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Crimson stained the wooden cover of the bureau as Altaïr fell on to it. His shifting weight on the roof elicited unsettling creaks of the wood, and the assassin cringed at the loud sounds that exposed him to the guards who pursued him. Bloodstained fingers wrapped around the opening of the bureau and desperately dug into the beams. Altaïr groaned under his short breaths as the pain he endured intensified. His wounds throbbed under the heat of the sun as it beamed from its apex.
“Malik,” the assassin coughed through smoke-stung lungs. “Let me in.”
Silence was the primary answer he received, although it was hardly unusual behavior from the stubborn rafiq. Altaïr grew well accustomed to Malik’s spite, but he was in no mood to entertain it.
Altaïr heard the muffled accent of the rafiq through the holes of the gated ceiling, “You have not dragged along your enemies to my bureau? This sanctuary is not to be revealed to every guard you encounter. Even the nice ones.”
He was not humored by Malik’s nonchalant warning. The assassin huffed, “I come alone. I finished what I started-”
“-Explain to me then why my bureau reeks of smoke?” Malik argued. He still refused to allow the assassin into the safe haven. However, his brunette stare eventually shifted from his maps to the entrance. The lack of a response admittedly concerned him. His eyes followed a steady flow of blood droplets that collected on the wool tapestry on the ground. Malik let out a deep sigh as he exited his station behind the counter to approach the scene. He looked up with a distinct anger that almost permanently rid his expression around the assassin.
Altaïr was rendered unconscious, likely because of heat stroke and blood loss. To Malik’s inconvenience, the blood loss was exceptional and he would need substantial care.
The rafiq finally exited the bureau to aid the fallen assassin. Under the merciless summer sun, those celestial white robes glowed vividly and attracted enemies like a beacon of light. Malik’s single arm moved to clutch crimson stained robes and inspected the severity of Altaïr’s wounds. His judgement was brief once his attention turned to voices that called out to him from beyond the smoke of a raging fire.
Three guards approached the Assassins bureau. Malik cursed as he unsheathed his weapon and prepared to fight them off. None of them could report the assassin, or controversy would ensure. There could be no witnesses, so Malik waited patiently to clean the mess Altaïr made. Each guard fought with vigor, although Malik bested their agility. He was swift and tactful, despite his physical disadvantage. He was no stranger to swordplay. While he despised taking responsibility for Altaïr’s notorious blunders, Malik seldom enjoyed sparring with the guards. It was a privilege he no longer engaged in since becoming a dai. The rush was sensational. After he defeated the three guards, Malik removed any evidence of the bureau's involvement. He properly disposed of the guards bodies, and carefully brought Altaïr inside to properly examine the extent of his trauma.
A makeshift treatment station was composed of various tools, threads, and rags. Malik rushed to remove Altaïr's robes so he could begin. The assassin was drenched in sweat, and his warm skin was stained with blood and dirt. There were two major lacerations, most likely from a guard's blade, on Altaïr's torso. He also suffered minor burns that would certainly benefit from the healing herbs Malik collected.
Malik used his single hand to tend to the assassin’s extensive wounds. The exposed flesh bled through the stitching process, but he worked diligently to clean the deep wounds that sunk into Altaïr's abdomen. With each lift of his swift hand, the assassin groaned.
His body was tormented by the raw pain of burns, clean slices, and bruises that added to his collection of scars. Beads of sweat decorated his skin. He was dehydrated and exhausted. His teeth grinded together while Malik healed him with familiar ease. It was nothing the rafiq hadn’t seen before. Altaïr proved to be quite prone to injuries. Malik assumed it was his ignorance, of course. Still, he had to work quickly to patch him up or Altaïr faced the risk of infection.
He soaked a wool rag in a sterile bucket of water before he pressed it to Altaïr's abdomen. Malik discarded the blood soaked rag and exchanged it for a leather band that he hastily placed between Altaïr's teeth.
“Bite this,” he suggested, although it sounded more like a demand.
Altaïr breathed heavily through his nose as he focused his strength into gnawing on the gritty leather. His hand moved to clutch Malik’s forearm as panic settled in. Malik continued cleaning the open wound, admittedly not as gently as he should have given the severity of it. Sometimes he enjoyed Altaïr's suffering.
“You are fine,” he reassured anyway.
“Malik-” Altaïr groaned through clenched teeth. He spit the leather band out once the worst passed and he was calm enough. “I should not have led them here. There was fire. Too much. Too many guards...”
The echo of his low monotone was unwelcoming to Malik’s ears and he felt the hairs of his dark skin rise from chills, despite the raging heat of summer’s dusk. He made stern eye contact, but said nothing. He didn’t care for the excuses.
“Thank you,” Altaïr managed to say under his breath before he relented his grip.
Malik watched him carefully. Suspicion roused him to believe the assassin was being insincere. However, as Malik watched Altaïr drift to and from consciousness, he understood the gesture was genuine. He simply finished stitching the laceration. His work ensured optimal tissue closure strength, since he knew Altaïr was no stranger to reopening old wounds. He was always so careless and abrupt. After he cleaned the area, Malik returned to sit by Altaïr as he rested. His deep brown eyes traced down the crevices of Altaïr's toned muscles to examine the skin for unattended wounds that he could nurse to health.
Those half-lidded auburn eyes burning with golden hues stared back at him. Altaïr blinked slowly as exhaustion made them feel heavier in his skull until he finally closed his eyes to rest. His jaw fell back and his short, unsteady breaths were exchanged for a calm pace.
Malik noticed Altaïr's lip was slightly bruised and busted. Perhaps another scar would dress those full lips. A trail of blood smeared those lips, and Malik slowly leaned in closer to wipe it away. His only thumb moved to press against his own parted lips before his hand moved to the corner of Altaïr's mouth. His wet thumb brushed away the mixture of fresh and dried blood until that familiar complexion was revealed again. Malik’s hand followed the structure of Altaïr's jaw and softly clasped his palm around his neck. His index finger pressed deep into the skin above the pulsating artery in his neck to evaluate his heart rate. His cloth-wrapped fingers relaxed against the stubble only for a moment as he briefly admired the white skin of the scar that characterized those full lips.
He wondered if the assassin truly appreciated his work. He had never thanked him before, at least not so genuinely. Malik pondered on it for quite some time as he nursed Altaïr back to health. He even gathered various herbs and oils with considerable healing properties while Altaïr slowly woke up.
“Did those guards come for you? Are you injured?” Altaïr asked.
“Yes,” Malik answered. He prepared a natural remedy for burns before addressing the last question, “And no. They were amateur. You are just arrogant.”
“I was outnumbered-” Altaïr defended, but Malik interrupted him.
“-As was I,” Malik scolded. “There is a difference between you and I.”
Altaïr huffed, “You are a dai and I am an assassin?”
Malik met that remark with an intense glare. Anger curdled in his veins before he collected himself. He criticized the assassin, “You disregarded every tenet of the Creed yet again. I should report you for nearly exposing this bureau. I do not need your arrogance endangering the Brotherhood.”
“You accuse me of treason,” Altaïr dryly suggested. “Why not turn me in, then? Why waste your breath with empty threats?”
“My threats are valid,” Malik warned. “You are consistently breaking the code, and I am not fond of keeping your secrets.”
“I have never asked you to,” Altaïr reminded. “It was not my intention to involve you-”
“-Yet you have,” Malik interrupted again. His disdain was unrelenting. “Somehow your mistakes always concern me.”
The assassin shifted uncomfortably. He pushed his palms into the wool tapestries beneath him so he could sit against the concrete wall. He was tired of being ridiculed. Altaïr began gathering his robes, “Then I will leave you be.”
Frustrated, Malik snatched the assassin’s clothes. Malik noticed the pain in his expression. Even the slight effort it took to collect his robes exhausted him, so the rafiq firmly insisted, “You must stay here. At least for the night, or you will ruin your stitches. You have gotten rather creative when it comes to reopening your wounds.”
Altaïr almost smirked, “I don’t believe you care. Perhaps you would just miss my company.”
“Ah, now that I can assure you- I don’t care,” Malik recognized the sarcasm and easily returned it. He could have laughed, but he denied Altaïr the pleasure of such a genuine reaction.
“Fine,” Altaïr agreed. “I don’t suppose you have dice or wine to keep us entertained through the night?”
Malik was surprised by the suggestion. He huffed under his breath, “I have both, but you would benefit more from some rest. Besides, I would not go easy on you even in your condition.”
“I don’t expect your pity,” Altaïr reassured.
Truth be told, Malik enjoyed indulging in a healthy round of gambling. So, Malik considered him, “Then prepare for another loss today.”