Author's Note: This was written for the lovely doubleleaf/saynomore, whose Assassin's Creed fanart makes me weep for joy and think dirty thoughts indeed. Sorry if this isn't anyone's cup of tea. I wrote this for fun, so it's probably riddled with errors. u; Hope you enjoy?

Three Little Words

I never say what I mean;
I never mean what I say.

Bells are screaming high and shrill now, their flared bronze skirts swinging back and forth in hysterical terror, obviously upset by some strange disturbance within the pulsing crowd at the heart of the city. The guards are crawling out of their towers in paired lines like ants and they pour out into the city, filling the dark alleys and markets with their violent presence and suspicious eyes that see white shadows in every corner. They are alert and ready, determined not to let a single assassin- indeed, the assassin that has just plucked the feather from Talal's head- through their ranks, only parting to let a group of solemn-faced scholars return to the safety of their monastery.

Unbeknownst to them, a blood-soaked hood resides within their huddled masses; a wolf in sheep's clothing. He is not a man of the cloth but a godless man of blades and blood and death, and yet he hides it well behind clasped hands and slow, careful footsteps. The crimson trail dripping behind him soaks unnoticed into the dark earth.

"We are almost there," his allies whisper quietly every so often, the hushed words melting subtly into the murmur of prayers. The assassin in their midst nods just barely and forces his labored breath to steady as he mimes his lips to the words he's never studied, never believed, never preached- and yet knows by heart.

It's unbelievably hot today and he has to fight to keep his eyes open, the heavy sense of exhaustion weighing down his limbs and the warm muggy air dulling his senses until he's lulled into the blissful numbness and absence of thought. A scholar prods him discreetly, sharply, when he starts to slow down and his head jerks up with a start, his faintly pinkened hood nearly catching the interest of a patrolling guard nearby. Embarrassed by his lack of discipline, the assassin quickly bows his head again and forces himself to trudge forward, only stopping when he can no longer hear the perpetual rustle of robes around him or feel the sun beating down on his back.

"This is where we must part," the eldest scholar tells him gently and a sympathetic smile lifts the folds of his old, leathery face up to the sky. The assassin nods curtly, albeit gratefully, and eases his way out of the herd towards the rickety ladder that has been set out for him. No doubt the rafiq has already heard the city bells tolling for his blood.

It's a slow climb. His fingers are slick with sweat and blood, and they slip on the old wood and catch against stray splinters, but those are minor inconveniences compared to the unsettling numbness creeping up his left leg and the throbbing pain in his back and ribs. When he finally reaches the top he carelessly heaves himself onto the roof without bothering to check for a guard, the colossal effort of will and strength making his arms buckle and shake beneath his weight. He wants nothing more than to weep and drag himself toward his asylum, but his pride forces him to his feet so that he may honorably stagger the last few steps to freedom.

It is this same pride that fools him into thinking that he can enter the bureau without assisstance. He drops down into the skylight and digs his feet into the wall, trying to shimmy his way down in a series of twists and drops that makes his stomach lurch and wounds ache. Almost as if punishment for his hubris, the intricate designs carved into the wall slide out from under his hands and the ivy slips out of his slick grasp obstinately when he tries to find a new hold. The sky, impossibly blue and wide, rushes away from in a mad scramble for freedom, and he barely has time to reflect on the shock he feels from a simple one story fall before the ground meets his back with crushing force, the concrete doing little to soften the impact as the back of his skull rebounds against the floor with a sickening crack.

The pain is quick and intense, like someone just reach inside his head and made a fist around the contents. The room spins rapidly in a myriad of blurred colors and he can't help but roll onto his side dizzily and vomit all over the floor, some of the foul liquid dripping down his chin and onto the front of his stained robes. All the noise must be attracting the attention of the rafiq who mans this bureau because he comes edging out of the doorway with his sword drawn, obviously prepared for a battle. When he can see no threat at his own eye level he glances down cautiously to find the source of the commotion, eying the mess on his floor with distaste. He can't see the assassin's face but he, unfortunately, has already been expecting this certain visitor.

"Altaïr," the man says simply, his tone torn between irritation and exasperation. He knows that Altaïr has always been a reckless fighter- Altaïr's version of "stealth" is not not being seen, but rather leaving no witnesses behind- but he didn't realize how sloppy the assassin had gotten without a partner to keep him in check. That partner used to be him, of course, until the unfortunate... "accident" that left him this way. His lip curls derisively at the euphemism and his severed left arms flexes at the shoulder subconsciously at the violent memory.

Perhaps it is these old wounds that cause him to aggravate Altaïr's almost carelessly as he rolls the assassin onto his back and slaps him across the face sharply.

"Stay awake, you idiot!" Altaïr groans groggily and opens his eyes at the sound of his harsh voice. They look glassy and unfocused, and the pupils are dilated to pinpricks.

"Malik...?" he murmurs softly, the pain in his throat making his voice hushed and raspy. Malik looks blurry and unfocused to him and he's almost tempted to ask him to stand still, but he knows that the man really isn't moving at all; it's all in his head. He can feel the bile nipping at the back of his throat again, hot and stinging and vile, and he clenches his eyes shut tightly and swallows it back with the single determination that he absolutely refuses to show weakness in front of Malik.

"Who else?" Malik mutters back angrily, although he's not quite sure why. He fools himself into thinking it's because of the stubborn grudge he still holds against Altaïr, or the inconvenience that Altaïr has imposed upon him by dragging his corpse into his bureau, but deep inside there is actually a lingering fear he feels for the life of his friend that ignites an outraged flame in his heart. He's worried, although he would never admit it, and it makes him furious.

Malik purses his lips shut tightly to prevent any further quips and busies himself in the monumental task ahead of him; that is, keeping the death-prone assassin alive. He deftly disarms him and tosses his weapons to the side, then unbinds the large belt and sash around his waist. The front of his robes fall open to like stained white petals, revealing the dark, bruised flesh underneath, but that is where their pliancy ends. Malik finds that they insist on clinging to Altaïr's skin stubbornly, especially where the blood has set and dried under the sun, and he has neither the patience or time to be gentle.

"Get up," Malik demands snappishly. He tries to drag Altaïr closer to himself with his good hand and lets him lean against his chest disorientedly, his breath coming out in warm, stagnant wheezes that tickle Malik's neck in a way that he may had not been so adverse to a few months ago, but absolutely despises now. Almost in retaliation Malik grabs a fistful of robes and rips them away from his back, relishing in the short, pained cry it causes. "This is all your own fault," Malik chastises as he slowly slides the cloth down his shoulder and arms. "You brought this on yourself when you decided to be so careless." The words are purposefully vague, and the second meaning is not lost on Altaïr, who bites his tongue and swallows back the venomous words that rise in his throat, twice as sharp and disgusting as the bile had tasted.

Fresh blood oozes down Altaïr's back and Malik's sensitive nose catches the bittery scent almost instantly. A wave of emotions sweeps his concentration away for a split second- the thrill of his first kill; the coppery kisses they used to share after training; the gaping crimson smile gouged into Kadar's gut- before slamming back into him with impressive force, drawing a small gasp of surprise from his lips. He takes a deep breath and adjusts Altaïr in his lap, trying to feel around for the wounds on his back and gauge their lethality. Most of them are long but shallow, and he almost assumes that Altaïr is bluffing before he stumbles across a particularly nasty wound between his shoulder blades.

"Shit-" Altaïr curses and lurches forward, his whole body tenses and quivers at the sudden shock. A distracted and slightly malicious smile overcomes Malik's face and he rests his forehead against Altaïr's boldly, looking deep into his wide pained eyes with a twisted sense of satisfaction. It feels good, no- wonderful- to see the weakness displayed there so honestly. Altaïr is a liar, a proud and foolish liar, and Malik can't feel any regret for wanting to knock him down a few pegs. He dips his fingers into the cut as if it were a jar of honey; the soft flesh yields under the slight pressure and a string of dark, thick blood forms when he slowly pulls his fingers away. He can feel Altaïr's quickening pulse, can feel him jerk and grunt quietly in pain.

Malik laughs humorlessly at the pathetic reaction, a cruel sound that he finds little pleasure in, and absentmindedly rubs his slick fingers together before wiping them off on Altaïr's already spoiled skin. One more stain wouldn't hurt. Altaïr shudders and glares into Malik's dark, shifting eyes, catching onto his little game. He bites his cheek stubbornly and digs his nails into Malik's neck, but another well-aimed jab at the cut as him hissing and gasping in pain.

"You are still too damn proud," Malik whispers coldly into his ear and drags the flat of his palm down his back, letting his calloused fingers and untrimmed nails catch on the loose jagged skin as he plays Altaïr like a finely tuned instrument, the muted groans and whimpers like music to his ears. His hands are scarlet when he finally relents, leaving behind bloody streaks drawn down Altaïr's back like stripes, and he can't explain the heady, dazed euphoria that suddenly fills his lungs like a breath of fresh air. How long had he waited for this chance- to cause Altaïr the same suffering that he himself had been forced to bear? It only lasts a moment when he realizes that Altaïr's pain is only temporary and his small victory tastes bitter and jealous on his tongue; Altaïr will recover eventually and Malik knows that there is little he can do, no words he can say, and nothing he can take away that will ever make Altaïr understand the heart-wrenching loss that Malik feels every waking moment.

"I hate you," Malik mutters inaudibly, but is surprised when Altaïr's bleary eyes stare up at him in challenge, his bloody lips quirked in defiance.

"I could not tell," Altaïr retorts sarcastically with a weak, feral grin, his teeth stained faintly pink from blood. It's an infuriating expression that Malik can't stand- that Malik can't stand to be without- and he covers that vicious smile with an equally vicious kiss that is devoid of lips and tenderness. The void is filled with an aggressive clash of teeth and tongues as Malik pushes his patient to the floor and Altaïr grips the back of Malik's shirt and drags him down with him, determined to make a stand.

"I- hate- you-" Malik hisses breathlessly between false kisses. There's a familiar coppery taste in his mouth now, accompanied by the stinging taste of vomit, and an unfamiliar sentiment rises in his eyes and causes his eyes to burn, wet and angry. He thinks about all the things he's lost, all the things he could have had- a family, a future, Altaïr- and he doesn't have the strength or time to be sad or nostalgic, and he can't afford to fall in love with a man who could die any day, and so his frustration swells and agitates until he becomes furious again. Altaïr senses the delicate shift in the mood and begins giving into his advances in slow, hesitant increments. Even this is not enough to appease Malik and he attacks his mouth with renewed vigor, his anger sinking cold and heavy in his gut.

"I hate you..." The words have lost their meaning by now. Malik's lips get lost and find their way to the throbbing pulse in his neck instead, and Altaïr sighs shakily and tilts his head away in compliance, a light of understanding giving his glassy eyes a dim glow.

"I hate you, too," Altaïr replies hollowly, but what he really meant to say was, 'I'm sorry'. It doesn't matter anymore, and before he can even think of protesting Malik strips him of his pride and crawls beneath his skin, disturbing and destroying him in the most unsettling pleasant of ways.

Altaïr doesn't stay the next day and Malik doesn't ask him to. "Safety and peace," the assassin dares to say before he leaves, and as the rafiq thinks of all the things he has lost by this one man, and all the things he cannot have, he cannot help but reply, "Your presence deprives me of both."