Chapter Text
Abstergo's beds were always hard as stone, let alone the constant threat of one's life could give major difficulties sleeping. So it wasn't weird that Desmond's first concern after escaping Abstergo was a finding a decent bed and getting some sleep in his exhausted body.
When Lucy told him they only had foldable army-cots; he almost started crying out of pure frustration.
Lucy, who was sharper than him in every way, probably saw the boy's distress.
“Don't worry Desmond, if you leave the mansion, search for a house with two red cars parked out front. It's abandoned and I've already slept in the bed there, it's quite comfortable.” With a wink she added, “You're not the only one who slept at Abstergo.”
At this, Desmond just swept her up in a hug; he never knew he could be this grateful for the offer of a simple bed.
“Thanks for everything, Lucy. I don't know what would've happened if I stayed there.”
When he let her go, there was a sad smile on her lips and a pitying look in her eyes which made him think she knew exactly what would've happened.
It didn't matter now, what did was his date with a certain soon-to-be-hijacked bed.
“See you in the morning!” He cheerfully waved at his savior and bolted out of the mansion.
At last, freedom! Well, more or less, he didn't really have a choice lest he wanted to be kidnapped again, but he could live with it... for now.
His legs carried him to the little quiet town, bathing in the light of the setting sun.
With an exhilarated laugh, Desmond launched himself up on a roof via a random car.
Sadly, Desmond tended to forget he didn't have the force or agility of Altaïr anymore, which made him almost brain himself on a gutter, though he was lucky enough to barely grasp the roof with his fingertips.
'Smooth' He thought sarcastically before readjusting his grip and pulling himself up, using far more effort than he thought was necessary.
Spending this much time cooped up in his room and laying around in the animus had harshly decimated his strength and although the movements of free-running came almost natural, the assassin just didn't have the power to go with the movements.
With definite determination, he decided to do some training, no use being free if you couldn't move freely, right?
Spotting the highest building, he started to make his way over, a lot slower than when he began his trip. Out off breath he pulled himself up, barely getting his weight on the roof.
Here he promptly rolled on his back and waited till his heart wasn't trying to beat out of his chest. Okay, maybe he could use A LOT of training.
After a time he finally spotted the red cars Lucy had mentioned and it didn't take long to get there. With his lock picking skills he had the door open in no time, though said door could use some oil, judging by the dying screech it gave when opening.
After some searching Desmond found the only not-dusty thing in the house: a cozy, big bed that seemed to be made out of cotton candy, though that could have been the pink sheets talking to him.
With a jump that could rival the eagle dive, the boy was soon surrounded by the fluffiest blankets he had ever felt, and when warmth started to seep trough the fluffiness, Desmond felt like he was in heaven.
Tension slowly but surely left his overstressed body and the hyper vigilance that had controlled his mind over the last months was finally waning a bit. Deeper and deeper he sank into his own mind, for once enjoying the complete silence and darkness that came with the night.
In seconds he was asleep.
With a snort Desmond awoke to find that something was tickling his nose. And when he tried sitting upright, his body was assaulted by annoying prickliness.
At last he opened his eyes and was momentarily disoriented by the utter yellowness of everything around him.
'Hay?' His still groggy mind had quite some difficulty remembering how he got there, hadn’t he fallen asleep in a bed?
The breeze that blew trough the little straws told him he was outside as well, plus the wood under him was evidence enough that his cozy bed had gone.
'The hell?'
For a moment the traumatized boy thought he had been kidnapped again, making him panic for a second. Soon however he gained control of his breathing as he wondered why anyone would kidnap him, to leave him floundering in hay.
'Who even uses a hay cart anymore?' He thought bewildered.
Feeling it was safe enough to take a look, Desmond peeked out over the edge of said cart.
After which he sat down again, shaking and wide-eyed.
'Nononono, I'm still sleeping, STILL SLEEPING, there CAN'T BE any other explanation!'
Or someone had brought him to a renaissance fair as some elaborate joke. A very, VERY familiar renaissance fair. One that looked exactly like how Masyaf did in the twelfth century.
At that point the assassin was not ashamed to admit he started hyperventilating. But hey, he could have his moments! He was only human!
By now, fear had blazed into downright panic.
Wheezing on the bottom of that cart, he realized that when scientists would find his bones in the future, dressed in hoodie, jeans and nikes, they would pass it of as a hoax. He was going to die hundreds of years in the past and no one would ever know!
Still drawing in way too much oxygen, black spots began dancing in and out of his line of vision, making him feel dizzy and light in his head.
Since Desmond was still in frenzy, the hand that gripped his neck gently didn't surprise him at all; he was rather busy with the stabbing pain in his lungs.
He was carefully pushed forward, made to curl in on himself in an attempt to make the content off his lungs smaller.
“Relax, stranger. Take calm breaths trough your nose to the bottom of your belly. In…out…in…out… Like this”
Closing his eyes, Desmond tried to concentrate on the cool hand on the back of his neck and the steady timbre of the voice.
What really snapped the boy out of his self-induced frenzy was the fact that he knew the man was speaking Arabic, but he could still understand him. It was like when the bleeding-effect was tormenting him, his thoughts were in English, but no matter how hard he tried, only the garbled syllables of the ancient language rolled of his tongue. If he mulled it over too much it gave him a head-ache.
Then it occurred to the youngster; if he could understand it, would he be able to speak it?
After a few more moments of enjoying the normal breathing rhythm filling his lungs, he decided to try; the dude at least deserved an attempted thank you.
The hand retracted immediately as Desmond pushed back at it, signaling he wanted to sit up.
“Th… thank you.” He breathed out in almost perfect Arabic. Yup, exactly like the confusing bleeding-effect.
“It’s okay, what had you in such a frenzy though, I’m curious to know.” Some worry had laced itself trough the deep voice of the stranger.
Well shit, the man had rescued him from a particularly embarrassing fate, so Desmond felt obliged to at least say something.
“I’m… lost.” Desmond winced at the pathetic statement.
“Soooo you hid in a hay cart and panicked?” the not very impressed tone of the man made the boy grimace. Way to come over as completely helpless, moron.
With a grin slapped on his face, Desmond turned around to face the man.
“Well, it’s a little more complicated than tha…”
A visceral shock ran trough him when he recognized the features, the nose and the way the eyes sparked at something. Never had the difference between animus and real life been so stark. Desmond couldn’t stop drinking in that face, every freckle and feature that evaded him when in the animus.
In turn, Malik was looking at him with wide eyes and astonishment was written all over his face.
It seemed almost laughable now that Desmond thought about it, he’d never seen the man not angry.
The sickening urge to laugh didn’t last long though as the Arabian tensed and jumped over the edge, effectively and smoothly tackling Desmond to the bottom of said hard, wooden cart.
The boy was stunned at the agility and efficiency of the one-armed man before fear replaced surprise at the tell-tale *snickt* of a hidden blade jumping out and pressing against the tender skin above his adam’s apple.
A pair of knees with considerable weight behind them pinned Desmond’s upper arms to the wood, leaving Malik sitting on his abdomen, entirely out of view from everyone thanks to the fucking hay.
“Where did you get that face? Who… What are you?” Every question was underlined with a press of the blade, making the boy afraid to even swallow.
Crap, he didn’t even hold into account that he was almost identical in appearance to the leader of their order. His worrying about money not so long ago, suddenly seemed silly.
“Did you really think you could fool us with such a cheap copy of our maestro!” Malik spitted in his face, the scent of coffee washing over the youngster.
‘Rude!’ Also, Desmond felt weirdly insulted.
“Hey! This happens to be the face I was born with! I didn’t fucking steal it!”
The ice-cold, sharp line pushing against and almost trough his skin reminded him not to be too rude.
“The scar on your mouth is not only identical to his, but your face is so… so… By Allah, I should bleed you out in this cart!” The pure fury distorting Malik’s face made it clear he was seconds from doing just that.
“Ohowow, wait, if I was planning something I wouldn’t be caught hyperventilating, right? If it wasn’t for you I would’ve passed out, no?” Desmond was pretty desperate at this point, which must’ve shown on his face because a flicker of uncertainty flickered in Malik’s eyes, somewhat softening the murderous intent.
The blade wasn’t moving though.
The youngster didn’t budge an inch in fear of giving himself a shiny, new, red necktie.
Suspicion was still narrowing the Arabian’s eyes but at last, after a minute of indecision, Desmond felt a slight sting as the blade withdrew, apparently leaving behind a little cut. It felt like a warning.
Nevertheless, he sighted in relief, willing his terrified heart to slow down now that the immediate threat was gone.
Just as agile as he jumped in, Malik leaped out of the cart, probably scaring the piss out of some bystanders. After which he grabbed Desmond’s arm and almost bodily dragged Desmond out as well.
“Come on, boy. I shall let another decide what to do with you.” The one-armed man said gruffly, not releasing the death grip on the youngster’s arm, which Desmond was sure was going to leave some impressive bruising.
Malik set off towards the imposing castle towering above everything, resolutely not letting go off the boy’s arm.
The sun was barely over the horizon, bathing the sand-colored buildings in fire, the heath of the day just barely beginning to set in. After a few minutes of exposure, Desmond began sweating, although most off it was more from anxiety than the sun beating down on his hoodie.
The few people already up barely noticed them and the few who did were quickly scared away by Malik’s dirty looks thrown their way.
Upon climbing the slope towards his impending doom, there were more assassins hurrying by them despite the early hour.
Desmond felt his heart sinking to his shoes the closer they got to the stronghold. It was clear Altaïr was already in charge, if he had interpreted Malik’s words correctly.
By this time, Desmond was meekly trudging on, making sure the older man wasn’t just dragging him along.
All the while he was trying to find a way out of this, Altaïr couldn’t see him, but in the one percent chance he could fight Malik off, he had nowhere to really go.
The all too familiar training grounds greeted him with their emptiness, passing them with a feeling of reminiscence, Desmond was already preparing for a swift death.
His heart completely sank at the withering glares the guards stabbed him with, traveling with Altaïr never arose the suspicion he was besieged with now.
“Don’t drag your feet, boy.” Malik said aggravated, as the youngster’s arm was harshly tugged. Yep, definitely bruised.
It would’ve pissed Desmond off, being called ‘boy’ this much; but this situation was hardly normal.
The piercing eyes of the guards were enough to make him wilt where he walked.
‘Altaïr can’t see me!’ At that thought, he started panicking again.
Malik threw him a strange look at noticing the distress, but didn’t slow down any.
At the top of the stairs, the youngster already noticed his descendant sitting behind Al Mualim’s desk, briskly taking notes.
They came at a standstill on the gold encrusted star on the floor, worn down by numerous feet over the years.
The youngster fixed his eyes on it, hoping beyond desperation that somehow, Altaïr wouldn’t take notice of him.
The grandmaster’s voice cut like a knife trough the silence, although keeping his eyes trained to the paper in front of him.
“What kind of trouble have you brought me now, Malik?” He sounded almost amused.
“If his highness ever deigned himself to lift his bloated head, maybe he wouldn’t have to waste his precious air.” Malik answered with a sting of venom in his voice.
Well, Desmond thought, it’s good to know some things never changed, though the humor escaped him momentarily.
He felt cold sweat break out all over his body as a chair was moved backwards, scraping over the floor and underlining his impending doom.
Calm, sure steps approached until the young man saw used leather boots in the line of his vision. Still sticking his eyes on the cracks in the gold, Desmond held his breath in anticipation.
“Strange clothes this one has.”
“Astute observation, oh enlightened one, but that’s not why I brought him here.” Malik said annoyed as suddenly, Desmond’s chin was gripped in an iron vice and shoved upwards none too gently.
The first thing the youngster saw was the hawk-like gaze, bronze eyes boring into his. He was pretty sure he was about to die, but nonetheless, he could appreciate the striking resemblance between them. It was almost like looking into a mirror, albeit one that made him look older.
A small smile tugged at Altaïr’s lips, shocking Desmond. He’d never had the chance to see it while in the animus and shame burned him from the inside out as he realized for the first time that Altaïr was still human, not someone who killed indiscriminately. He’d only ever seen Altaïr as a ruthless assassin.
With a scoff, the grandmaster turned towards Malik. Desmond’s eyes fell to the floor once again when he was released from the intense stare.
“You frightened this poor boy just because he has an uncanny likeness to me?”
“If it was just that I wouldn’t have bothered. It wasn’t even because of his strange clothes. He recognized me, I saw it in his eyes! And when I was taking him here, I didn’t even have to lead, he knew the way. Which is pretty suspicious for someone who’s presumably lost. On top of that, I found him panicking in a hay cart of all things. I have no clue what is wrong with the boy, but I know weirdness when I see it.”
Desmond was so busy beating himself up over the fact he let slip so much on the way here, he totally missed the searching look moving up and down his body; hawk-eyes intent on uncovering his secrets.
What he did notice was a very familiar metallic sound, the sound of a sword unsheathing.
Time slowed down to a crawl as Desmond could hear the air being split, only pure instinct made him react in time. The youngster lowered his stance, whipped his eyes up and unsheathed his hidden blade to stop the blade going for his neck.
What he didn’t expect was the blade stopping inches from his assassin’s knife.
Surprised he looked at the offender, Altaïr loosely holding his sword and grinning like he just solved a particularly difficult puzzle.
Their eyes locked.
It has to be said that Malik was gaping at the both of them.
The moment dissolved as Altaïr smoothly returned the blade to its sheath, hand reaching out to the youngster who flinched at the approach. The only thing the grandmaster did was take hold of his left arm, forcefully rolling up the sleeve so he could take a better look at the mechanism.
“I’m beginning to understand why my loyal underling brought you to me, young one.”
Malik couldn’t help a derisive snort at the ‘loyal underling’ part.
“Withdraw it, boy.” Altaïr ordered with a harsh edge to his voice.
Frowning, Desmond did as he was told, flexing his wrist just so to draw the blade back in its sheath.
Now that he was pretty sure they weren’t going to kill him right now, the annoyance at being called ‘boy’ and being ordered around returned full force.
“Malik, come look at this.” The grandmaster said with fascination.
With his tattoos and hidden blade now under undivided scrutiny of two master assassins, Desmond was beginning to feel really uncomfortable. He’d done it now.
“No doubt it’s a real assassin’s blade, but have you ever seen this design?”
Malik grunted. “It is not one I am familiar with, the craftsmanship is also far more intricate than I have ever seen.”
“It puzzles me as well, my friend. This clothing and footwear is also expertly made, I believe that with this tunic alone you could buy a whole village.”
Malik softly traced his tattoos with sure fingers, making goose bumps travel up Desmond’s arm and something suspiciously resembling warmth pooling in his belly. He’d never witnessed such a delicate action from the one-armed man.
“And this inking is the best work I’ve ever seen, such fine detail.”
The two men were coming closer and closer in their inspection, Desmond suddenly going from discomfort to outright distress.
“I know what you mean, have you seen the mechanism with which he holds his tunic closed? Such fine work must’ve been made by a true master of craft.”
At that comment, the youngster made the mistake to actually snort.
The two pairs of eyes suddenly trained on him made him immediately regret that particular action.
“I am curious as to what is so amusing, boy.” Altaïr speared him with his golden eyes, voice as sharp as a blade, definitely not amused or fascinated anymore.
Desmond mentally reminded himself not to mock assassins who could kill you in the blink of an eye.
With a resigned sigh he answered. “Where I’m from, this is probably the cheapest clothing to be found. Oh, and my name is Desmond; Des-mond. Not boy.”
His arm was released but now there was a very annoyed Altaïr towering over him, murder and impending torture in his eyes, he should know, he’d directed it at enough people in the animus. But now he knew why said people were very prone to spilling everything and anything to the master assassin.
Desmond gulped and was startled to suddenly find a railing digging in his back, apparently he had moved backwards without any actual approval from his brain.
That didn’t stop the Arabian though.
He progressed even more on the smaller boy, almost touching the youngster as his eyes drilled into Desmond’s. If he thought it would help him any, he’d taken the backbreaking leap over the edge right then and there.
“Where did you come from, boy.” Every syllable was pronounced with a threatening edge.
‘From a continent you won’t know because it hasn’t been discovered yet and approximately eight hundred years in the future.’ Yeah, he wasn’t going to tell him that, he wanted to live, even though that prospect was dwindling rapidly.
Desmond racked his brain, desperate to find an answer to appease the murderer bearing down on him.
He opened his mouth to say something, anything; but the words were stuck in the back of his throat, sticking there like they were terrified as well of the person before him.
“Uhm… errr…I…I…” Eloquence normally wasn’t his strongest point but now it turned abysmal.
“Speak clearly, boy. Or I will assume you’re a threat to the order and treat you accordingly.”
That kind off broke Desmond, the ice-cold grip of fear had spread trough his body.
“Please, you have to believe me, I can’t tell you, you wouldn’t believe me, I wouldn’t believe me. I’m…I’m a friend to the order and an enemy to templars, please! I mean no harm.”
He folded his hands together and looked pleadingly at Altaïr, and although he was inwardly grimacing at his pitiable rambling; he still hoped the grandmaster would at least see him as the non-threat he clearly was.
Something unidentifiable flashed in Altaïr’s eyes, before they softened considerably, which honestly surprised the hell out of Desmond.
Unbeknownst to the boy, eagle-vision had determined him light green, almost a puppy’s color; Altaïr mused.
The grandmaster deftly turned around, making the youngster almost fall to the floor as bone-crushing relief spread trough him.
“Fine. I assume you don’t have a place to stay?”
“errr…” There was that fine eloquence again.
“Malik, take the boy to one of the rooms. Dhezmund, you will leave your blade with us. I shall determine tomorrow if you are worthy of carrying it.”
Naturally, Malik balked at being told what to do and Desmond was offended at the notion he wouldn’t be worthy.
Before either could open their mouths to protest however, Altaïr fixed them both with a withering stare which was so scorching Desmond could feel a blush spreading over his face and which made him take of his blade and put it on the table.
Malik though, not only used to the stares Altaïr could dole out but also infuriated when he did so, returned it with just as much force.
With a huff, the one-armed man turned to the youngster and motioned him curtly to follow him, but not before flipping the grandmaster off, which apparently amused the recipient to no end.
Resisting the urge to roll his eyes (no mocking the killers, remember?), the youngster followed a grumbling Malik deeper into the stronghold.
Silence was their companion trough the long trek of the bowels of the building. Desmond was gaping at all the tapestries that never really seemed important in the animus, but were now astonishing him with their beauty.
So much so that he ran into Malik when the Arabian stopped. It felt like running into a friggin wall! The youngster literally bounced off the older man’s frame and would’ve fallen if not for a quick steadying hand on his arm.
The young assassin found himself once again under the other man’s scrutiny. Thoughtfulness was painted across his face as Desmond felt himself becoming uneasy.
“You look so much like him when he was younger.”
The hand rose to find it’s way to Desmond’s face, the boy not sure what to do with the sudden warmth coming from the calloused hand.
Contemplation crossed Malik’s face as unexpectedly, the eyes that had locked with his own were coming closer.
Time once again appeared to slow down, though this time for a completely other reason. First Desmond became aware again of the scent of coffee on the other man’s breath, secondly the slight rustling of clothes against his own literally resounded in his ears.
The claws of shock sank into him frighteningly slow and the youngster experienced his heart stuttering in its rhythm as he felt their lips connect.
His brain, which at first was frozen with surprise, accelerated his thoughts lightening-fast and he was assaulted with why’s and how’s and he wasn’t gay so why did this feel so nice and damnit it he could feel the slight fuzz on the older man’s chin and cue meltdown.
Disconnecting with a little sound that felt too loud in the empty corridor, Malik leaned backwards with a slight frown.
“Well, you’re definitely not our grandmaster. Here’s your room, I’ll come get you when the midday meal is served”
Flabbergasted, Desmond could do nothing but gawk at the older man, eyes so wide they almost popped out.
With a snort and a pat on the youngster’s cheek, Malik turned around and was gone before the other could stammer out a fitting response, not sure whether to be insulted or relieved at what Malik had said.
By now it was too late anyway, it seemed like an eternity before he un-froze and slowly entered the room.
Confused as fuck, he almost didn’t notice the Spartan interior of the room before he dropped bodily on the bunk.
This in hindsight was a very bad idea, as these sacks that had to pass for “mattress” were not nearly as bouncy as the ones in his own time.
His head still spinning with what had happened, Desmond closed his eyes, wishing to whatever god that was out there that when he opened his eyes the next time, it would be to the soft, pink sheets he left behind.
The sound of a zipper opening and closing roused Desmond from his uncomfortable slumber. Wakefulness returning slowly until he remembered what had happened. Painfully slow flashbacks played out before his eyes, prompting him to jerk fully awake on the cot.
Opening his eyes, Desmond couldn’t help the strangled sound that escaped him upon spotting Malik sitting with him, apparently fascinated with the way his zipper operated.
He jolted backwards, ripping his hoodie out of the man’s hands, flattening himself against the wall while glaring at the offensive man.
“What the hell, man?!” He spluttered out.
What made it worse was that his expression was mirrored back at him, as if he was the strange one that went around kissing people out of the blue.
Desmond froze, somehow he’d forgotten about the kiss, his hands flew up to his face, which was burning with embarrassment at remembering the soft lips upon his.
A snicker escaped Malik’s lips –those damned things Desmond kept getting detailed and horrific flashbacks about- and the older man stood up.
“Relax Dhezmund, why are you so jumpy?”
“Wha…? You…you kissed me!” Desmond threw back, sounding as if the man had attacked him.
“That’s why you are so on edge?” Malik responded puzzled, looking at the youngster as if he didn’t know whether to laugh in his face or not. Desmond glared at the upturned corners of malik’s lips as if they had personally insulted him. Which they had done, he remembered in vivid detail, insulted his manly, manly pride.
“Come on, boy. Altaïr is waiting for us to begin eating.”
The youngster was sure to leave a good three feet between them at all times while walking trough the castle. Naturally, the older man noticed this and was visibly struggling to contain his mirth.
When they arrived at the dining room, Desmond was thoroughly irritated by the looks Malik kept throwing him, as if he was discovering some new animal at the zoo.
The big table occupying the room was already prepared with several types of fruit and some kind of little sandwiches.
“Ah Dhezmund, be seated, I have much to discuss with you.”
Trepadeption rose at that statement from Altaïr, he had to make sure not to spill too many secrets, who knew what he could screw up in the past, he could stop existing! If all those time-traveling movies had thought him anything, it was that changing the past was a big no no.
Sitting rigid in his chair, Desmond didn’t have to wait long to be shocked yet again.
“So, I take it you are from the future?” The grandmaster inquired carelessly.
“Bwa? How…?” God, it was as if he had lost the ability to speak after he arrived here.
“That leap of logic was not that hard, boy; with all these things you have that are impossible to make here. And the fact that you look so much like me, I suspect that I am your descendant in some way. I understand now why you cannot say anything, I promise I will never ask you anything that could compromise our futures. However, now that you are here I would like to train you, a bit old for a novice maybe but hopefully you’re not as inexperienced as you have demonstrated.”
Desmond sat silent trough the whole speech, until the last part of course. Such a slight against his already bruised ego was the final drop.
“Goddamnit Altaïr, I’m not some godforsaken loser that needs to have his hand held every step of the way! And for fuck’s sake! Stop calling me boy!”
“Maybe you would do best to PROVE it then, instead of acting like a BRAT!” Altaïr’s eyes flashed dangerously, but Desmond was beyond caring by now.
“A BRAT? YOU’RE the one treating me as if I’m worth nothing. You should show me some RESPECT because I know things your PUNY MIND can’t even PHANTOM!”
Now the grandmaster was furious, how dare that kid taunt him!
“You think you’re better than me, boy?” His voice dropped to a dangerous tone.
Desmond got right in his face for his response, years of movies preparing him for this moment.
“Oh, I KNOW I’m better than you.” He said in the same tone of voice as his descendant’s with a smirk twisting his face.
“I know for a fact that you are not.” Malik said out of the blue.
“Malik, stay out of it!”
“Malik, stay out of it!”
Startled, Altaïr and Desmond locked eyes.
“Oh Allah, what did I do to deserve this?” Malik said aggravated, trying to fight a headache. “Now I’m stuck with two of you.”
“I am nothing like this brat!”
“Yeah, plus he’s old.”
“I’m only thirty-two!”
With a resigned sigh, Malik turned around and ignored the yelling that was resounding in the chamber. He had more important things to do than listen to this drivel.
The shouting continued for almost an hour, in the end almost chasing away all the novices from the stronghold.
Malik returned to the two men glaring at each other.
With a grumbling of ‘idiots’ the man dropped a stack of papers and scrolls in front of the grandmaster.
“Dhezmund, you’re coming with me, I’m starting your training.”
This finally seemed to snap them out of it, Desmond turning his attention to Malik, looking surprised.
“What about my hidden blade? Can I get it back for training?”
Malik snorted. “Absolutely not, we’re starting with endurance. Follow me.”
Curious, Desmond followed the older man.
“Have you been trained in free running?” Malik asked while walking.
“Uh, well, it was a special kind of training. I might be a tad out of shape?” The youngster winced at that blatant lie.
“Good, let’s see what you can do.”
The man entered trough an archway and the sun beat down on him
“Try to keep up with me” Malik said as he pulled of his long coat, leaving him in an unmistakable assassin’s tunic.
He sprinted towards a wall and ran up, gripping the edge and in one smooth motion, swung himself up on the roof like it was the easiest thing in the world.
Desmond couldn’t help but be impressed.
The youngster zipped his hoodie off, leaving him in a dark shirt and shook his stressed muscles a bit, it had been a stressful day so far.
Even if it was far less graceful than the older assassin, he managed to get himself up fairly quickly.
Malik was balanced on the edge of the roof, looking at him with a frown marring his brows. Without another word, he turned around and jumped off the roof to a building below. Desmond had no choice but to follow. The Arabian set a murdering pace trough the city, cutting across it and effectively avoiding all detection
Ten minutes in, Desmond was out of breath and seriously under prepared for the stamina of the older man.
Malik stopped in the middle of a high building, signaling Desmond to stop.
“You have no endurance, do you understand? Now listen to me, you are going to be running the same parcour over and over until I tell you to stop, is that clear?” He said sternly
“What?...” Desmond didn’t get very far in his objection as Malik jumped towards him and pushed him clean off.
Desmond instinctively pushed off the wall whilst falling and leapt to a lower roof, landing on his feet but barely keeping his balance from exhaustion.
“I will not ask why you have the exact same technique as Altaïr, but I have to say, it’s flawed because you don’t have the muscles to go with it.” The older man pointed out. “Oh, and stay hydrated!” He warned as he threw a full water-skin to him.
With a resigned sigh, Desmond started going back the way he came, hoping that he still knew the route.
No less than two hours later, Malik returned to find the younger assassin almost drenched in sweat, doggedly running on, up and between the buildings and a lot slower than how they had started off.
Malik called out to him. “Young one, you may stop!”
This startled Desmond into making a mistake, he missed the edge of the roof and although the boy had quickly clutched on with his hands, the action made his head scrape against the offensive roof quite hard. With a string of curses the young man made his way to the cause of his pain. It was just a superficial scrape along his eyebrow but it bled like a bitch.
“Smooth. Come on, you’re no use to me half-dead.” Malik deadpanned.
To his surprise, Malik led him back to his room. It was then he noticed the man was carrying a large satchel. Wait, had the man expected him to be wounded? Desmond eyed the Arabian with distrust when the other man pushed him on the bed and promptly sat down next too him. Closely.
Great, now he felt awkward with the proximity of Malik.
Wetting a white cloth with a clear liquid from a bottle, Malik wasted no time in getting up and personal with his face.
Desmond couldn’t help but remember the other moment were there was this little distance between them, nevertheless he let his head be manhandled for a better angle and hissed at the brute way Malik cleaned and bandaged the wound.
“You bled all over your nice shirt, come on, take it off, I’ll have it washed.”
With horror Desmond watched Malik reach out to help him with just that. He recoiled and pushed the other man’s hands away.
“I’m capable of doing it on my own, thank you.” Desmond said defensively.
“Why are you so afraid of being touched by other people?” Malik asked, genuinely curious.
“It’s not… ugh, it’s not other people I have a problem with, it’s just that I am not gay.”
“What does that mean; ‘gey’?” Malik asked confused.
“Oh God. It just means I’m not attracted to other men.”
Malik snorted. “You are weird, Dhezmund.”
"I'm weird?! But you... but...ugh." Desmond dropped his head in his hands, giving up on the conversation.
Suddenly he was exhausted, had it really been just a day since he got here? It seemed like ages.
Malik stood up and said: "I'll leave you to rest. You will need it."
Desmond resolutely ignored the amusement coloring the man's voice, he was just too damn tired.