Altair heard the din of a struggle before he saw it, and because he had fallen into the habit of rescuing civilians lately (they could do with the help, and the guards could do with the trouble), he found his feet unconsciously shifting his path towards the source of the noise, the hidden blade sliding out from the base of his palm with a metal sound that was lost within the staccato-beat of his footsteps. When the noise grew loud enough that he was sure it was just over the edge of the next roof, he jumped down.
Then, he nearly tripped on a Templar's loose helmet.
“My, what grace,” a familiar voice drawled, and after Altair caught himself just in time to avoid an intimate introduction between his face and the floor, he looked up to find Malik wiping off the excess blood from his blade on the backside of a fallen guard. In fact, the ground was littered with Templar men, their tunics more red than white now, all strewn in varied but equally dead positions circling around the one-armed assassin. Other than the corpses, there was not much mess – every single one had suffered one or two blows at most – a clean parry and then a decisive strike.
Altair glanced back at Malik, and frowned, gesturing at the scarlet stains streaked across his Assassin whites, and most likely across his dai robe, where the color was too dark to distinguish. “Malik, are you injured?”
Malik scoffed and hid his sword, slipping it back into a sheath hidden underneath his scholar's coat, because Altair was not the only one who hid behind their guise. “None of it is mine, Altair,” he said with great patience, like he was talking with a child. Carefully stepping over the bodies as to splash none of their pooling blood onto his boots, Malik sidestepped the other Assassin and took his hand all in one swift motion, leading them both out of the incriminating alley and into the throng of civilians.
Altair leaned in close, and Malik used the other man's proximity to hide his handicap, more a luxury than a necessity, but a rare indulgence nonetheless. The days were few when Malik could walk the streets of Jerusalem as an equal in appearance, despite his skill and prowess and strength. Altair did not ask if he had been the one to kill all those guards, because the answer was obvious, but Malik shot him a smug smirk just the same, like he knew he wanted to, and Altair's neck grew hot with the allegation, so he turned away, hiding his profile with his hood.
When they reached the bureau, Altair hopped up first and Malik automatically extended an arm to be pulled up. Neither spoke until they were inside. “Even their blood is more bothersome than the rest,” Malik announced, grimacing distastefully at the state of his clothes as he lifted his dai robe up to see the damage. Altair stepped forward, hands raised and hovering around Malik's waist without knowing how he could help, feeling awfully helpless for once (and that was uncomfortable, perhaps stemming from a deep-seated, long-ingrained fear of what would happen to him if he wasn't at least useful anymore).
The newly-appointed bureau leader of Jerusalem poked his head out for a moment, and at the sight of them, simply disappeared back inside with a quick murmur of, “Ah, I will get a basin, Masters.”
Altair jerked back, wondering if he had seen the intimacy in their proximity, and Malik smiled at the back of his head, amused. “Nasser is a good man to put here,” he said, shrugging out of the outermost layer of his clothes. “He remembers what I tell him, read through my maps with a studious I never saw in you,” and here, he laughed under his breath, a rare but increasingly less so sound that made Altair turn back to him like a hungry child to a dinner bell, “And he is quick and discreet. Set up my traps in a matter of days.”
“Traps?” Altair asked, settling for leaning against the adjacent wall for now, because Malik was fully capable of dressing and undressing himself, even if Altair was well-versed in the latter too.
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Then, he nearly tripped on a Templar's loose helmet.
“My, what grace,” a familiar voice drawled, and after Altair caught himself just in time to avoid an intimate introduction between his face and the floor, he looked up to find Malik wiping off the excess blood from his blade on the backside of a fallen guard. In fact, the ground was littered with Templar men, their tunics more red than white now, all strewn in varied but equally dead positions circling around the one-armed assassin. Other than the corpses, there was not much mess – every single one had suffered one or two blows at most – a clean parry and then a decisive strike.
Altair glanced back at Malik, and frowned, gesturing at the scarlet stains streaked across his Assassin whites, and most likely across his dai robe, where the color was too dark to distinguish. “Malik, are you injured?”
Malik scoffed and hid his sword, slipping it back into a sheath hidden underneath his scholar's coat, because Altair was not the only one who hid behind their guise. “None of it is mine, Altair,” he said with great patience, like he was talking with a child. Carefully stepping over the bodies as to splash none of their pooling blood onto his boots, Malik sidestepped the other Assassin and took his hand all in one swift motion, leading them both out of the incriminating alley and into the throng of civilians.
Altair leaned in close, and Malik used the other man's proximity to hide his handicap, more a luxury than a necessity, but a rare indulgence nonetheless. The days were few when Malik could walk the streets of Jerusalem as an equal in appearance, despite his skill and prowess and strength. Altair did not ask if he had been the one to kill all those guards, because the answer was obvious, but Malik shot him a smug smirk just the same, like he knew he wanted to, and Altair's neck grew hot with the allegation, so he turned away, hiding his profile with his hood.
When they reached the bureau, Altair hopped up first and Malik automatically extended an arm to be pulled up. Neither spoke until they were inside. “Even their blood is more bothersome than the rest,” Malik announced, grimacing distastefully at the state of his clothes as he lifted his dai robe up to see the damage. Altair stepped forward, hands raised and hovering around Malik's waist without knowing how he could help, feeling awfully helpless for once (and that was uncomfortable, perhaps stemming from a deep-seated, long-ingrained fear of what would happen to him if he wasn't at least useful anymore).
The newly-appointed bureau leader of Jerusalem poked his head out for a moment, and at the sight of them, simply disappeared back inside with a quick murmur of, “Ah, I will get a basin, Masters.”
Altair jerked back, wondering if he had seen the intimacy in their proximity, and Malik smiled at the back of his head, amused. “Nasser is a good man to put here,” he said, shrugging out of the outermost layer of his clothes. “He remembers what I tell him, read through my maps with a studious I never saw in you,” and here, he laughed under his breath, a rare but increasingly less so sound that made Altair turn back to him like a hungry child to a dinner bell, “And he is quick and discreet. Set up my traps in a matter of days.”
“Traps?” Altair asked, settling for leaning against the adjacent wall for now, because Malik was fully capable of dressing and undressing himself, even if Altair was well-versed in the latter too.