I went with Altaïr and the sword polishing... I am also very sorry for Malik on this one. *huggles OP* I hope that you like it! Altaïr + subtlety = incompatible. Lame puns are lame.
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Sandstorms in Jerusalem were not a joke. In all fairness, Altaïr despised them. No matter that his relationship with Malik has progressively mended, and that he no longer felt like the Dai was going to kill him if he just toed an invisible line. He still hated to be trapped in the bureau, knowing he could not get out.
“Altaïr, your pacing is going to make me want to claw your eyes out, very soon. Just clean your weapons or something but stop pacing.”
And stop, Altaïr did. He knew that Malik hated it when he roamed the bureau for no reason. He knew the Dai resented anyone who would disrupt the peace of the area. And so, Altaïr did the next best thing: he plopped down on a cushion, laid his weapons by his side and started to clean them all.
Malik was grateful that Altaïr stopped wandering like a caged animal. It was not that he was making any sound when he did but the constant movement distracted him to no end. He could have used this as a pretext to stop working, but there was no way around it and this map had to be finished the day after-tomorrow – and he just got started. Idiots who gave him outdated maps to work with. It made him want to scream.
After a while and some metaphorical hair-pulling, Malik looked at Altaïr. The assassin was so concentrated that he did not seem to notice, allowing Malik to stay like that, his elbow propped on the counter, chin on his palm. The figure of thoughtfulness, no matter that his thoughts were running about. He had to admit, the care with which Altaïr handled his blades bespoke his training, and his eye for detail. Malik had seen men who cared so little for their blades that their sword would be rust-bitten, slowly losing their brightness and instead, becoming the surest way to get infected wounds. Not Altaïr. The knives were carefully laid together in two neat, even rows, blades as good as knew. He had taken his hidden blade, dismantling the mechanism, to ease the cleaning. The way he handled the sharp blade, with gentle touches, made it look as though he were caressing it. A loving touch. First, swipe the blade and the attaches, to make sure no dried blood stayed to eventually cause the mechanism to snag. Long strokes, from the handle to the tip of the blade, as though to smooth the steel out. Dim light of the lamps reflecting on it, catching the eye. Unbeknownst to him, his mind came to a screeching halt, before his thoughts ran into a very different direction, causing his breath to catch.
How would these hands feel on his skin? Let's face it, the blade in Altaïr's hands was a dead giveaway and while Malik resented himself for these thoughts, he could not shake them away. The callused fingers, that he knew could be the lightest- he mentally shook himself. Maybe recalling a moment when Altaïr was the one taking care of his wounds was not a good idea after all. Lost in his thoughts, Malik missed the moment when Altaïr laid his hidden blade aside and started to work on his sword. This was a new one, Malik noticed. The blade slightly curved, making stabbing moves a bit less straightforward, designed for sweeping arches – to slice through joints and bones. And still, this careful, caressing touch that swept from the hilt, along the entire length of the sword. His breath caught again somewhere between his lungs and his throat. The intent expression of Altaïr, that of a man so engrossed in his task that he forgot the outside world. An oiled rag replacing the dried one, guarding the metal from water, and providing a temporary protection against the bite of the sand. The sword shone in the light, just as the hidden blade did. Malik tilted his head to the side – Altaïr was staring at something on the blade, possibly a nick. However, as soon as Malik shifted his weight to the right to get a better look, he froze with a hiss. He did not look down. He would not look down. Just as he was considering curling in on himself – or thanking this desk for shield him from view, Altaïr looked at him. Malik just wanted to die right now... Heat set his face aflame, and he hoped against hope that Altaïr would not notice. Because Altaïr was bound to see it. He brusquely tried to straighten himself – and nearly let out a noise that he was never supposed to make. Damned shelves. He's going to die... Altaïr saw the discomfort on Malik's face, and he frowned. What now? He made too much noise or what not? However, when Malik moved, he suspected something else altogether. His frown vanished, replaced by the tiniest smile. He would not make fun of Malik. Not really. Instead, he stared pointedly at Malik, before look back his his sword. Back and forth. Back and forth.
“Novice, stop doing that!”
To anyone, Malik's voice was normal. To Altaïr, however, it was clear that the Dai was having a hard time to keep it all together. His smile widened.
“Whatever you mean, Dai?”
“Get out of here, you are a nuisance.”
Altaïr thought it would be best to comply. But not before making things even worse for Malik. After all, for once he had the upper hand. He'd be damned if he didn't take advantage of it.
“Sorry, Malik.” He gathered his weapons, keeping his sword in hand. When cast a last glance at it, he noticed Malik's gaze following. Oh, this was so much fun. Leaning across the counter, he added: “I didn't mean to rub it in.” And with that he was gone.
Malik was not sure if he should kill Altaïr now or wait. Probably later. He wanted to beat himself on the head. Really, Malik, whatever your mind is doing? Polishing a sword, can't you be a bit more subtle, damnit? He would have screamed. When he tried to shove from the counter on which he was leaning, he nearly doubled over. Heavy Dai coat or not, the pressure had sent a jolt across him. Damn this idiot novice.
In the courtyard, out of Malik's sight, Altaïr was grinning like a cat that just got the canary. Really, had he known that cleaning his blades would force a boner out of Malik... he'd have done it sooner. Ah, blackmail material, what would he do without it!
Re: Random request is random
..
Sandstorms in Jerusalem were not a joke. In all fairness, Altaïr despised them. No matter that his relationship with Malik has progressively mended, and that he no longer felt like the Dai was going to kill him if he just toed an invisible line. He still hated to be trapped in the bureau, knowing he could not get out.
“Altaïr, your pacing is going to make me want to claw your eyes out, very soon. Just clean your weapons or something but stop pacing.”
And stop, Altaïr did. He knew that Malik hated it when he roamed the bureau for no reason. He knew the Dai resented anyone who would disrupt the peace of the area. And so, Altaïr did the next best thing: he plopped down on a cushion, laid his weapons by his side and started to clean them all.
Malik was grateful that Altaïr stopped wandering like a caged animal. It was not that he was making any sound when he did but the constant movement distracted him to no end. He could have used this as a pretext to stop working, but there was no way around it and this map had to be finished the day after-tomorrow – and he just got started. Idiots who gave him outdated maps to work with. It made him want to scream.
After a while and some metaphorical hair-pulling, Malik looked at Altaïr. The assassin was so concentrated that he did not seem to notice, allowing Malik to stay like that, his elbow propped on the counter, chin on his palm. The figure of thoughtfulness, no matter that his thoughts were running about. He had to admit, the care with which Altaïr handled his blades bespoke his training, and his eye for detail. Malik had seen men who cared so little for their blades that their sword would be rust-bitten, slowly losing their brightness and instead, becoming the surest way to get infected wounds. Not Altaïr. The knives were carefully laid together in two neat, even rows, blades as good as knew. He had taken his hidden blade, dismantling the mechanism, to ease the cleaning. The way he handled the sharp blade, with gentle touches, made it look as though he were caressing it. A loving touch. First, swipe the blade and the attaches, to make sure no dried blood stayed to eventually cause the mechanism to snag. Long strokes, from the handle to the tip of the blade, as though to smooth the steel out. Dim light of the lamps reflecting on it, catching the eye. Unbeknownst to him, his mind came to a screeching halt, before his thoughts ran into a very different direction, causing his breath to catch.
How would these hands feel on his skin? Let's face it, the blade in Altaïr's hands was a dead giveaway and while Malik resented himself for these thoughts, he could not shake them away. The callused fingers, that he knew could be the lightest- he mentally shook himself. Maybe recalling a moment when Altaïr was the one taking care of his wounds was not a good idea after all. Lost in his thoughts, Malik missed the moment when Altaïr laid his hidden blade aside and started to work on his sword. This was a new one, Malik noticed. The blade slightly curved, making stabbing moves a bit less straightforward, designed for sweeping arches – to slice through joints and bones. And still, this careful, caressing touch that swept from the hilt, along the entire length of the sword. His breath caught again somewhere between his lungs and his throat. The intent expression of Altaïr, that of a man so engrossed in his task that he forgot the outside world. An oiled rag replacing the dried one, guarding the metal from water, and providing a temporary protection against the bite of the sand. The sword shone in the light, just as the hidden blade did. Malik tilted his head to the side – Altaïr was staring at something on the blade, possibly a nick. However, as soon as Malik shifted his weight to the right to get a better look, he froze with a hiss. He did not look down. He would not look down. Just as he was considering curling in on himself – or thanking this desk for shield him from view, Altaïr looked at him. Malik just wanted to die right now... Heat set his face aflame, and he hoped against hope that Altaïr would not notice. Because Altaïr was bound to see it. He brusquely tried to straighten himself – and nearly let out a noise that he was never supposed to make. Damned shelves. He's going to die...
Altaïr saw the discomfort on Malik's face, and he frowned. What now? He made too much noise or what not? However, when Malik moved, he suspected something else altogether. His frown vanished, replaced by the tiniest smile. He would not make fun of Malik. Not really. Instead, he stared pointedly at Malik, before look back his his sword. Back and forth. Back and forth.
“Novice, stop doing that!”
To anyone, Malik's voice was normal. To Altaïr, however, it was clear that the Dai was having a hard time to keep it all together. His smile widened.
“Whatever you mean, Dai?”
“Get out of here, you are a nuisance.”
Altaïr thought it would be best to comply. But not before making things even worse for Malik. After all, for once he had the upper hand. He'd be damned if he didn't take advantage of it.
“Sorry, Malik.” He gathered his weapons, keeping his sword in hand. When cast a last glance at it, he noticed Malik's gaze following. Oh, this was so much fun. Leaning across the counter, he added: “I didn't mean to rub it in.” And with that he was gone.
Malik was not sure if he should kill Altaïr now or wait. Probably later. He wanted to beat himself on the head. Really, Malik, whatever your mind is doing? Polishing a sword, can't you be a bit more subtle, damnit? He would have screamed. When he tried to shove from the counter on which he was leaning, he nearly doubled over. Heavy Dai coat or not, the pressure had sent a jolt across him. Damn this idiot novice.
In the courtyard, out of Malik's sight, Altaïr was grinning like a cat that just got the canary. Really, had he known that cleaning his blades would force a boner out of Malik... he'd have done it sooner. Ah, blackmail material, what would he do without it!