[ac] tumble dry
Title: Tumble Dry
Rating: PG
Pairing: Altair/Malik
Notes: Domestic prompt, involving laundry, but it didn't really turn out that way. Thanks to pellucere for the silly title without even really knowing what I was writing about, ahaha.
It wasn’t until the stranger turned around that Malik realized the man wasn’t a buyer looking for a map, but Altair, out of uniform and dressed in a plain garb like any ordinary man of Jerusalem.
“Well?” Altair said impatiently, not that he could be blamed for it this time; Malik had been staring at him, at his light tunic, the long, loose sleeves and his bare hands. Even the cowl Altair usually wore over his head had been replaced by a headscarf with crisscrossing patterns of different earthy colors, the fabric thin enough that it showed a silhouette of his tousled hair in the bright sunlight.
“A basket?” Malik repeated, since he had been listening to Altair’s demands, but, as usual, he listened with only half an ear whenever Altair took on a petulant tone.
“Yes, I have only said this about three times before. About this big,” Altair replied, and as raised his hands to gesture the width, Malik saw that he was without his bracer or hidden blade as well, which was the strangest thing of all.
“Why? Is it for a mission?” he asked, drawing his eyes back up to Altair’s face. A basket was a trivial matter, and Malik was partly obligated to provide supplies, but his question had a more bureaucratic propose behind it, rather than the curiosity of why on earth Altair would need a large basket to assassinate anyone. “I have not received word of your assignment.”
Altair shook his head. “No, not for a mission,” he said, and when Malik did not look the least bit satisfied with the answer, added, “Only laundry. Your assistants have been neglectful this week.”
“That would be because I have none, currently,” Malik said, shrugging. There was the beginning of a smirk making its way to Altair’s features, but before Altair could possibly suggest that Malik had scared off said assistants away, he interrupted with, “Is that why you have been piling your dirty things in the corner for all to see? Really, Altair, you should have learned by now that no one is going to pick up after you, master assassin or not.”
Altair bristled, though it was obvious that Malik was only teasing him - Altair was not a messy person, having at least folded his bloody robes and dropped them in the appropriate basin after every couple of missions. He crossed his arms, the sleeves of his shirt bunching up over his elbows, causing Malik to wonder again why Altair was unarmed, as the man usually carried an army’s worth of weaponry on him.
“Are you going to give me a basket or not?” Altair said, tilting his head pointedly at the opened window where the sun just hovering over the horizon; if he started any later then it would be far too hot by midday to do much of anything at all.
“Yes, yes, hold on,” Malik replied, sensing that if he did not get it soon, Altair would just carry his damn laundry by the armfuls, leaving an incriminating trail of Assassin robes from bureau to the district’s communal fountain and well. With a shake of his head, he went into the back part of the bureau to retrieve the basket, though he had to dump a few old maps out from it, and returned to the main room, holding it out. “You do know what you are doing, right?”
Altair looked offended. “What are you talking about? I always wash my own clothes - when I can spare the time.”
Which was news to Malik. Even in their younger days as children, Malik could not recall ever seeing Altair being saddled with laundry duty like the other novices. As much as Malik was loathed to admit it, Altair had been far too skilled at that age to be wasting his time with menial chores and was allowed to forgo them in order to train and study.
The skepticism must have shown on his face because Altair was giving him a sidelong look, balancing the basket against his hip with the ease of a person who was, in fact, quite used to dealing with menial chores. In retrospect, it really was not so farfetched; somewhere along the way, Altair must have had to learn how to take care of his clothes from traveling alone.
“I once paid a woman to wash my robes,” Altair began suddenly. He paused, appearing to regret having said anything, but when Malik raised an eyebrow, he huffed and continued, “She used some sort of scented soap - I hadn’t realized until it was too late- and what good is any skill in stealth when single breeze can turn the noses of your enemies faster than any sound to their ears?”
He looked so disgruntled that Malik, determined to respond with a deadpan remark, let out a laugh instead. The scowl he was given in return was well deserved, but it was a pleasant surprise to hear Altair freely relate to a minor mistake, humbled and self-deprecating, even if it was not strictly his fault.
“I killed my target, obviously, but reeking like an entire floral garden did not make my assignment any easier,” Altair finished, having stopped while Malik tried to stifle his laugher. His smile was hesitant and just a bit bewildered, as if he was not exactly sure what to make of Malik’s genuine amusement, but was pleased with it all in all.
“At least you’ve learned,” Malik said, grinning. He reached over, tugging the headscarf once, and watched with interest as Altair stilled, gaze darting to Malik’s hand, before he took a small step back. “Though now I know why I have never seen you at the fountains before, in those clothes; did you convince one of the vigilantes to lend them to you?”
“Well, that is rather the point,” Altair said. “The guards will chase after any Assassin, even if all the Assassin wants to do is clean his robes.” He drew himself up, hitching the scarf lower over his forehead in a way that intended to be haughty but, now that Malik was getting better at reading him, it was almost self-conscious. “And I do not need to borrow clothes from anyone, these are mine.”
Malik made a vague noise of acknowledgment, feeling that it was better not to say that the clothes did not suit Altair, though it was not as if the younger man wore them with any fault. The normalcy unsettled Malik, whose eye was constantly drawn to the patterned scarf that fell across Altair’s shoulders and hair. He wondered if Altair had purchased it himself, or if it had been a gift, or found on the streets.
The map he had been sketching on the counter crinkled under his hand. Malik glanced down, and picked up the piece of charcoal to resume drawing.
“You may use the fountain in the waiting chamber,” he said, catching the slight movement of Altair’s head rising. “You might as well, if the guards keep harassing you outside. There should be a wash basin in the back room as well.”
He did not bother to ask why Altair had not been using the bureau’s fountain in the first place. The answer was painfully obvious; Altair would have rather be seen doing a woman’s task in public with the risk of being chased down by the city’s guards than spend his time being shouted at by Malik. It was a realization that Malik was not proud of, but also not one he was going to apologize for, despite the amends they have made (or rejected).
Most likely Altair was aware of the same thing. He nodded, but did not thank Malik. Instead, he slipped out the open door without another word, the tail end of his scarf drifting behind him, and left Malik to mind the false map shop for the rest of the morning.
-
When Malik was able to finally close the windows and bar the door of the shop at midday, he leaned against one of the shelves, careful not the jostle the scrolls from their places. The shelf gave way, revealing a tiny passage, and Malik stepped through into the bureau’s main room.
It was more humid than usual, the air thick and sticking to his skin. From his spot behind the counter, Malik saw the fluttering of white robes hanging in the waiting chamber. He leaned forward to try to peer inside upon hearing the sound of splashing, and when he saw nothing else, he made his way into the adjacent room.
Altair had commandeered half the space, stringing lines of rope from the walls in order to dry his clothes. The whole set-up appeared haphazard at first-and dangerous, too, for Malik could not see who would come in or out of the bureau - but when he pushed aside a damp robe to find Altair, it sent the entire clothesline twitching - a warning and a trap.
The splashing stopped, followed by the faint ring of metal being drawn from a sheath.
“It is only me,” Malik called out, moving away a drying tunic (one of his, in fact) and looked down to find Altair sitting at his feet, already putting the dagger out of sight. “You’ve been busy.”
“Not busy enough, I find,” Altair replied, and held out his hand, puzzling Malik. He pursed his lips, reaching to grab the hem of Malik’s robe. “While I’m at it…”
He tugged it, insistent. For a moment, Malik was not sure what he wanted - for him to sit down, or stand closer, or-
“Ah,” Malik said, and shrugged off the dai’s robe, the dark fabric slipping from his shoulders with ease as Altair pulled it away and tossed it into the shallow wash basin. He knelt down, settling next to the younger man and looking around the chamber, counting clothes. “Did you wash everything? I hope you did not.”
“I wanted to-“
“No,” Malik interrupted, nudging Altair. “It does not matter if you wanted to or not; we do not have enough room to dry them all.”
Altair threw Malik a mock-indignant look, realizing that his added efforts were not going to be appreciated. He scrubbed Malik’s robe with enough force and deliberation to send droplets flying towards the dai. “Well, it’s not like I can hang them outside. It would be just as good as waving a Masyaf flag over the rooftop.”
Though Malik did not have the same aversion to water, he scooted away, using a foot to deliver a well-placed kick against the heavy basin, sloshing water all over Altair’s folded knees. Altair let out a hiss, all too knowing that Malik was skilled enough to avoid such clumsiness, so Malik could not even pass it off as an accident even if he had wanted to.
“There is a garden house on the roof. You can use that,” he began, trying to change the subject and direct Altair’s thoughts from any form of retaliation, but it was too late. Altair chose to be a petty man in the end; he held out Malik’s robe, dripping with water, and simply tossed it over Malik.
The cloth was heavy and slopping wet. Malik nearly fell over from the weight, reaching out with his arm to grab blindly for support. His hand met damp fabric and, instinctively, he pulled, just as Altair tried to slap his hand away. There was a snap, a whistle of rope sliding out of place, and the sound of Altair cursing.
Malik sat up, dragging the dai’s robe from his head, and was greeted with an unobstructive view of the waiting chamber, wet clothes littering the floor, and Altair leaning in too close for comfort.
“Let go,” Altair said, his voice tight. For some reason, his foot was in the wash basin and, possibly for the same reason, Malik’s hand was holding on to his scarf, the fabric stretching with tension as Altair tried to keep his distance without strangling himself.
“Good job,” Malik huffed, releasing his grip, but instead of moving away, Altair drew closer. The headscarf that Malik had found so perplexing was suddenly brushing against his face, soft and smelling strongly of citrus. And, because Malik was not infallible with his words, said, “I thought you did not like scented soaps.”
“Hm?” Altair muttered distractedly, turning his head to look behind him. Malik followed his line of sight, and shut his mouth when he saw that Altair had only leaned forward to remove his foot from the wash basin. As soon as he did, Altair stood up, wringing the sleeves of his tunic. “Oh. I never said I did not like them. Make fun of me, if you want.”
Malik ran a hand through his hair, yanking at the strands, and kept his gaze lowered as he squeezed the water out. He resisted the urge to sigh and eventually rose to his feet, abruptly conscious of the heat and humidity once more.
“Maybe at a later time,” he replied, handing Altair one end of the fallen rope.
Together, they picked up the fallen robes and tunics. Altair was inclined to grumble all throughout, shooting Malik accusing glares, and Malik was inclined to remind him that they were both grown men, able to not point fingers at each other. His dai robe was washed in time, without being tossed around, and the waiting chamber started to become crowded with dripping tunics and cowls. It was a nuisance trying to navigate around the lines, but Altair seemed to take it as a challenge; he made a perpendicular cross, boxing himself in a tent of clothes.
“Not even the novices do this,” Malik griped, ducking his head to retrieve Altair, and scowled when Altair shoved a robe into his chest for him to hang.
Hand effectively occupied, Malik could do little to stop Altair from pulling him into the makeshift alcove, sunlight filtering through the gaps of drying clothes. He twisted his body and only avoided snagging a red sash by a small margin, though Altair himself sent the lines springing up and down when he stumbled forward to press his lips against Malik’s mouth, and stayed there, waiting.
It was different.
It was different in the way that there were no knives between them, no sword strapped to their waists, no armor guarding their chests. Malik felt stripped, and perhaps he was, with his dai robe hanging in some corner part of the room, and Altair’s own assassin garb gone, wearing only the clothes of ordinary men, with no big part to play in the world. Malik tilted his head, letting Altair’s tongue lick open his mouth, and finally remembered to breathe.
And it was as raw and honest as the other times - and it was so long ago, those other times - but without the spiteful, malicious words they would throw at each other, the uncompromising demands neither would fulfill. Altair’s hands fumbled over Malik’s shirt, unsure of what to do when they had been accustomed to twisting and prying and hurting. Malik leaned into his cheek, wrapping his arm around Altair’s neck to bring him closer still, and felt Altair’s breath stutter near his ear and the pounding of his heart through the thin cloth of his tunic.
The sharp citrus scent surpassed the stifling, hot air, and Malik could only blame that as he grew dizzy, fighting for air and trying to steal it away from Altair, just as Altair was taking it away from him. That, at least, had not changed, even when he pushed forward and Altair relented in tiny, willing steps.
Malik found himself smiling, eager for this, for this thing that was so different.
But, of course, normalcy never seemed to suit either of them; Altair only had time to give a warning noise from the back of his throat before Malik heard a snap and a splash - Altair’s foot had found the wash basin again - and their makeshift alcove collapsed in an unceremonious heap at their feet.
Just like that, they were back in the bureau.
“Next time,” Malik growled, wrapping his hand through Altair’s scarf to pull him out of the basin, miscalculating the force, miscalculating how easy Altair gave in; he sent the younger man crashing into him, slipping over the floor and falling into the pile of wet clothes.
“Next time,” Altair agreed, hovering over Malik with a breathless laugh. “I will do the laundry outside.”
Rating: PG
Pairing: Altair/Malik
Notes: Domestic prompt, involving laundry, but it didn't really turn out that way. Thanks to pellucere for the silly title without even really knowing what I was writing about, ahaha.
It wasn’t until the stranger turned around that Malik realized the man wasn’t a buyer looking for a map, but Altair, out of uniform and dressed in a plain garb like any ordinary man of Jerusalem.
“Well?” Altair said impatiently, not that he could be blamed for it this time; Malik had been staring at him, at his light tunic, the long, loose sleeves and his bare hands. Even the cowl Altair usually wore over his head had been replaced by a headscarf with crisscrossing patterns of different earthy colors, the fabric thin enough that it showed a silhouette of his tousled hair in the bright sunlight.
“A basket?” Malik repeated, since he had been listening to Altair’s demands, but, as usual, he listened with only half an ear whenever Altair took on a petulant tone.
“Yes, I have only said this about three times before. About this big,” Altair replied, and as raised his hands to gesture the width, Malik saw that he was without his bracer or hidden blade as well, which was the strangest thing of all.
“Why? Is it for a mission?” he asked, drawing his eyes back up to Altair’s face. A basket was a trivial matter, and Malik was partly obligated to provide supplies, but his question had a more bureaucratic propose behind it, rather than the curiosity of why on earth Altair would need a large basket to assassinate anyone. “I have not received word of your assignment.”
Altair shook his head. “No, not for a mission,” he said, and when Malik did not look the least bit satisfied with the answer, added, “Only laundry. Your assistants have been neglectful this week.”
“That would be because I have none, currently,” Malik said, shrugging. There was the beginning of a smirk making its way to Altair’s features, but before Altair could possibly suggest that Malik had scared off said assistants away, he interrupted with, “Is that why you have been piling your dirty things in the corner for all to see? Really, Altair, you should have learned by now that no one is going to pick up after you, master assassin or not.”
Altair bristled, though it was obvious that Malik was only teasing him - Altair was not a messy person, having at least folded his bloody robes and dropped them in the appropriate basin after every couple of missions. He crossed his arms, the sleeves of his shirt bunching up over his elbows, causing Malik to wonder again why Altair was unarmed, as the man usually carried an army’s worth of weaponry on him.
“Are you going to give me a basket or not?” Altair said, tilting his head pointedly at the opened window where the sun just hovering over the horizon; if he started any later then it would be far too hot by midday to do much of anything at all.
“Yes, yes, hold on,” Malik replied, sensing that if he did not get it soon, Altair would just carry his damn laundry by the armfuls, leaving an incriminating trail of Assassin robes from bureau to the district’s communal fountain and well. With a shake of his head, he went into the back part of the bureau to retrieve the basket, though he had to dump a few old maps out from it, and returned to the main room, holding it out. “You do know what you are doing, right?”
Altair looked offended. “What are you talking about? I always wash my own clothes - when I can spare the time.”
Which was news to Malik. Even in their younger days as children, Malik could not recall ever seeing Altair being saddled with laundry duty like the other novices. As much as Malik was loathed to admit it, Altair had been far too skilled at that age to be wasting his time with menial chores and was allowed to forgo them in order to train and study.
The skepticism must have shown on his face because Altair was giving him a sidelong look, balancing the basket against his hip with the ease of a person who was, in fact, quite used to dealing with menial chores. In retrospect, it really was not so farfetched; somewhere along the way, Altair must have had to learn how to take care of his clothes from traveling alone.
“I once paid a woman to wash my robes,” Altair began suddenly. He paused, appearing to regret having said anything, but when Malik raised an eyebrow, he huffed and continued, “She used some sort of scented soap - I hadn’t realized until it was too late- and what good is any skill in stealth when single breeze can turn the noses of your enemies faster than any sound to their ears?”
He looked so disgruntled that Malik, determined to respond with a deadpan remark, let out a laugh instead. The scowl he was given in return was well deserved, but it was a pleasant surprise to hear Altair freely relate to a minor mistake, humbled and self-deprecating, even if it was not strictly his fault.
“I killed my target, obviously, but reeking like an entire floral garden did not make my assignment any easier,” Altair finished, having stopped while Malik tried to stifle his laugher. His smile was hesitant and just a bit bewildered, as if he was not exactly sure what to make of Malik’s genuine amusement, but was pleased with it all in all.
“At least you’ve learned,” Malik said, grinning. He reached over, tugging the headscarf once, and watched with interest as Altair stilled, gaze darting to Malik’s hand, before he took a small step back. “Though now I know why I have never seen you at the fountains before, in those clothes; did you convince one of the vigilantes to lend them to you?”
“Well, that is rather the point,” Altair said. “The guards will chase after any Assassin, even if all the Assassin wants to do is clean his robes.” He drew himself up, hitching the scarf lower over his forehead in a way that intended to be haughty but, now that Malik was getting better at reading him, it was almost self-conscious. “And I do not need to borrow clothes from anyone, these are mine.”
Malik made a vague noise of acknowledgment, feeling that it was better not to say that the clothes did not suit Altair, though it was not as if the younger man wore them with any fault. The normalcy unsettled Malik, whose eye was constantly drawn to the patterned scarf that fell across Altair’s shoulders and hair. He wondered if Altair had purchased it himself, or if it had been a gift, or found on the streets.
The map he had been sketching on the counter crinkled under his hand. Malik glanced down, and picked up the piece of charcoal to resume drawing.
“You may use the fountain in the waiting chamber,” he said, catching the slight movement of Altair’s head rising. “You might as well, if the guards keep harassing you outside. There should be a wash basin in the back room as well.”
He did not bother to ask why Altair had not been using the bureau’s fountain in the first place. The answer was painfully obvious; Altair would have rather be seen doing a woman’s task in public with the risk of being chased down by the city’s guards than spend his time being shouted at by Malik. It was a realization that Malik was not proud of, but also not one he was going to apologize for, despite the amends they have made (or rejected).
Most likely Altair was aware of the same thing. He nodded, but did not thank Malik. Instead, he slipped out the open door without another word, the tail end of his scarf drifting behind him, and left Malik to mind the false map shop for the rest of the morning.
-
When Malik was able to finally close the windows and bar the door of the shop at midday, he leaned against one of the shelves, careful not the jostle the scrolls from their places. The shelf gave way, revealing a tiny passage, and Malik stepped through into the bureau’s main room.
It was more humid than usual, the air thick and sticking to his skin. From his spot behind the counter, Malik saw the fluttering of white robes hanging in the waiting chamber. He leaned forward to try to peer inside upon hearing the sound of splashing, and when he saw nothing else, he made his way into the adjacent room.
Altair had commandeered half the space, stringing lines of rope from the walls in order to dry his clothes. The whole set-up appeared haphazard at first-and dangerous, too, for Malik could not see who would come in or out of the bureau - but when he pushed aside a damp robe to find Altair, it sent the entire clothesline twitching - a warning and a trap.
The splashing stopped, followed by the faint ring of metal being drawn from a sheath.
“It is only me,” Malik called out, moving away a drying tunic (one of his, in fact) and looked down to find Altair sitting at his feet, already putting the dagger out of sight. “You’ve been busy.”
“Not busy enough, I find,” Altair replied, and held out his hand, puzzling Malik. He pursed his lips, reaching to grab the hem of Malik’s robe. “While I’m at it…”
He tugged it, insistent. For a moment, Malik was not sure what he wanted - for him to sit down, or stand closer, or-
“Ah,” Malik said, and shrugged off the dai’s robe, the dark fabric slipping from his shoulders with ease as Altair pulled it away and tossed it into the shallow wash basin. He knelt down, settling next to the younger man and looking around the chamber, counting clothes. “Did you wash everything? I hope you did not.”
“I wanted to-“
“No,” Malik interrupted, nudging Altair. “It does not matter if you wanted to or not; we do not have enough room to dry them all.”
Altair threw Malik a mock-indignant look, realizing that his added efforts were not going to be appreciated. He scrubbed Malik’s robe with enough force and deliberation to send droplets flying towards the dai. “Well, it’s not like I can hang them outside. It would be just as good as waving a Masyaf flag over the rooftop.”
Though Malik did not have the same aversion to water, he scooted away, using a foot to deliver a well-placed kick against the heavy basin, sloshing water all over Altair’s folded knees. Altair let out a hiss, all too knowing that Malik was skilled enough to avoid such clumsiness, so Malik could not even pass it off as an accident even if he had wanted to.
“There is a garden house on the roof. You can use that,” he began, trying to change the subject and direct Altair’s thoughts from any form of retaliation, but it was too late. Altair chose to be a petty man in the end; he held out Malik’s robe, dripping with water, and simply tossed it over Malik.
The cloth was heavy and slopping wet. Malik nearly fell over from the weight, reaching out with his arm to grab blindly for support. His hand met damp fabric and, instinctively, he pulled, just as Altair tried to slap his hand away. There was a snap, a whistle of rope sliding out of place, and the sound of Altair cursing.
Malik sat up, dragging the dai’s robe from his head, and was greeted with an unobstructive view of the waiting chamber, wet clothes littering the floor, and Altair leaning in too close for comfort.
“Let go,” Altair said, his voice tight. For some reason, his foot was in the wash basin and, possibly for the same reason, Malik’s hand was holding on to his scarf, the fabric stretching with tension as Altair tried to keep his distance without strangling himself.
“Good job,” Malik huffed, releasing his grip, but instead of moving away, Altair drew closer. The headscarf that Malik had found so perplexing was suddenly brushing against his face, soft and smelling strongly of citrus. And, because Malik was not infallible with his words, said, “I thought you did not like scented soaps.”
“Hm?” Altair muttered distractedly, turning his head to look behind him. Malik followed his line of sight, and shut his mouth when he saw that Altair had only leaned forward to remove his foot from the wash basin. As soon as he did, Altair stood up, wringing the sleeves of his tunic. “Oh. I never said I did not like them. Make fun of me, if you want.”
Malik ran a hand through his hair, yanking at the strands, and kept his gaze lowered as he squeezed the water out. He resisted the urge to sigh and eventually rose to his feet, abruptly conscious of the heat and humidity once more.
“Maybe at a later time,” he replied, handing Altair one end of the fallen rope.
Together, they picked up the fallen robes and tunics. Altair was inclined to grumble all throughout, shooting Malik accusing glares, and Malik was inclined to remind him that they were both grown men, able to not point fingers at each other. His dai robe was washed in time, without being tossed around, and the waiting chamber started to become crowded with dripping tunics and cowls. It was a nuisance trying to navigate around the lines, but Altair seemed to take it as a challenge; he made a perpendicular cross, boxing himself in a tent of clothes.
“Not even the novices do this,” Malik griped, ducking his head to retrieve Altair, and scowled when Altair shoved a robe into his chest for him to hang.
Hand effectively occupied, Malik could do little to stop Altair from pulling him into the makeshift alcove, sunlight filtering through the gaps of drying clothes. He twisted his body and only avoided snagging a red sash by a small margin, though Altair himself sent the lines springing up and down when he stumbled forward to press his lips against Malik’s mouth, and stayed there, waiting.
It was different.
It was different in the way that there were no knives between them, no sword strapped to their waists, no armor guarding their chests. Malik felt stripped, and perhaps he was, with his dai robe hanging in some corner part of the room, and Altair’s own assassin garb gone, wearing only the clothes of ordinary men, with no big part to play in the world. Malik tilted his head, letting Altair’s tongue lick open his mouth, and finally remembered to breathe.
And it was as raw and honest as the other times - and it was so long ago, those other times - but without the spiteful, malicious words they would throw at each other, the uncompromising demands neither would fulfill. Altair’s hands fumbled over Malik’s shirt, unsure of what to do when they had been accustomed to twisting and prying and hurting. Malik leaned into his cheek, wrapping his arm around Altair’s neck to bring him closer still, and felt Altair’s breath stutter near his ear and the pounding of his heart through the thin cloth of his tunic.
The sharp citrus scent surpassed the stifling, hot air, and Malik could only blame that as he grew dizzy, fighting for air and trying to steal it away from Altair, just as Altair was taking it away from him. That, at least, had not changed, even when he pushed forward and Altair relented in tiny, willing steps.
Malik found himself smiling, eager for this, for this thing that was so different.
But, of course, normalcy never seemed to suit either of them; Altair only had time to give a warning noise from the back of his throat before Malik heard a snap and a splash - Altair’s foot had found the wash basin again - and their makeshift alcove collapsed in an unceremonious heap at their feet.
Just like that, they were back in the bureau.
“Next time,” Malik growled, wrapping his hand through Altair’s scarf to pull him out of the basin, miscalculating the force, miscalculating how easy Altair gave in; he sent the younger man crashing into him, slipping over the floor and falling into the pile of wet clothes.
“Next time,” Altair agreed, hovering over Malik with a breathless laugh. “I will do the laundry outside.”