"Um." Desmond felt that he was not morbid enough to watch his next ancestor's conception and flailed mentally for a moment at the potential wrongness of what he was doing. "Latest, please. Before the current accessed memory blocks." Damnit.

[Loading memory block: Latest relationship: specifics: sexual.

"Thanks," Desmond muttered, under the glass. That had all the erotic quality of a cold bucket of water, but then his mind shifted into the scrolling blue.

--

Altaïr woke like an assassin, enmeshed in habits too old to forget. First he registered the pain, then transcended it. The broken rib was from the mailed foot that had crashed into his side when he was down. The bruise on his face from the fist that had pushed past his guard; the ache in his shoulder from a stab. He had been careless, and that galled him more than the pain. He was the best. Should have been. An armed guard of five in a convoy with the target should not have been a problem.

He kept his breathing even in a semblance of sleep as he considered this. How had he survived? There had been a blade, descending for his neck, a ring of metal as someone else had blocked it, a dry chuckle and the faint whinny of a horse.

Altaïr pulled himself further into the memory. He had seen the approach of a knight in his peripheral vision, a lone man on a black charger with battle-worn platemail but no surcoat, but had been concentrating on the target's guard, given the knight had seemed little interested in what was happening, reining up his steed to watch instead of aiding either.

Then he had been aided, it seemed, before fainting.

The room smelled of salve and he was dressed in breeches, his weapons divested. The sheets he lay on were of fine cotton. Cautiously, Altaïr opened his eyes, and bit down a hiss of surprise.

It was a small room with an arrow-slit of a window, a dressing table with a metal basin filled with water and a heavy wardrobe. Leaning against that was the knight, who grinned at his confusion.

Altaïr was sure he had sensed no one else in the room. Warily, he tried to sit up, winced at the pain, and stayed put instead. "Who are you?"

"Maximilian. You have slept quite a while. Feeling better?" The knight seemed amused when Altaïr showed no sign of recognition. On closer inspection, the man had russet-brown hair, almost red, trimmed short, like his beard and sideburns. His handsome face was crinkled into an easy smile, but Altaïr knew better than to take that at face value. Under his brow his black eyes were cold, with a cunning, edged wisdom that the assassin had last seen only in Al Mualim. This man was a commander, but Altaïr had never heard of him.

A quick study of his clothes showed no other clues. The man was burned almost brown by the hot sun, showing that he was likely resident in the Holy Land, but his clothes were simple, well made but without adornment. His voice was controlled and pleasant, with the unthinking attention to nuance and pitch that again spoke of command, and his Arabic had almost no trace of an accent at all.

"Are you of the Lion or a Templar?"

"Does it matter?"

Altaïr narrowed his eyes and thinned his lips, and the knight raised his large hands in a gesture of mocking surrender and chuckled. "I am not a Templar, and that you should have already guessed, Altaïr, for you are still alive."

"If you know my name then you must know who I am. Why am I still alive?"

"Curiosity."

"You will find that I will not break under torture."

"And no doubt you would have also divined that torture was not my intention." The knight countered. "Or you would have woken up in far different circumstances."

"Then why?"

"I have heard tell that your blade is the fastest in the Holy Land. I would like to test its edge against mine." Maximilian grinned, and though Altaïr studied him carefully he could find no mistruth in his expression, save perhaps the calculation in those cold black eyes.

"If that is all you desire then you have saved my life." Altaïr said, warily, making his distrust evident. "I will remember that when we fight."

"You are confident."

"So are you."

Maximilian inclined his head. "Rest and recover your strength. Do try not to escape until after we duel. This tower is hidden well, and my archers, better still."

--

He was confined to the bedroom. While bedridden, he was aided by a series of somber, silent servants. Once he could walk again, food was passed through a hatch in the door, with a lower hatch for the chamberpot and a change of water for the basin, and often a slice of hard, aromatic soap. Altaïr stared through the window, which had a view of a courtyard and a fortified wall, then an expanse of rocky ground that had little cover to speak of. Were he to somehow get out of the castle on foot, he would be shot down quickly.

Maximilian visited occasionally, usually to speak of bladework or matters foreign to the Holy Land, to which Altaïr gave carefully neutral responses. He was more prisoner here than guest, and he very much doubted that the knight wished merely to keep him for a duel.

Now very curious himself, Altaïr reacted one day in the middle of discussing political matters in the Christian Bible with Maximilian by aiming a jab at the man's neck. Maximilian blocked, caught Altaïr's left hand as it swung round in a punch, then deftly slapped away the next jab, dodging back as the assassin snapped up his knee, catching his ankle and dragging it up. Altaïr lost balance onto the bed with a surprised grunt, kicking out sharply, but found himself quickly pinned, his arm twisted behind his back and his still-throbbing ribs protesting sharply.

"Finished?" Maximilian inquired, his head cocked.

"You are no knight."

"You will insult a man in his own castle?" The amusement was still there.

"I know what I felt was wrong with you now. The way you wore the armor, when I first saw you, it was battle-worn but it settled poorly on your shoulders. You are not used to armor, nor broadswords. The calluses on your hands speak to me of lighter blades, and you are too quick for someone used to platemail."

"Very good," Maximilian said, with a wolfish grin. "Anything else?"

"I will need to recover fully before chancing your blade." Altaïr said, matter-of-fact. "Who are you?"

"What do you call someone of skill in defending himself but is yet unknown?"

"A spy, or an assassin." Altaïr had known this the moment Maximilian had blocked his second punch. "Perhaps both. You remind me of my Master. You are used to command. The Lion must be pleased to have you by his side."

"Ah, a lucky man, to have you call him Master," Maximilian grinned again, evidently ignoring the comment about Richard, but there was something lazy in his smile, now, that made Altaïr suppress a shiver. The words were absolutely innocent, or could be. Somehow, he very much doubted that.

"I will not betray-"

"If I thought you so easy I would have killed you already." The lazy smile widened. Altaïr hesitated. He had been told that he was handsome, but it had been a detail about himself that had never quite interested him, nor had he ever used it to solve his problems. Furthermore, he had never… with a man, and he was fairly sure that the Christians' Holy Book condemned the act (though he had heard different interpretations of the particular passage in question, and he had certainly heard rumors about Richard himself). While he considered this, Maximilian brushed a kiss over his bared shoulder, his beard tickling Altaïr's skin.

Altaïr yelped, and nearly broke his own arm, twisting back to see that the 'knight' had shifted back on his haunches, looking amused. "Closest I will get, I should think. And well worth it." Carefully, as though releasing a wild animal, Maximilian backed off the bed, and then let his arm go. Altaïr sat up, massaging his wrist as the other man chuckled. "You look like a frightened cat. Rest assured, I have no designs on your person without leave. A spy or an assassin I may be, but that does not mean I lack for honor."

Altaïr considered this slowly, then forced himself to relax. "You have leave."

"Feh. You have a woman and a child. I accept only leave that is freely given."

"I had a woman and a child," Altaïr corrected, disconcerted. He had been so sure that he had hidden… but no matter. "And the leave is freely given."

Maximilian was silent, looking skeptical, but Altaïr could tell the man was tempted. A little painfully, he slipped to his feet. One stride, and he was pressed against the 'knight', leaning up for a clumsy kiss. The next was fumbled, then hard fingers pressed against his skull, and the next was bruising, a man's kiss, with no tenderness, only raw hunger. Dimly, Altaïr was aware of an arm crushing his slender form to Maximilian's bulkier frame, of stumbling back together on the narrow bed and an uttered curse against his neck in French; his legs spreading and crossing against the small of the knight's back and his teeth closing of their accord over the other man's ear.

Maximilian growled, and Altaïr responded by biting his shoulder as the other man all but yanked off his breeches, settling between his thighs and running his callused hands with care over his scarred flanks, marked with stories: there, a thin white line, where a Teutonic knight had once gotten through his guard; there, a still-healing set of scar tissue against his thigh, where an archer had been lucky.

Maximilian snorted as Altaïr bit him again, next to the fresh, red mark. "Do you make love to your woman like this?"

"We are not making love, and you are not a woman," Altaïr pointed out, watching as Maximilian shrugged out of his clothes, dumping them off the bed, and reaching for the salve on the dresser.

"Point taken." Only amusement. Still, Altaïr had been expecting roughness after a comment like that, and was surprised again, as fingers closed carefully over him, stroked, made him gasp, turn his cheek against the pillow, and gasp again as a finger breached him. He flinched and tightened his fists on the sheets at the second, though there was only a little hurt, trying to focus on the kisses pressed against his neck and his cheeks.

"I can stop if you want me to," Maximilian observed, and Altaïr realized his eyes had been tightly shut.

"No, no," he said quickly, looking up. "It is just… new."

"There will be pain," Maximilian said, and Altaïr hissed as the fingers pressed deeper, wanted to say something trite about pain and constant companions, but arched convulsively and groaned instead, as crooking fingers rubbed against something within him.

The man was smirking at his palpable astonishment, bending down to kiss away his question, stroking pleasure into his veins, both within and without, whispering soothingly as the third finger burned.

The light was graying fast when that slowly soothed, when his breathing evened, and Altaïr sank his teeth harder into the other shoulder as soiled fingers withdrew, flexed into the pillow next to his cheek, and he was entered, slowly and carefully, stretched, his hands clawed into Maximilian's back and his heels locked over each other. The 'knight' was gasping something in English, then French, then something decidedly filthy in Arabic that Altaïr could barely catch, then a choked "God damn it, relax, you're too tight" that he obeyed, with as much discipline as he could exert.

"I should have had you on your knees," Maximilian finally said, his voice strained, when buried. "It would not have… hurt so much for you."

"This is better," Altaïr said, in a low voice, surprised by his honesty. He had almost drawn blood, and he opened his mouth for a kiss. The burn faded quickly, and Maximilian began to move, rocking against him, his fingers between them in long, easy strokes, darkening against his skin as the light faded. It was better. Soon even the night's sounds dimmed for their notes of pleasure.

--

Swords had hit an impasse and they were now on daggers of blunted, weighted wood, their edges coated with chalk. White lines scored their skin and their breeches, none 'fatal'. Altaïr loved the lightning whirl of dagger combat, fast and frenetic and dancing, and his opponent fought like a panther, fierce and quick and brutal. With metal they would now both be blooded.

Still, it was a good counter that gave Altaïr the day: he stamped down on Maximilian's foot as he dodged a slice for his neck, used the momentary distraction to slice a white line up the other man's breeches and over his belly, to his neck. Maximilian stepped back with a laugh that was echoed by the archers watching on the battlements.

"I concede that yours is the better blade," Maximilian said, laughter in his cold eyes and his handsome smile. "We should retire for some refreshment."

Altaïr passed the practice dagger to the servant, wiping the chalk dust off his face as he followed Maximilian toward the tower. Once within, however, instead of heading for the dining hall, the assassin found himself dragged sharply towards the servant's door, down through a narrow passage, through a suspiciously empty kitchen and out through the servant's entrance, where a horse stood placidly, harnessed to a wagon with a large cloth draped over crates and barrels. A man sat hunched at the driver's seat, looking stolidly ahead.

"Your gear is in there," Maximilian said, jerking his thumb at the cloth. "What is it you assassins say? Safety and peace upon you?"

"Safety and peace," Altaïr echoed, confused, even as the other man pressed a chaste kiss on his lips. "I do not understand."

"I wager that you may be useful, in the future," Maximilian shrugged, his smile now enigmatic. "But you have already been of aid to me, and like yourself, I do not kill useful men for no reason. Now, I do apologize for the necessity of this, but…"

Altaïr did not dodge the punch.

--

He woke up in the middle of the day in the shadow of a cliff face, and dressed hurriedly in his gear before pulling himself out of the wagon. His jaw ached, and the driver was nowhere to be seen, nor the horse. Still, the outline of the visible coast told him that he was near Acre, and he knew the way home.

Later, Al Mualim looked askance at his bruises without comment, but seemed puzzled when he apologized for failing his mission. "The target is dead, Altaïr. Perhaps the blow to your head addled your mind."

"Dead?"

"A clean blade cut through his heart, so reports have told me."

"Ah." Altaïr concentrated. "He was smuggling weapons for Saladin, from beyond the sea. Strange weapons, that smelled sharp, that looked like thick metal rods."

"Looters must have stolen those when you left. No matter. They will be recovered."

"I see," Altaïr said, and had no doubt that the weapons would not be. Useful.

"You smile, Altaïr?"

"It was a long journey, Master, and perhaps I have not yet fully recovered. I think I should rest."

"Safety and peace."

--

Desmond woke with a start from the Animus, made a run for the sink in the bathroom attached to his room, and swore to himself never, never, to do something like that again.

-fin-