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He was always there when you needed it most, a gunmetal guardian with eyes like knives. He knew your intentions before you even did—a fact that tormented you on the best of days, and blessed you on your worst. He wasn’t always around. You knew business kept him busy, often for weeks at a time. Still, if you needed him, when you needed him, he would appear.
He was more likely to show up on your fire escape or appear in your living room than you were to find him on the street. He liked his privacy—you respected that, you did—but you did, occasionally, wish that he’d bring you to his home every once in a while. You’d been but once, feeling honored in your own way, as you’d stepped across his threshold and into the warmth of his cozy apartment.
He’d silently asked for your discretion; you only went to his place when he asked. You knew— he knew— it was safer for the two of you to share your apartment. You couldn’t bare the thought of endangering one of the few places he was safe in the city.
You didn’t know the street name, or the building number. You could barely remember the convoluted route he’d shown you weeks before. Your brain couldn’t hold more than the occasional fleeting thought as you trudged forward, move, move, move running circles in your mind.
Pain exploded in your ribs with every breath. You’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Your bones were made of lead, your vision wavered and wandered. Your clothes were wet, and you couldn’t figure out why.
The front of his building was deceptively old. Vines climbed up faded brickwork, wound around peeling window frames. Not this way. You shuffled around the side of the building. The fire escape was safest. You just needed your body to carry you a little further.
The sound of a body hitting the metal outside his window interrupted the cleaning of his blades. When the body failed to rise, he picked up his most trusted piece, cat-like on his feet. Familiar knuckles rapped a calming rhythm against the wooden frame. The weapon went back into hiding.
You looked up at the near-silent slide of the window, hands grasping desperately at whatever you could reach. “Help me,” you gasped, already feeling warm, calloused hands gingerly pull you upright. “I don’t want to—”
“It’s okay,” he murmured, voice soft. “I’ve got you.” There was a shuffling of feet, soft, gentle directions, and the burden of your own weight removed from your legs.
Your own reflection stared back at you from a fogging mirror. Was that really you? Was that really your body? Your skin was a mottling of red and blue and purple, angles that looked too soft and too sharp all at once. You were grateful when the fog obscured your face from view. The look in your eyes was at once dead and desperate, an animal trapped in a cage.
Hands touched your shoulders—your entire body flinched away, struggling to curl inward. “I’ve got you,” he murmured again, kneeling in front of you. “I should have asked. I’m sorry.” Gold eyes threatened to melt you.
“W-” Your voice cracked, warbled. “Why?” The attempt to swallow the ball lodged in your throat failed. “Why me?”
His teeth nipped at his bottom lip, eyes darkening. “I don’t know yet,” he replied, one hand gingerly reaching for yours. You minimized the flinch as his fingers brushed your wrist. “But I will find out.” You closed your eyes, head bowing.
“Can you stand?” he asked. You shook your head. “I need to get you into the tub to clean you up. Can I undress you?”
The hand at your wrist thumbed circles against your skin. It took another minute for you to nod silently, eyes opening again. He grasped the hem of your shirt gently, raising it until you were forced to raise your arms. Even then, with minimal movement on your part, he gingerly maneuvered the ripped fabric around your heavy limbs. Your pants and undergarments followed soon after.
For all the steam from the bath, you still felt cold. Goosebumps erupted along your skin, chasing up your limbs. Ice was sinking into your bones. The warmth of his skin felt like fire as he gingerly placed you in the steaming tub. The water was both too hot and not hot enough. His hands flitted about your vision, brushing your hair back, grabbing soap, scooping water to pour over your battered skin and wild hair.
He drained and refilled the tub twice before you stopped coloring the water shades of pink. You leaned against the side of the tub, head heavy in his hands as gold eyes surveyed you. You’d allowed him to inventory your injuries visually, his fingers brushing skin or pressing down gently wherever the bruises seemed worst.
“You probably have a couple broken ribs,” he said, rinsing your hair. “You’ll have a black eye, but I don’t think anything but your nose is fractured.” You hummed absentmindedly. “After you’re dried off I’ll get some butterfly stitches.”
You didn’t move as the tub drained, struggled to cooperate as you were gently towelled off. He only left briefly to find a shirt and a pair of boxers for you to use. Then his fingers ghosted over your skin, applying butterfly stitches to the cut on your forehead, the scrape on your cheekbone. He checked the alignment of the bones in your nose and, judging them to be satisfactory, pressed a kiss to your brow before examining your ribs.
You grimaced at that, abruptly twisting only to double over. “Two, maybe three,” he murmured, removing his hands. “I think they may just be cracked, rather than completely broken.”
Hands turned your head toward him. “Will you tell me what happened?”
You bit your lip, tongue lapping at the blood the pressure drew. “I was going—” A shaky breath. “—going home. From work.” You interlaced your fingers only to snatch them away from each other, opting instead for the hem of your borrowed shirt.
“I heard a noise, from the alley. The one with all the cats, where we—” He nodded, gold eyes liquid. “I thought—she just sounded so scared. As soon as I walked over she ran away and they—” You turned away.
“She was the lure, and they ambushed you,” he murmured.
“They wanted you,” you rushed out, breath all the heavier for it. “They wanted you, and I didn’t—I wouldn’t—I took the long way—”
“It’s okay,” he says, pulling you into his chest. You grip his water-splashed shirt, grasping the material for all you’re worth. “They can’t get in. I’m here. I’ve got you.” Tears blurred your vision, spilling over despite your best attempt to hold them back.
You didn’t remember getting into the bed. You didn’t care. All that mattered was the tangling of your limbs, your head tucked beneath his chin, his arms shielding you. He didn’t usually speak much, but the lilting Arabic that caressed your ear warmed the cold that had gripped your bones.
“Altaïr,” you whispered, eyes still closed as you burrowed deeper into his grasp. A questioning groan answered you. “Ya’aburnee.”
Altaïr pressed his lips to your forehead, carefully tightening his arms. Gold eyes kept careful watch over you. “Ya'aburnee.”