[ac fics] Allay, All is Well
Title: Allay
Rating: PG
Pairing: Altair/Malik
AN: kinkmeme prompt based on this drawing. Gentle patting.
“And did you even stop to think? Of course you did not! Why should I be surprised? I should have long ago given up hope that you would develop something between your ears other than hot air-“
In Altair’s defense, it was most likely his best course of action. He doubted Malik could get any more furious with him. Seeing as he already had a lot to make up for, one more possible upset would not make a large difference, like adding a grain of sand on an already massive pile. Besides, if Malik did not stop yelling at him, all of Jerusalem would know the location of the Assassin’s Bureau, and the dai would certainly hold that over Altair’s head as well.
So on that line of thought and desperation, Altair deftly reached over, thumb brushing behind Malik’s ear and palm lightly settling over the nape of the man’s neck. The angry rant came to an abrupt halt and the bureau fell blessedly quiet, though Altair had to brace himself for the absolutely infuriated expression that was directed at him, unobscured and inescapable. He felt the muscle tighten beneath his hand, the slight tilt of Malik’s head as the dai bared his teeth in disgust - for one terrifying moment, Altair thought Malik was going to bite his hand off.
“Are you shushing me?” Malik asked incredulously.
Altair belatedly realized the breath he had been holding was escaping slowly through his mouth, making a soft noise not unlike the sound used to soothe squalling infants. He pursed his lips, shaking his head with more alarm than he would like to admit to. At this point, he would not be surprised if Malik did bite his hand off.
“No,” he insisted, and as if to ward off anymore suspicion he redoubled his efforts to scratching behind Malik’s ear and kneading away the tension from his shoulder.
Malik still looked far from being impressed or mollified, his silence taking on a more disbelieving quality rather than one of volatile rage. Be that as it may, it finally gave Altair a chance to get in a word edgewise since he had been out-shouted at every instance before he had to resort to petting.
“I know I am at fault, and I am sorry,” Altair gritted, stumbling over his apology from lack of practice and eloquence; the only time he had apologized to Malik, the dai had rejected it with the implication that Altair was a better person now. But even then, Altair knew he was still susceptible to the foibles of arrogance, try as he might to become more aware of his thoughtlessness. Shaking his head, he finished in a breathless rush, unable to show such sincerity when Malik’s skin was warm and flushed under his hand. “I will learn, in time. If can you be patient with me, I can only be grateful. I am sorry.”
Malik stared, brow furrowing as he considered Altair. The angry reddish cast of his cheeks was slowly fading, no longer as incensed as he was minutes ago. His frown did not go away and a short sigh puffed against the inside of Altair’s wrist before Malik finally shrugged off Altair’s hand.
“You,” he said, shaking a finger in Altair’s face, “are very difficult to berate when you look so petrified.”
Altair drew back, hackles rising. “Petrified?”
“It was like yelling at an infant,” Malik snapped in return.
“I was not scared!” Altair hissed.
Malik threw his arm up, eyes rolling upwards as if to ask some divine being to grant him some amount of endurance. “Oh, really now. Did you honestly think petting me would assuage my temper? What exactly went through your head, Altair? That I was some kind of cat? A dog? Are you so ignorant to basic social interactions that you confuse man from animal, or were you so terrified that you could think of nothing else to do? Because that horrified look you are giving me this second is nothing short of complete and utter-“
And whether or not Malik was right, Altair quickly reached his hand over again. Because, really, there was no sense in answering aloud what he already knew.
“I am not proving anything,” he claimed halfheartedly, rubbing the back of Malik’s neck once more.
Glowering, Malik angled his head towards Altair’s hand and let out an exasperated huff.
“Then neither am I.”
Title: All is Well
Rating: PG
Characters: Darim, Altair
AN: kinkmeme prompt, post Memory 3. (spoilers, unedited)
They flee to Alamut.
The journey there had not been quiet or withdrawn, but strangely methodical and almost determinedly sedulous. Once Masyaf disappears behind them over the horizon, they start to talk over the rush of wind as they ride away.
They talk of buying supplies and hunting for the food they cannot afford, of refilling their water pouches at the stream some miles ahead, and they decide their next course of action together-like crossing the mountain pass to cover their trail, taking the river where they cannot be followed and so forth. If Darim is careless with his thoughts, he finds himself thinking that this is only another long trip with his father, only without his brother. As if he is leaving Masyaf to Mongolia again, only without his mother.
Then, very quickly, Darim stops thinking to focus on more important matters, watching for any signs of weariness that his father is too stubborn, too angry to admit to. And his father must be furious, Darim knows, if not at Abbas then at himself.
It has been three days since they left Masyaf, and on this third night Darim unpacks their bedrolls from the tired horses and lays them near the small campfire. His father tends to the flames, fanning them with a gentle hand to clear the smoke.
“Father,” Darim begins, kneeling down on the dirt. They need to talk.
“We need to abandon the horses tomorrow and continue on foot,” Altair says instead, handing Darim a strip of dried meat and a small bowl of hot water.
“Yes,” Darim replies. They have been over this before. He takes the jerky but gives back the bowl of water after a sip. His father’s hands are cold; the bowl will warm them up. He breathes in, very slowly. “But about mother. And Sef.”
Altair glances at Darim and repeats, just as he did when they had fought through Masyaf; “I’m sorry.”
Darim knows that his father is sincere, painfully so, but he still does not know what, exactly, had transpired - if his father is directly at fault for his mother’s death, or if he is needlessly blaming himself. Darim wants to understand, so when he asks, Altair tells him in such a way that is clear and brief, but leaves no room for questions or musings. What’s done is done. It worries Darim at first that Altair speaks as if reciting a piece of old history, far removed from it all, but then there is a brief moment when Altair closes his mouth, lips drawn tight at the edges. His shoulders slump and his hand passes over his eyes once before he straightens again.
Darim does not say anything for the longest time. He looks away.
“Go to sleep, baba,” he eventually says, quiet and gentle. “I will take first watch.”
But he does not wake his father until morning.
---
In Alamut, Sef’s wife greets them with open arms. She rests her hand against Darim’s cheek and brushes her lips over Altair’s forehead. They are to stay for however long they wish.
Meanwhile, Sef’s children hide behind their mother’s dress, and though Darim knows it pains his father to kneel before anyone, Altair does so easily in front of his granddaughters.
Darim remains standing, a steady hand on his father’s arm to help him back up.
---
His father disappears.
Darim is used to it. He is used to his father being alone and secluded in a dim lit room, a place where his body stays but his mind is elsewhere. Darim remembers his mother and uncle always knocking, always steering his father back home to rest, where he will also disappear for a time in restless dreams. And then he will wake up, and disappear with the Apple, again and again.
Mother and uncle are not here anymore. Darim watches his father, stays up late while his father’s body sits motionless at the table, hand clutching the golden sphere. Sef’s daughters avoid Altair, frightened by their grandfather’s stillness, and Sef’s wife only comes in to make sure Darim has something warm to eat. It is Darim who makes sure his father eats at all.
When Darim needs to leave his father’s side, he frets every single moment he is away, but he cannot leave Sef’s wife to tend to the chores by herself, and his body is restless besides. He runs the rooftops until he chokes on air, returns to Sef’s home to check on his father, eats, and does what little work he can do in hiding. The days go on like this, repeating into a mindless blur.
“Darim,” Sef’s wife says, pulling him aside as he was about to sit next to his expressionless father. “Darim, I will look over our father. You should rest.”
Darim frowns, confused. It is only midday. “I have slept last night. I am not tired.”
She looks at him, up and down, and he realizes that she is worried. “But you are not rested.”
“I am fine.”
Sef’s wife takes a step back, not from his unintentional curt tone, but from disbelief. “After what has happened, you are fine? Darim, you are not. If you can only look at yourself…”
Sef’s girls rush through the tiny hallway, playing a kind of game. How they can smile so soon is lost on Darim - though later he remembers that for them it has been months since their father’s death. He moves aside, but both his nieces slow their steps and give him a quick glance. Darim can see a part of him reflect in their eyes -a tired, unsmiling and ragged man.
They turn away quickly, running around their mother’s legs.
Sef’s wife is distracted, so Darim takes the opportunity to escape inside his father’s temporary room, heart beating painfully. He closes the door with a little more force than necessary, and is surprised when his father lifts his head form the table.
“Darim,” Altair greets, letting go of the Apple. He flexes his stiff fingers and stands from his chair.
Darim hurries over, using the moment to collect his scattered thoughts, and attempts to help his father up. Altair impatiently waves him off; he stands steady and idly stretches his arms.
“How are you feeling, father?” Darim asks, watching. Always watching and feeling his stomach twist.
“I am doing better. Hungry,” Altair admits, tired, and offers his son a small, sad smile. “But I suppose that can wait.” He sits back down, looking at the Apple.
Suddenly, Darim cannot explain the frustration that he feels when he sees his father working and appearing as if nothing had happened, even for one moment. It sickens him, every time his father uses the Apple and Darim cannot do anything but sit and wait in growing unease and fear. Most of all, he hates knowing that if anyone was in need of a reprieve, it is his father. And Darim -
Darim cannot ask for anymore. He should not.
“Darim? Darim, come here.”
The authority in Altair’s voice, not at all like a father, is more like a grandmaster addressing a subordinate. Jolted from his silence, Darim steps dutifully forward, hands at his side.
Altair regards him, frowning. “Tell me.”
Darim stares at him, uncomprehending.
“I lost my wife, my son, and my best friend. And I’m well aware of that. But what did you lose, Darim? Can you tell me?”
Same as you, father, he wants to say, reaching out to lay his hand on his father’s shoulder. But to his surprise, the words bottle up in his throat and his arm hangs suspended in the air as Altair wants for an answer. Darim’s chest grows tight and he suddenly cannot speak. His hand lowers, fingers catching on the sleeve of his father’s robe, a childish gesture, but Darim’s vision blurs the pitiful image away and he lowers his head.
“My mother.” His voice cracks. “My brother and my uncle.”
He is stiff and almost unyielding when Altair stands to wrap his arms around him. The embrace is one-sided, but Darim turns to his father’s ear, brow furrowing as he tries to keep from shaking.
“But I do not want to lose my father as well. I will not forgive you if it happens.”
Altair becomes rigid, unnaturally still and quiet. And that, for some perverse reason, gives Darim enough courage to finally hug his father, giving into the little shakes and fears and the heartbreak of losing so much.
He thinks he can feel his father nod.
For now, because he is asking just this once, Darim will believe it.
Rating: PG
Pairing: Altair/Malik
AN: kinkmeme prompt based on this drawing. Gentle patting.
“And did you even stop to think? Of course you did not! Why should I be surprised? I should have long ago given up hope that you would develop something between your ears other than hot air-“
In Altair’s defense, it was most likely his best course of action. He doubted Malik could get any more furious with him. Seeing as he already had a lot to make up for, one more possible upset would not make a large difference, like adding a grain of sand on an already massive pile. Besides, if Malik did not stop yelling at him, all of Jerusalem would know the location of the Assassin’s Bureau, and the dai would certainly hold that over Altair’s head as well.
So on that line of thought and desperation, Altair deftly reached over, thumb brushing behind Malik’s ear and palm lightly settling over the nape of the man’s neck. The angry rant came to an abrupt halt and the bureau fell blessedly quiet, though Altair had to brace himself for the absolutely infuriated expression that was directed at him, unobscured and inescapable. He felt the muscle tighten beneath his hand, the slight tilt of Malik’s head as the dai bared his teeth in disgust - for one terrifying moment, Altair thought Malik was going to bite his hand off.
“Are you shushing me?” Malik asked incredulously.
Altair belatedly realized the breath he had been holding was escaping slowly through his mouth, making a soft noise not unlike the sound used to soothe squalling infants. He pursed his lips, shaking his head with more alarm than he would like to admit to. At this point, he would not be surprised if Malik did bite his hand off.
“No,” he insisted, and as if to ward off anymore suspicion he redoubled his efforts to scratching behind Malik’s ear and kneading away the tension from his shoulder.
Malik still looked far from being impressed or mollified, his silence taking on a more disbelieving quality rather than one of volatile rage. Be that as it may, it finally gave Altair a chance to get in a word edgewise since he had been out-shouted at every instance before he had to resort to petting.
“I know I am at fault, and I am sorry,” Altair gritted, stumbling over his apology from lack of practice and eloquence; the only time he had apologized to Malik, the dai had rejected it with the implication that Altair was a better person now. But even then, Altair knew he was still susceptible to the foibles of arrogance, try as he might to become more aware of his thoughtlessness. Shaking his head, he finished in a breathless rush, unable to show such sincerity when Malik’s skin was warm and flushed under his hand. “I will learn, in time. If can you be patient with me, I can only be grateful. I am sorry.”
Malik stared, brow furrowing as he considered Altair. The angry reddish cast of his cheeks was slowly fading, no longer as incensed as he was minutes ago. His frown did not go away and a short sigh puffed against the inside of Altair’s wrist before Malik finally shrugged off Altair’s hand.
“You,” he said, shaking a finger in Altair’s face, “are very difficult to berate when you look so petrified.”
Altair drew back, hackles rising. “Petrified?”
“It was like yelling at an infant,” Malik snapped in return.
“I was not scared!” Altair hissed.
Malik threw his arm up, eyes rolling upwards as if to ask some divine being to grant him some amount of endurance. “Oh, really now. Did you honestly think petting me would assuage my temper? What exactly went through your head, Altair? That I was some kind of cat? A dog? Are you so ignorant to basic social interactions that you confuse man from animal, or were you so terrified that you could think of nothing else to do? Because that horrified look you are giving me this second is nothing short of complete and utter-“
And whether or not Malik was right, Altair quickly reached his hand over again. Because, really, there was no sense in answering aloud what he already knew.
“I am not proving anything,” he claimed halfheartedly, rubbing the back of Malik’s neck once more.
Glowering, Malik angled his head towards Altair’s hand and let out an exasperated huff.
“Then neither am I.”
Title: All is Well
Rating: PG
Characters: Darim, Altair
AN: kinkmeme prompt, post Memory 3. (spoilers, unedited)
They flee to Alamut.
The journey there had not been quiet or withdrawn, but strangely methodical and almost determinedly sedulous. Once Masyaf disappears behind them over the horizon, they start to talk over the rush of wind as they ride away.
They talk of buying supplies and hunting for the food they cannot afford, of refilling their water pouches at the stream some miles ahead, and they decide their next course of action together-like crossing the mountain pass to cover their trail, taking the river where they cannot be followed and so forth. If Darim is careless with his thoughts, he finds himself thinking that this is only another long trip with his father, only without his brother. As if he is leaving Masyaf to Mongolia again, only without his mother.
Then, very quickly, Darim stops thinking to focus on more important matters, watching for any signs of weariness that his father is too stubborn, too angry to admit to. And his father must be furious, Darim knows, if not at Abbas then at himself.
It has been three days since they left Masyaf, and on this third night Darim unpacks their bedrolls from the tired horses and lays them near the small campfire. His father tends to the flames, fanning them with a gentle hand to clear the smoke.
“Father,” Darim begins, kneeling down on the dirt. They need to talk.
“We need to abandon the horses tomorrow and continue on foot,” Altair says instead, handing Darim a strip of dried meat and a small bowl of hot water.
“Yes,” Darim replies. They have been over this before. He takes the jerky but gives back the bowl of water after a sip. His father’s hands are cold; the bowl will warm them up. He breathes in, very slowly. “But about mother. And Sef.”
Altair glances at Darim and repeats, just as he did when they had fought through Masyaf; “I’m sorry.”
Darim knows that his father is sincere, painfully so, but he still does not know what, exactly, had transpired - if his father is directly at fault for his mother’s death, or if he is needlessly blaming himself. Darim wants to understand, so when he asks, Altair tells him in such a way that is clear and brief, but leaves no room for questions or musings. What’s done is done. It worries Darim at first that Altair speaks as if reciting a piece of old history, far removed from it all, but then there is a brief moment when Altair closes his mouth, lips drawn tight at the edges. His shoulders slump and his hand passes over his eyes once before he straightens again.
Darim does not say anything for the longest time. He looks away.
“Go to sleep, baba,” he eventually says, quiet and gentle. “I will take first watch.”
But he does not wake his father until morning.
---
In Alamut, Sef’s wife greets them with open arms. She rests her hand against Darim’s cheek and brushes her lips over Altair’s forehead. They are to stay for however long they wish.
Meanwhile, Sef’s children hide behind their mother’s dress, and though Darim knows it pains his father to kneel before anyone, Altair does so easily in front of his granddaughters.
Darim remains standing, a steady hand on his father’s arm to help him back up.
---
His father disappears.
Darim is used to it. He is used to his father being alone and secluded in a dim lit room, a place where his body stays but his mind is elsewhere. Darim remembers his mother and uncle always knocking, always steering his father back home to rest, where he will also disappear for a time in restless dreams. And then he will wake up, and disappear with the Apple, again and again.
Mother and uncle are not here anymore. Darim watches his father, stays up late while his father’s body sits motionless at the table, hand clutching the golden sphere. Sef’s daughters avoid Altair, frightened by their grandfather’s stillness, and Sef’s wife only comes in to make sure Darim has something warm to eat. It is Darim who makes sure his father eats at all.
When Darim needs to leave his father’s side, he frets every single moment he is away, but he cannot leave Sef’s wife to tend to the chores by herself, and his body is restless besides. He runs the rooftops until he chokes on air, returns to Sef’s home to check on his father, eats, and does what little work he can do in hiding. The days go on like this, repeating into a mindless blur.
“Darim,” Sef’s wife says, pulling him aside as he was about to sit next to his expressionless father. “Darim, I will look over our father. You should rest.”
Darim frowns, confused. It is only midday. “I have slept last night. I am not tired.”
She looks at him, up and down, and he realizes that she is worried. “But you are not rested.”
“I am fine.”
Sef’s wife takes a step back, not from his unintentional curt tone, but from disbelief. “After what has happened, you are fine? Darim, you are not. If you can only look at yourself…”
Sef’s girls rush through the tiny hallway, playing a kind of game. How they can smile so soon is lost on Darim - though later he remembers that for them it has been months since their father’s death. He moves aside, but both his nieces slow their steps and give him a quick glance. Darim can see a part of him reflect in their eyes -a tired, unsmiling and ragged man.
They turn away quickly, running around their mother’s legs.
Sef’s wife is distracted, so Darim takes the opportunity to escape inside his father’s temporary room, heart beating painfully. He closes the door with a little more force than necessary, and is surprised when his father lifts his head form the table.
“Darim,” Altair greets, letting go of the Apple. He flexes his stiff fingers and stands from his chair.
Darim hurries over, using the moment to collect his scattered thoughts, and attempts to help his father up. Altair impatiently waves him off; he stands steady and idly stretches his arms.
“How are you feeling, father?” Darim asks, watching. Always watching and feeling his stomach twist.
“I am doing better. Hungry,” Altair admits, tired, and offers his son a small, sad smile. “But I suppose that can wait.” He sits back down, looking at the Apple.
Suddenly, Darim cannot explain the frustration that he feels when he sees his father working and appearing as if nothing had happened, even for one moment. It sickens him, every time his father uses the Apple and Darim cannot do anything but sit and wait in growing unease and fear. Most of all, he hates knowing that if anyone was in need of a reprieve, it is his father. And Darim -
Darim cannot ask for anymore. He should not.
“Darim? Darim, come here.”
The authority in Altair’s voice, not at all like a father, is more like a grandmaster addressing a subordinate. Jolted from his silence, Darim steps dutifully forward, hands at his side.
Altair regards him, frowning. “Tell me.”
Darim stares at him, uncomprehending.
“I lost my wife, my son, and my best friend. And I’m well aware of that. But what did you lose, Darim? Can you tell me?”
Same as you, father, he wants to say, reaching out to lay his hand on his father’s shoulder. But to his surprise, the words bottle up in his throat and his arm hangs suspended in the air as Altair wants for an answer. Darim’s chest grows tight and he suddenly cannot speak. His hand lowers, fingers catching on the sleeve of his father’s robe, a childish gesture, but Darim’s vision blurs the pitiful image away and he lowers his head.
“My mother.” His voice cracks. “My brother and my uncle.”
He is stiff and almost unyielding when Altair stands to wrap his arms around him. The embrace is one-sided, but Darim turns to his father’s ear, brow furrowing as he tries to keep from shaking.
“But I do not want to lose my father as well. I will not forgive you if it happens.”
Altair becomes rigid, unnaturally still and quiet. And that, for some perverse reason, gives Darim enough courage to finally hug his father, giving into the little shakes and fears and the heartbreak of losing so much.
He thinks he can feel his father nod.
For now, because he is asking just this once, Darim will believe it.