Chapter Text
Your words are annoying, plain and simple.
They're scrawled across your thigh in messy, overly curly and infuriatingly off center letters that make it impossible to wear shorts without people seeing the words snaking up the inside of your leg, unable to see more than the first two words.
Which, you might add, are in Italian. You had them translated only once by a friend who happened to speak Italian, and then tried to convince them to teach you Italian for convenience (turns out you're not exactly a linguist).
You do know enough to realize that you're being threatened by a very big and very heavily armed guard. You briefly wonder where the hell your guide went, but knowing her, she's probably off flirting right about now.
So much for a relaxing day. You're in Italy for business, being one of the first to volunteer for such a trip, and today was one of the only days you're allowed to act like a tourist. So of course someone had to piss off the guards.
One second you were trying to figure out if you really need that scarf, and the next a guard was growling something about an Assassino and shoving you onto the floor.
Maybe hissing, "What the hell is your problem?" in your most venomous tone wasn't the answer. Maybe you could've handled things in a more rational manner.
And maybe the guard could've been less of a trash can, another part of you snarls. Although his yelling in Italian leads you to think he has absolutely no idea what you just said, that doesn't stop him from grabbing the hilt of his sword. The threat is clear and minutely terrifying.
You can probably escape if you really try, because they don't give chase for back talkers, but what a pain.
You're just starting to tiptoe backwards when a smoke bomb goes off, forcing you to close your eyes. You're starting to think today is just not your day. You yank your collar up, breathing through the fabric. What in the he--
An arm loops around your waist and yanks you out of the smoke, your "rescuer's" laughter the only sound you can make out over the guards yelling. He (you assume) sounds downright excited as he throws you over his shoulder, forcing you to either hold on or fall.
You're still too dazed to think about whether or not you should trust this man, and promptly lock your arms around his neck and bring your legs up on his hips. You honestly can't remember the last time someone carried you piggyback.
He scales the alley wall with little difficulty, despite the numerous weapons he's apparently carrying (you can feel a pommel digging into your thigh) and full grown adult on his back. He's graceful and you have the distinct feeling he's been doing this for a long time.
That doesn't stop you from being scared witless.
You hide your face between his shoulder blades, squeaking.
Please don't fall, please don't fall, please don't fall, you repeat, over and over until you finally reach the roof. He carries you a bit farther even after you smack his arm. The 'put me the fuck down' is silent, but you're sure he hears it anyway.
"Si fa sempre colpire il salvatori?" He laughs. Do you always hit your saviors?
Oh.
Your annoyance breaks into complete and utter shock as he carefully sets you down on the roof. "Are you injured?" He asks now, eyebrows pushed together in worry. He leans closer, tilting your face so he can see you better. Checking to see if they slapped you, probably. It's not uncommon for guards to become physical, unfortunately. Sort of defeats the purpose, if you think about it. "I was not--"
You close the small distance between the two of you without another thought, kissing him softly. He doesn't react at first, obviously shocked. He's just beginning to respond when you pull away to tell him, "You're not gonna believe where your words are."
Unlike yourself, he seems to instantly understand. There's no shock or anxiety in his bright grin as he once again wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you to his chest and talking in rapid Italian. You only understand a fraction of the words, but they all sound like compliments.
You interrupt him with a finger to his lips and give him your name, adding, "I'm guessing you're not always called 'Assassino'."
"Ezio Auditore, mi bella." His grin is crooked, favoring the scarred side. "But speaking of the guards..." He sweeps you back up into his arms, laughing when you squeak. "Allow me to get you somewhere safer."
You roll your eyes, "You have some explaining to do afterwards, Ezio."
Maybe the words aren't that much of an annoyance after all.
(He finds your mark three days later, and kisses his words as he informs you he's been wondering about this since he could read English. You can't manage a response)