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[ac fic]
Sight
(PG, altair/malik, vision Switching, written for v!)
“Well,” Malik began, looking down to survey the courtyard with keen interest. “This explains many things.”
Altair drummed his heels against the watchtower’s stone walls from where he sat, legs dangling over the edge. He watched in amusement as Malik walked from one side of the tower to the next, his steps slower than usual but unfaltering. It was strange to see the dai openly curious about his surroundings rather than calculating and grim, and Altair had to wonder if his gifted vision truly merited that sort of—amazement, if he could call it that. Malik seemed almost delighted by sights that were old and familiar and hardly fascinating to Altair, given that he had seen those every same things with both visions, human and Eagle.
“Explain what?” he asked.
Malik glanced over his shoulder, eyes flashing a new golden undertone from the bright sunlight before he ducked under the shade of the wooden awning. “You were always too fond of haystacks and rooftop gardens,” he mused and, as if he could not resist looking out again, leaned his head from the shade to get a better view of Masyaf once more. “I question how you came to the conclusion that they would be inconspicuous places to hide in when they glow so brightly.”
Altair snorted and rubbed at his own eyes. It was different enough without the Eagle vision, but he suspected that Malik’s eyesight was less sharp than his and blurred around the edges if Altair stared off into the distance for too long. A passing look over the blade of his dagger showed that his eyes had turned into a nondescript dark brown color so like Malik’s own that Altair assumed the Apple must have switched them while they had slept.
“It took me a while to figure it out when I was a child,” Altair said, frowning at the memory, or the lack of one. He had grown so used to it – he hardly remembered ever feeling uncomfortable with seeing the world in black, white, and three selective colors.
Malik hummed in acknowledgement, the sound distant and distracted until he turned his eyes upwards and fell silent. Altair could see Malik’s gaze waver, trying to follow the rolling grey sky and read it like a book whose pages were being flipped too quickly. There was a slight tilt to Malik’s body, his posture misplaced for an Assassin with a steady bearing. The moment he took a small, hesitant step back, Altair shot up from his seat, but did little else besides slide his hand over Malik’s arm.
Malik had not been in danger of overbalancing; he straightened and looked at Altair, drawing a hand to one temple with an annoyed expression. “Does it mean anything when the clouds move?”
Altair shrugged, not bothering to check if the sky above Masyaf was still clear and blue. “No. There are no clouds, actually.”
At first, Malik gave him a skeptical look but then shook his head, brushing past Altair to take his original spot at the edge of the tower. He sat down, kneading the palm of his hand to one eye as if he could scrub away the Eagle vision. When that did not work, he sighed and closed his eyes. “It is disorienting.”
Altair nodded and sat down as well, drawing his knees up and wrapping his arms in a loose hold around them. “I usually do not use it for a long period of time. Keep your eyes closed if you are dizzy.”
Malik’s eyes opened, golden and hazy and very much exasperated.
“I am fine,” he said. He glanced down, frowning, and suddenly leaned forward, eyeing a tiny figure walking below them. “Oh. Abbas shines blue,” he commented, sounding a bit surprised.
Altair let out a little laugh. “As pigheaded and unpleasant as Abbas is, his intentions are-” he paused, searching for the word, and when he could not find it, continued, “-good. And that of our own, if not exactly the same. He is not a true enemy.”
Again, Malik looked doubtful, but said nothing. He did not argue it, and his silence made Altair bite back the statement that the Eagle vision had, once, been wrong before.
“You shone blue, too, back in Jerusalem,” Altair said instead. He smiled ruefully. “Even then, you were never red.”
Malik’s reaction was muted, revealing only the simple acceptance of what Altair had said, followed by the tiny knit on his brow and a curious glance back at him. “Blue?”
Altair nodded, fighting back the grin that threatened to show. He leaned back on his hands, trying to look solemn and somewhat innocent. “Why? What color am I? I’ve always wanted to know.”
There was a pause as Malik considered him, taking his time. He shrugged.
“You do not glow at all. Unless grey is a color.”
Altair sat up. He thought that Malik would have—well, perhaps blue or white, but-
“What?” he said, sounding a little more incredulous that what he would have liked to admit to. But even as he spoke, Malik was waving his hand in a show of exaggerated indifference.
“Soon to be purple,” Malik said, “if you cannot stop gaping at me and forgetting to breathe.”
Growling, Altair snagged the back of Malik’s hood, dragging the dai back from the edge where they could not be seen. “Purple is not—"
“Pink, then?” Malik laughed, quiet and almost breathless. He twisted from Altair’s hold, blinking as Altair drew up close. He was squinting—so Altair did, at the very least, shine a color that was not grey, which he found to be worse than if he shone red. Red meant he was at least something to Malik.
“You appear gold to me,” Altair said obstinately, bearing down over Malik, knowing that his proximity was – while not painful – just a little blinding through Eagle vision. “So it makes sense that I should be the same for you.”
Though Altair was sure that his voice had not wavered, Malik seemed to sense Altair’s unease anyway. The hand that was over Altair’s chest to push him away relaxed and curled loosely to hold on to his tunic.
“That was a cruel joke. I should not have said it,” Malik admitted, eyes still opened and pupils down to tiny pinpoints.
Whatever color Altair was, he was bright.
It was an apology, though one Altair felt embarrassed for forcing out when it was clear that Malik was only teasing. Intentions, it seemed, were not something to be taken lightly, even if they were meant to do good. He ducked his head, moving away to allow Malik to see more clearly.
They lapsed into silence, not awkward, but not quite at ease either. Malik had not let go of Altair’s tunic, refusing to let him draw away. With an abrupt and impatient yank, he pressed his lips against Altair’s mouth in answer to Altair’s earlier question – gold.
Altair grinned into the kiss, noticing how Malik had squeezed his eyes shut, just as Altair would have done if he had the Eagle vision.
“I think I would like my eyes back,” Malik murmured, tilting his head to get a better angle. His teeth grazed against Altair’s scar before he let up, blinking again. “Your gift of sight is not –“ he hesitated, “I cannot take it, but I am glad that I understand it better.”
Altair had assumed as much. It was not as if Malik did not want the responsibility, but the Eagle vision was something that was his, and had it not been for the Apple, he would not have wanted to share it in the first place.
“Good,” he said, getting to his feet and held out his hand so that they could guide each other down the tower.
Spilled Ink
(PG, Altair/Malik, written for Lain!)
Loves Company
(PG, Altair & Malik)
It was not often that Altair was accosted by people who were considerably less dangerous than he was—and, more significantly, knew that they were considerably less dangerous. Perhaps this was the reason why Malik decided to hang back behind a market stall, watching as an group of vigilantes gathered around the assassin, each one of them full of praise and admiration. There was no doubt the words would all go to Altair’s head, but Malik was amused to find that, presently, Altair appeared more skittish than boastful. Despite that, he bore it all with a faint, crooked turn of his mouth, and seemed tolerant of the round of friendly pats on his shoulder (but never the back, where half his weapons were strapped to). There were no guards around and given the kind of taunting the vigilantes did in front of Jerusalem’s supposed keepers, it was understandable. But for some reason, Altair kept looking over his shoulder, his stance at ready to bolt or defend himself.
As Malik observed the growing crowd of enthusiasts, he soon learned that Altair’s unease was not entirely unfounded; a particularly large vigilante ambled in front, and Malik saw Altair look up at the giant with a sense of dismayed resignation before he was wrapped up in an embrace and lifted off the ground to be swung in a circle more fitting for a favorite niece or nephew than a master assassin.
The bundles Altair had been carrying—the ones Malik had sent him to retrieve, in fact—were hastily adjusted for the length of the spin to avoid being crushed. Even so, a few packages fell from Altair’s grasp, one of which was an important map case that Malik would have hated to see trampled on. Deciding that it would be best to reveal himself, Malik strode forward, slipping past the two or three vigilantes in the way to pick it up.
While he was not as popular as Altair, a few of the men must have recognized him, or at least the stark white embroidery of his robes. The giant paused in mid-step, allowing Altair to twist in his arms, trying to look behind him.
“Hashim, let go of me,” Altair said sharply, but it was enough that he did not resort to simply breaking Hashim’s hold, even though he was perfectly capable of it.
He was promptly released, landing a little unsteadily on his feet. There was a quick moment of hesitation as Altair turned to Malik, eyebrows rising – his hood had slipped halfway off– but he proceeded to brush some imaginary dust from his shoulder, suddenly lofty in his manner, as if he did not smile at all during the vigilante’s embrace.
“Friends of yours?” Malik asked, tapping the map case against his arm.
Altair’s expression became a little wry, but when Malik knelt down to pick up the fallen packages, he hastily followed after. “Yes,” he replied, taking advantage of Malik’s exaggerated look of surprise to grab the rest of the map cases.
“No wonder you always take too long running simple errands,” Malik said, cutting the rest of his sarcastic comment short as a different vigilante steadied him by the elbow as he got up. The act itself rankled, being helped as if his leg was also missing, but Malik was growing used to intentions that meant well, along with ones that were meant to be ill. He nevertheless slipped his arm from the vigilante’s hand with a nod of thanks. Altair regarded him sidelong, head tilting by just a fraction.
“It is not his fault, dai,” the man said, oblivious. “We did not know he was assisting you with your deliveries. Please do not be angry with him.”
Malik frowned, drawing up as all the vigilantes’ attention was abruptly focused on him. They looked more curious than threatening, though he was wary of the ones that kept sneaking glances between him and Altair. “I am not.”
“He is only teasing me,” Altair added in a rare show of blameless diplomacy, offhanded as it was. He rose to his feet, perhaps eager to have the two groups separate.
As much as Malik wanted to glean off more information from this unusual situation, he took Altair’s cue to make his leave. Altair started to following after him, but the vigilantes stepped forward to bid him farewell with the heavy insinuation that they would be seeing other each again very soon, or that he should bring his friend along more often—whatever that meant.
“And it is very kind of you to help the dai,” one of them added to Altair as they turned to leave. “You do so much! Does your benevolence know no bounds?”
Altair gave a blank stare, but did not mention that he was, in actuality, under orders. Malik smirked, using his foot to nudge other man along, away from the bustle of people and into a quieter spot near the stall where he had stayed behind.
“Kindness and benevolence,” Malik mimicked, the fawning words stilted on his tongue even underneath the mockery. “Really, Altair. If you had told me that you had friends to meet up with, I would have not begrudged you an hour or two. As much as I enjoy your company at the bureau, you could stand to get out more often. All day, if you like.”
Altair glared at him, pulling his cowl more securely over his head. “It’s not… they are not-“ he began, and halted over his sentence, frowning. His shoulders lifted, shrugging off an invisible weight or the uncomfortable knot that made him unsure of his words, but no less incapable of seeing the value of what he had gained. Finally, he grunted in grudging admittance, “I will, then,” and, always one to push forward, he added, “And I could say the same for you, too. They said you were free to join them.”
Malik paused, wanting to point out that joining the vigilantes’ escapades—whatever they might be—sounded like more trouble than what they were worth, but a small smile had already made its way through despite himself. He adjusted his grip on the map cases and pretended not to notice Altair echoing grin.
“Very well.”
(PG, altair/malik, vision Switching, written for v!)
“Well,” Malik began, looking down to survey the courtyard with keen interest. “This explains many things.”
Altair drummed his heels against the watchtower’s stone walls from where he sat, legs dangling over the edge. He watched in amusement as Malik walked from one side of the tower to the next, his steps slower than usual but unfaltering. It was strange to see the dai openly curious about his surroundings rather than calculating and grim, and Altair had to wonder if his gifted vision truly merited that sort of—amazement, if he could call it that. Malik seemed almost delighted by sights that were old and familiar and hardly fascinating to Altair, given that he had seen those every same things with both visions, human and Eagle.
“Explain what?” he asked.
Malik glanced over his shoulder, eyes flashing a new golden undertone from the bright sunlight before he ducked under the shade of the wooden awning. “You were always too fond of haystacks and rooftop gardens,” he mused and, as if he could not resist looking out again, leaned his head from the shade to get a better view of Masyaf once more. “I question how you came to the conclusion that they would be inconspicuous places to hide in when they glow so brightly.”
Altair snorted and rubbed at his own eyes. It was different enough without the Eagle vision, but he suspected that Malik’s eyesight was less sharp than his and blurred around the edges if Altair stared off into the distance for too long. A passing look over the blade of his dagger showed that his eyes had turned into a nondescript dark brown color so like Malik’s own that Altair assumed the Apple must have switched them while they had slept.
“It took me a while to figure it out when I was a child,” Altair said, frowning at the memory, or the lack of one. He had grown so used to it – he hardly remembered ever feeling uncomfortable with seeing the world in black, white, and three selective colors.
Malik hummed in acknowledgement, the sound distant and distracted until he turned his eyes upwards and fell silent. Altair could see Malik’s gaze waver, trying to follow the rolling grey sky and read it like a book whose pages were being flipped too quickly. There was a slight tilt to Malik’s body, his posture misplaced for an Assassin with a steady bearing. The moment he took a small, hesitant step back, Altair shot up from his seat, but did little else besides slide his hand over Malik’s arm.
Malik had not been in danger of overbalancing; he straightened and looked at Altair, drawing a hand to one temple with an annoyed expression. “Does it mean anything when the clouds move?”
Altair shrugged, not bothering to check if the sky above Masyaf was still clear and blue. “No. There are no clouds, actually.”
At first, Malik gave him a skeptical look but then shook his head, brushing past Altair to take his original spot at the edge of the tower. He sat down, kneading the palm of his hand to one eye as if he could scrub away the Eagle vision. When that did not work, he sighed and closed his eyes. “It is disorienting.”
Altair nodded and sat down as well, drawing his knees up and wrapping his arms in a loose hold around them. “I usually do not use it for a long period of time. Keep your eyes closed if you are dizzy.”
Malik’s eyes opened, golden and hazy and very much exasperated.
“I am fine,” he said. He glanced down, frowning, and suddenly leaned forward, eyeing a tiny figure walking below them. “Oh. Abbas shines blue,” he commented, sounding a bit surprised.
Altair let out a little laugh. “As pigheaded and unpleasant as Abbas is, his intentions are-” he paused, searching for the word, and when he could not find it, continued, “-good. And that of our own, if not exactly the same. He is not a true enemy.”
Again, Malik looked doubtful, but said nothing. He did not argue it, and his silence made Altair bite back the statement that the Eagle vision had, once, been wrong before.
“You shone blue, too, back in Jerusalem,” Altair said instead. He smiled ruefully. “Even then, you were never red.”
Malik’s reaction was muted, revealing only the simple acceptance of what Altair had said, followed by the tiny knit on his brow and a curious glance back at him. “Blue?”
Altair nodded, fighting back the grin that threatened to show. He leaned back on his hands, trying to look solemn and somewhat innocent. “Why? What color am I? I’ve always wanted to know.”
There was a pause as Malik considered him, taking his time. He shrugged.
“You do not glow at all. Unless grey is a color.”
Altair sat up. He thought that Malik would have—well, perhaps blue or white, but-
“What?” he said, sounding a little more incredulous that what he would have liked to admit to. But even as he spoke, Malik was waving his hand in a show of exaggerated indifference.
“Soon to be purple,” Malik said, “if you cannot stop gaping at me and forgetting to breathe.”
Growling, Altair snagged the back of Malik’s hood, dragging the dai back from the edge where they could not be seen. “Purple is not—"
“Pink, then?” Malik laughed, quiet and almost breathless. He twisted from Altair’s hold, blinking as Altair drew up close. He was squinting—so Altair did, at the very least, shine a color that was not grey, which he found to be worse than if he shone red. Red meant he was at least something to Malik.
“You appear gold to me,” Altair said obstinately, bearing down over Malik, knowing that his proximity was – while not painful – just a little blinding through Eagle vision. “So it makes sense that I should be the same for you.”
Though Altair was sure that his voice had not wavered, Malik seemed to sense Altair’s unease anyway. The hand that was over Altair’s chest to push him away relaxed and curled loosely to hold on to his tunic.
“That was a cruel joke. I should not have said it,” Malik admitted, eyes still opened and pupils down to tiny pinpoints.
Whatever color Altair was, he was bright.
It was an apology, though one Altair felt embarrassed for forcing out when it was clear that Malik was only teasing. Intentions, it seemed, were not something to be taken lightly, even if they were meant to do good. He ducked his head, moving away to allow Malik to see more clearly.
They lapsed into silence, not awkward, but not quite at ease either. Malik had not let go of Altair’s tunic, refusing to let him draw away. With an abrupt and impatient yank, he pressed his lips against Altair’s mouth in answer to Altair’s earlier question – gold.
Altair grinned into the kiss, noticing how Malik had squeezed his eyes shut, just as Altair would have done if he had the Eagle vision.
“I think I would like my eyes back,” Malik murmured, tilting his head to get a better angle. His teeth grazed against Altair’s scar before he let up, blinking again. “Your gift of sight is not –“ he hesitated, “I cannot take it, but I am glad that I understand it better.”
Altair had assumed as much. It was not as if Malik did not want the responsibility, but the Eagle vision was something that was his, and had it not been for the Apple, he would not have wanted to share it in the first place.
“Good,” he said, getting to his feet and held out his hand so that they could guide each other down the tower.
Spilled Ink
(PG, Altair/Malik, written for Lain!)
Malik was starting to become convinced that there were other forces at work when his fourth bottle of ink dropped to the ground with a crack of broken glass. He was sure that he and Altair had learned their lesson by now—after losing the first bottle when they against the table, the second while over the counter, and the third, surprisingly, when they had taken it to the floor behind the counter and Altair had knocked over a small box resting on one of the lower shelves. The ink was expensive, so they had to spare the two agonizing seconds it took to set the ink wells upright, staining the tips of their fingers and leaving behind small pools of dark liquid, before pushing their mouths back together.
The fourth ink bottle was more or less Malik’s fault; he had forced Altair against the bookcase, jostling the shelves until books and maps were falling off and, ultimately, another ink well rolled from a higher ledge and fell on top of Altair’s head. Malik himself had not seen it happen, too busy leaving teeth marks over Altair’s bottom lip, but he had felt Altair stiffen and grimace against his mouth when, by all accounts, he should have been moaning.
Malik drew back, staring up at the blue-black stain spreading throughout the top of Altair’s white cowl. Altair stared back and, very carefully, put a hand on his head to assess the damage. He frowned as excess ink dripped from the tip of his pointed hood to the front of his robes.
“Can we-?” Altair began, managing to still sound optimistic.
“No,” Malik replied, and pushed him towards the fountain.
(PG, Altair & Malik)
It was not often that Altair was accosted by people who were considerably less dangerous than he was—and, more significantly, knew that they were considerably less dangerous. Perhaps this was the reason why Malik decided to hang back behind a market stall, watching as an group of vigilantes gathered around the assassin, each one of them full of praise and admiration. There was no doubt the words would all go to Altair’s head, but Malik was amused to find that, presently, Altair appeared more skittish than boastful. Despite that, he bore it all with a faint, crooked turn of his mouth, and seemed tolerant of the round of friendly pats on his shoulder (but never the back, where half his weapons were strapped to). There were no guards around and given the kind of taunting the vigilantes did in front of Jerusalem’s supposed keepers, it was understandable. But for some reason, Altair kept looking over his shoulder, his stance at ready to bolt or defend himself.
As Malik observed the growing crowd of enthusiasts, he soon learned that Altair’s unease was not entirely unfounded; a particularly large vigilante ambled in front, and Malik saw Altair look up at the giant with a sense of dismayed resignation before he was wrapped up in an embrace and lifted off the ground to be swung in a circle more fitting for a favorite niece or nephew than a master assassin.
The bundles Altair had been carrying—the ones Malik had sent him to retrieve, in fact—were hastily adjusted for the length of the spin to avoid being crushed. Even so, a few packages fell from Altair’s grasp, one of which was an important map case that Malik would have hated to see trampled on. Deciding that it would be best to reveal himself, Malik strode forward, slipping past the two or three vigilantes in the way to pick it up.
While he was not as popular as Altair, a few of the men must have recognized him, or at least the stark white embroidery of his robes. The giant paused in mid-step, allowing Altair to twist in his arms, trying to look behind him.
“Hashim, let go of me,” Altair said sharply, but it was enough that he did not resort to simply breaking Hashim’s hold, even though he was perfectly capable of it.
He was promptly released, landing a little unsteadily on his feet. There was a quick moment of hesitation as Altair turned to Malik, eyebrows rising – his hood had slipped halfway off– but he proceeded to brush some imaginary dust from his shoulder, suddenly lofty in his manner, as if he did not smile at all during the vigilante’s embrace.
“Friends of yours?” Malik asked, tapping the map case against his arm.
Altair’s expression became a little wry, but when Malik knelt down to pick up the fallen packages, he hastily followed after. “Yes,” he replied, taking advantage of Malik’s exaggerated look of surprise to grab the rest of the map cases.
“No wonder you always take too long running simple errands,” Malik said, cutting the rest of his sarcastic comment short as a different vigilante steadied him by the elbow as he got up. The act itself rankled, being helped as if his leg was also missing, but Malik was growing used to intentions that meant well, along with ones that were meant to be ill. He nevertheless slipped his arm from the vigilante’s hand with a nod of thanks. Altair regarded him sidelong, head tilting by just a fraction.
“It is not his fault, dai,” the man said, oblivious. “We did not know he was assisting you with your deliveries. Please do not be angry with him.”
Malik frowned, drawing up as all the vigilantes’ attention was abruptly focused on him. They looked more curious than threatening, though he was wary of the ones that kept sneaking glances between him and Altair. “I am not.”
“He is only teasing me,” Altair added in a rare show of blameless diplomacy, offhanded as it was. He rose to his feet, perhaps eager to have the two groups separate.
As much as Malik wanted to glean off more information from this unusual situation, he took Altair’s cue to make his leave. Altair started to following after him, but the vigilantes stepped forward to bid him farewell with the heavy insinuation that they would be seeing other each again very soon, or that he should bring his friend along more often—whatever that meant.
“And it is very kind of you to help the dai,” one of them added to Altair as they turned to leave. “You do so much! Does your benevolence know no bounds?”
Altair gave a blank stare, but did not mention that he was, in actuality, under orders. Malik smirked, using his foot to nudge other man along, away from the bustle of people and into a quieter spot near the stall where he had stayed behind.
“Kindness and benevolence,” Malik mimicked, the fawning words stilted on his tongue even underneath the mockery. “Really, Altair. If you had told me that you had friends to meet up with, I would have not begrudged you an hour or two. As much as I enjoy your company at the bureau, you could stand to get out more often. All day, if you like.”
Altair glared at him, pulling his cowl more securely over his head. “It’s not… they are not-“ he began, and halted over his sentence, frowning. His shoulders lifted, shrugging off an invisible weight or the uncomfortable knot that made him unsure of his words, but no less incapable of seeing the value of what he had gained. Finally, he grunted in grudging admittance, “I will, then,” and, always one to push forward, he added, “And I could say the same for you, too. They said you were free to join them.”
Malik paused, wanting to point out that joining the vigilantes’ escapades—whatever they might be—sounded like more trouble than what they were worth, but a small smile had already made its way through despite himself. He adjusted his grip on the map cases and pretended not to notice Altair echoing grin.
“Very well.”