Leap

Plenoptic

First whack at Assassin's Creed fanfiction. It feels long since overdue. Takes place shortly after the death of Al Mualim and Altair's ascension to Grandmaster.

I forgot to replace the "i" in Altair's name with the proper Arabic character. Oh, well.

It began in Jerusalem, while Altair slept. Malik al-Sayf tried hard to hold onto his hatred, reflected each and every day on what Altair had done to him, had done to Kadar, but he knew it was a fruitless attempt. The man who slept so deeply just outside his Bureau office was not the same man who had so recklessly charged Robert in the temple all those months ago, that Malik couldn't deny. But he knew that that line of thinking was only justification to himself; the fact of the matter was that he couldn't bring himself to keep hating Altair Ibn La'Ahad, and the sooner he admitted that to himself, the happier he'd be.

Malik reflected upon that certain night in Jerusalem as a turning point in his life. Sitting uncomfortably in his office, he'd caught himself tossing brief glares at the bloody feather on his desk, and found himself angry that Altair had, again, had to dirty his hands. Which he was meant to do, given the whole Assassin thing, but it still irked Malik for some inexplicable reason.

Shifting in his chair, he'd leaned forward far enough over the counter to catch a glimpse of the dark, sullen creature sound asleep on the pile of cushions just outside the door. Altair gave a loud, low grunt, rolling onto his other side, one leg giving an involuntary kick. An image of a dreaming dog popped into Malik's head, and he had smothered a smile with every ounce of willpower he had.

Against his better judgment, he'd risen from his seat and peered outside the door. Altair stirred uncomfortably, rubbing a hand over his upper abdomen, mumbled incoherently, and settled once more. Malik crept into the room, glancing upwards at the hidden entrance to make sure no one was nearby, and seated himself cautiously at Altair's side. He recalled, vividly, the way his heart had been thumping, the way anxiety and excitement danced viciously in the pit of his stomach.

With the one trembling hand, he'd reached out to the Assassin he hated, and the Assassin he adored, and slipped his hand beneath Altair's hood, running his fingers through the short crop of hair. It was full of sand and matted with sweat, and some of the ends were crusted together with blood, but the single touch made Malik's stomach swoop clean out of him, and he felt that his heart may explode.

"This will be difficult."

Malik lifted his head, pulled from his reverie by the agitation-laced mutter in front of him. Altair swiveled about in a small circle, frowning, peering over the ledge and into the hay bales far below, the same he had dived into, against his better judgment, when the Templars arrived in Masyaf after his folly in the temple.

"If you are scared, do not do it," Malik drawled casually, grinning at the caustic glare he received in reply.

"I am not afraid. But I am not stupid, either." Altair stepped back off the ledge, slipping back his hood and running one hand through his hair, irritated. Malik stilled at the thoughtless motion, almost pining at the memory it brought back with vicious clarity. "For what reason would we have to attempt a backwards leap?"

"If you are driven off the edge, perhaps," Malik said, inspecting the ledge. He did not miss the way Altair tensed when his friend and closest advisor drew close to the edge. "What? You think that because I have lost an arm, I am more likely to fall?"

"No," Altair said quickly—too quickly, but Malik did not retaliate. It wasn't worth fighting over, and Allah knew that they had both done enough fighting as of late to make up for the time of peace between them during Al Mualim's ultimate betrayal.

The fighting, in Malik's case, was a charade—if he was angry at Altair, he could perhaps hide the feelings of wanting to push Altair up against the nearest wall and make him his. Which would be humiliating, and in any case, wouldn't work—Altair had more than proved that he couldn't be owned by anyone, not as an Assassin under Al Mualim, and not as the Grandmaster that he was now.

"I think it can be done," Malik said, stepping off the ledge and back into the tower's overhead. "It will take great strength to do so, to avoid breaking the back, neck, or landing on the head, but it can be done. By someone of your prowess, certainly, and perhaps even by someone of mine."

Altair stiffened marginally, and Malik scowled. "I promise that the ground has the same pull on you as it does on me—it does not discriminate based on number of limbs, unlike you."

"You know it is not like that," Altair said shortly, folding his arms over his chest. Malik knew it was meant to be a bold motion, to make the Grandmaster look tough, immobile, but in all honesty, Altair looked like a pouting child. "I just don't want to see anything happen to—why are you grinning like that?"

"I have never seen an Assassin Grandmaster looking quite so young, that's all," Malik snickered, covering his grin with his hand, but his eyes were alight with mirth. Altair hastily dropped his arms. "Perhaps we should practice simply backing off the ledge, to train ourselves. It would not do to panic the moment we attempt the leap."

"I'll do it, Malik."

"No, me. It wouldn't do to have the Grandmaster fall to his death," Malik grinned.

"You're no more expendable than I, Malik," Altair pressed. "And you will need to pull yourself up again. Should you not be able to—"

Malik arched an eyebrow, stepped onto the ledge, and took one last step backwards. Altair shouted in alarm as his friend promptly disappeared from view, lunging forward, but Malik was already hauling himself back up with his arm in an incredible display of strength. He hooked one heel up over the ledge, pulling himself back up onto it, and got to his feet, smirking at Altair's stunned expression.

"That was…impressive," the Grandmaster managed at last. "I had no idea you were so strong, Malik."

"There is much you do not know about me," Malik said lightly, stepping back into the tower and motioning toward the ledge. "Now you try."

And so they carried on like that, conditioning their minds and bodies to the terrifying feeling of falling backwards. If Altair tired, he did not say so, and thus Malik kept silent when the clamber back onto the ledge felt a little more taxing. He watched as Altair once again allowed himself to fall, now with far more grace and control, and pulled himself back up.

"Once more for each of us, perhaps, and then we can move on to practicing the leap at a lower height," he said cheerfully, wiping his brow on his sleeve. Malik rolled his eyes; Altair with new assassination techniques was like a child with sweets.

Malik stepped once more onto the ledge, and though his shoulder ached now, he willed himself to carry on just once more. Breathing deeply, he leaned his weight backwards onto his heels, carefully so he did not fall too wildly, and slipped off.

He knew, the moment he grabbed the ledge to halt his descent, that pushing himself this hard had been a foolish thing to do.

Hanging precariously, his feet dangling in open air, Malik steeled himself. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had to ask Altair for help. He was the Grandmaster's closest advisor, his closest friend, and as such Altair often relied on him for advice and counsel, but very rarely was it the other way around. But now Malik felt the muscles of his arm screaming in protest, and his knuckles bleached as he clung to the ledge.

"Altair," he said shakily, raising his voice over the wind whistling through his ears. "I can't pull myself up."

Altair's dark, concerned face appeared over the ledge, his eyes wide. "Why did you not tell me you were tired?"

"Is now really the time to question me?"

"You could have fallen to your death! That stupid pride of yours—"

"Do you not have any brains in your skull?" Malik shrieked, strongly resisting the urge to punch his best friend in the face. That really would lead to his death. "Could you perhaps spare me the lecture until I'm not, you know, dangling precariously three hundred feet off the ground?"

Altair closed a hand around Malik's forearm, reaching down and seizing a handful of his robes. "Help me as best you can."

"Altair, dammit, if you don't pull me up in the next three seconds—"

Altair heaved, pulling all of his weight back into his legs, and Malik felt his stomach fall out the bottoms of his feet as he was pulled back from the precipice of death and hauled halfway onto the ledge. Altair dropped his hand, hooking his fingers under Malik's belt, and he pulled again. Both he and Malik tumbled backwards off the ledge, back into the tower. The momentum kept them moving, and Malik found himself rolling over on top of Altair. For one breathless moment, their noses brushed—their faces were barely an inch apart—and Altair's hand found its way upwards, fingers lacing themselves into Malik's hair—

They came to a halt, Altair falling on top of his friend, and his hand moved, pulling Malik's head toward him, and he crushed their mouths together.

Malik felt his heart stop.

He was kissing—he was being kissed by—Altair. Altair Ibn La'Ahad, whom he hated, whom he adored, whom he revered and was irritated by and loved and—they were kissing. Rather, Altair was kissing, and Malik was lying their stupidly, being kissed. Being kissed, and not kissing back, and Altair drew back marginally, worry lacing his features.

"Sorry," he said haltingly, making to get up, but Malik reached up, seized a handful of his hair, and pulled him back down, meshing their lips together, kissing his Grandmaster for all he was worth.

"What, are you stupid?" he growled, and he reveled in the way Altair's lips felt when they were spoken against. "Don't stop, you fool."

Altair moved past his surprise with shocking ease, teasing the tantalizing seam of Malik's lips, and what had begun as a stupidly one-sided kiss evolved into a ferocious mating of tongue and teeth between searing mouths. Malik let his eyes drift closed, and Altair felt the brush of falling eyelashes against his cheek, they were so close.

The warmth of Altair's mouth was intoxicating—a drug. Malik tried to regain some modicum of self control, tried to find his dignity, but it was lost to him the moment Altair gripped him tightly and pulled him back from certain death. Just one touch was enough to send Malik reeling these days—when had Altair evolved from that idiot novice into the darkly passionate creature that heatedly assaulted him now?

"Mentor!"

And just like that, Altair's weight and warmth were gone. The assassin leapt to his feet, all but throwing himself to the other side of the platform and away from the stunned Malik just as one of their young recruits popped his head up over the wall.

"Maria Thorpe is here to see you, Grandmaster," the youth said cheerfully, gazing up at Altair with wide, adoring eyes. His head tilted back against the wood, Malik scowled upside-down at the recruit. Dammit, that had been the best moment of his entire life, and this stupid novice had to come along and ruin it with news of that person—the one at whom Altair looked with such affection—

"Thank you, Rashid," Altair said smoothly, inclining his head. "You may go."

"Mentor, what are you working on?" Rashid enquired eagerly, but winced when Altair fixed him with a cool glare.

"Techniques that we are not yet ready to share with the men. Please, be gone."

Rashid hesitated, his eyes darting from his intimidating master to Malik, still sprawled comically upon the wooden floor, and with a murmured apology dropped down the ladder, disappearing from view. Malik released a long, slow breath, closing his eyes and relaxing his head. It was over. His few moments in paradise were gone. Altair would clear his throat, mumble something along the lines of "Let us not mention this ever again," and he would go meet Maria, and Malik would go find something very potent and alcoholic to wash the memory away as quickly as possible—

A light touch to his mouth, and his eyes flew open, flickering upwards to stare in stunned amazement at the Grandmaster. Altair's scarred mouth quirked a grin, and he leaned forward from his cross-legged seat at Malik's side to drop another kiss against those startled lips.

"Perhaps you should come by my room tonight, my friend," Altair suggested, lifting a hand and running it gently through Malik's hair. That moment seemed to freeze, suspended in time—it brought Malik back to that hot Jerusalem night, where Altair's filthy hair had felt like the silk of the gods to his rough hand.

"Perhaps I should," Malik replied dumbly.

Altair smiled, gently this time, and got to his feet, offering his friend a hand up. Malik took it slowly, cautiously, the touch of the Grandmaster's fingers sending shivers shooting up and down his spine. For the love of Allah, why did the mere presence of this idiot savant affect him so?

"I should go meet Maria," Altair said, placing a hand on Malik's shoulder and offering him a grin—one of those grins that made Malik more nervous than reassured, because it reminded him of an animal hunting prey. "I shall see you tonight…Malik."

Allah above. Altair was going to kill him if he said his name like that again. Malik blanched and nodded stupidly, rotating his head and body on the spot to let his eyes track the graceful form of the Grandmaster as Altair leapt down from the top of the tower, alighting easily on the landing below.

Malik stood completely still for several minutes, dazed. He had just had the most truly bizarre dream. He and Altair had been practicing as usual, working on techniques with which to update the Codex, as had become their hobby, and then he and Altair had kissed. Enthusiastically. Passionately. It had been enjoyable. Very much so. And Altair had given him a look like he wanted to eat him alive.

"…Shit," Malik said aloud, running his hand through his hair. Altair had touched that hair. Altair had touched him. The assassin released a loud, low sigh. He should have just dropped off the tower when he had the chance—anything was better than leaping into this hell.