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Hytham is… procrastinating.
Centuries of existence have made him incredibly good at lying to people, and incredibly self-aware. There is one person in the world he can never lie to, and that is himself. So he knows all the reasons he's giving himself are bullshit. He's procrastinating, plain and simple.
Of course the universe would find a way to make him do the thing he's been avoiding like the plague.
"Looks like he's going to… oh shit. Hytham."
Rebecca's voice is concerned in his comms. Hytham sighs softly. "Yeah. I know."
He can see a brightly-lit building get closer and closer down the road. Even from this distance he can already read the sign: The Well of Truth.
His mission tonight was supposed to take place elsewhere before his target decided to come here instead. Hytham cannot be here tonight. There's a different Assassin mission planned here tonight. The overlap is something to look into, the fact that two separate targets have somehow landed on the same location. Regardless, —
He can't be here.
"Do you want to bail?" She asks him carefully.
Hytham snorts humourlessly, slowing and stopping by the kerb mere metres away from the entrance. "Can I afford to?"
"Not really." She admits.
"Well, then." Hytham turns off the ignition and waits in his dark and silent car. He watches the target hand his keys to the valet attendant and strut into the nightclub, bypassing the line outside altogether. Hytham waits another thirty seconds to make sure the man doesn't come back out, then gets out of his car. A couple of sparkly-dressed girls look at him strangely when he walks up to the club.
"We have valet parking services," the bouncer at the door informs Hytham, eyes narrowed suspiciously.
"Not if I need to make a quick getaway," Hytham says, pitching his voice higher and winking at the bouncer for good measure. The bouncer looks unimpressed and glances at his ipad again. He finds Hytham's fake name (easily inserted into the guest list remotely by Rebecca) and cross-checks it with his ID more than once.
Hytham taps his foot impatiently, like the rich brat he's pretending to be. "Are you done?"
The bouncer doesn't look pleased about it but he says, "Yeah. Enjoy your evening, skål." He hands Hytham the fake ID back. Hytham doesn't dare say the word out loud; his pronunciation is better than the bouncer's. He simply gives the man a two-fingered salute and slips inside.
"In and out," he mumbles as the loud music crashes into him. He can't be here.
He can't.
"In and out," Rebecca promises.
In the end, it's useless. Hytham waits by the bar, trying not to look too suspicious by leaving too early, purloined flash drive tucked into the pocket of his tight leather pants — and Basim walks in.
Hytham's fingers grip the chromatic countertop of the bar and he turns away (though not too quickly). His heart is pounding so hard it almost drowns out the music. His palms feel clammy. His breath is coming in short, soundless gasps.
"You need to leave." Rebecca's voice is soft, almost soothing.
"Too soon," Hytham mumbles, raising his glass to take another sip of his drink. "Can't draw attention to myself."
"He's here."
"Yes."
"Hytham."
"I'm fine." He lies.
He hasn't really told Shaun and Becs anything, William even less. All they know is what they saw in Eivor's memories, though God knows there's probably enough there to make them suspect. But he's never confirmed or denied anything. Yes, I knew him. Yes, he was my mentor. No, he never told me anything. Check the animus if you want. I didn't know.
I didn't know.
His comms flare to life again. "He's getting closer."
Hytham never was a neurotic person. The panic in his mind peaks and… evens out into a solid wall of acceptance. This had to happen sometime. He never intended to push out their first meeting for as long as it has been. And he's tired. Six months of hiding more than he ever has in his lifetime as a Hidden One, and… he's done. He's done delaying the inevitable.
"It's fine," he says, sounding calmer than he feels, which is a good sign.
"It's fine?" Rebecca echoes incredulously.
"We had to meet eventually."
"Bill won't like this."
"Bill can stuff it." Hytham mutters, then finishes off his drink to the sound of Rebecca's snort. "Going silent."
"Roger."
He mutes the comm device and pushes his empty glass away, leans against the counter — and turns to see Basim barely fifteen feet away, watching the dancing crowd with a faintly amused look on his face.
He's leaning against the bar counter, his profile painfully familiar to Hytham. The sharp curve of his nose, those full lips, the bristly beard and the long neck… The glowing lights edge his silhouette in a way that makes him look ethereal in the midst of the grungy crowd. A diamond in the rough.
Hytham lets out a shaky sigh.
And stays where he is.
He's weaving through the crowd when he casually unmutes his comms.
"Tell Shaun I have eyes."
"What? Hytham—"
Hytham interrupts her surprised chatter. "Tell him I know Basim is offline, I see him. No cause for concern."
"Hytham—"
"Dropping again." And he mutes the comm. He timed it well; behind him, two writhing dancers part for Basim, who has clearly just missed seeing Hytham talking on his comms.
Hytham tosses another small smirk over his shoulder and keeps moving. Something strange is bubbling inside him, some strange instinct is driving him to keep silent and unapproachable. It feels petty. It feels calculated. It feels fun, and Hytham does not want to dwell on it.
He reaches the end of the dance floor and skips over to the dark, purple-lit wall. He braces himself and turns around just in time to see Basim emerge from the crowd, looking wild-eyed and purposeful at the same time.
God, he's beautiful.
Hytham curls his fingers into fists again, heart thudding with the bass, and smiles.
He shifts the car into drive and is driving away from the club without even thinking about it, almost in a stupor. Some part of him seems to want to go faster to make sure Basim can't find him. A rational part of his mind is saying Basim can't. He can't catch Hytham, he didn't follow Hytham out of the club, doesn't have a car and doesn't even know how to drive yet and Hytham has been driving since the goddamn T-model was released.
But the base, almost hysterical part of him persists. It makes his decisions for him, and without really planning it, he finds himself on the route to the cabin.
He stews in the silence until he can't bear it anymore, then unmutes his comm device.
"Checking in," he says. He sounds hoarse. Fuck.
"Hytham," Rebecca responds almost immediately. "You alone?"
"Yeah."
There is a split-second's pause. "Okay." Another brief pause, then, "I see you."
From the tracker in the car, he presumes.
"I won't stay long, don't worry—" Hytham says but Becs cuts him off.
"We'll set out to the cabin in about three hours."
A beat passes as Hytham tries to swallow the lump in his throat. "You don't have to," he tries.
"Yes we do," she says softly. A pause, then she continues hesitantly, "I hate to ask, but I have to. He's fully dark right now. Is it safe?"
Hytham barks a too-loud laugh, brief and humourless. "He isn't going anywhere. He's going to come back."
"… you're sure."
"Yeah." Why is his voice still so hoarse? "He can't resist a puzzle. He'll come after me, don't worry."
Another long pause. Hytham spends it focused entirely on the road and on breathing long, even breaths. When he turns onto the dirt road in the final leg of his journey, he finally speaks. "Go get some rest, Becs."
He knew she was still on the line. "I can stay."
"You need to sleep. I'll see you both in the morning."
"… see you, Hytham." She sounds reluctant, and Hytham feels vague, familiar fondness towards her. But he hears the slight change in tone in the blankness of his comm device — proof that she's disconnected — with some relief.
Almost immediately, he swerves the wheel and the car skids off the road and onto a patch of dry leaves, stopping neatly by the roadside. Hytham digs out the earpiece and tosses it on the passenger seat, clicks his door open and nearly falls out of the car in his hurry to get outside.
His breaths are heavy again, he stumbles a few feet away from the car like he's drunk (even though he drank no alcohol at the club) and drops to his knees. The cold night air wafts around him in wisps of mist and the musty smell of soggy dead leaves. He tips his head back to look at the night sky and can't make out the different stars at all, because his eyes are filled with tears.
"Fuck," he whispers, wet and shaky. "Fuck."
It was so fucking good. Hytham hugs himself and lets out another shaky sob of a breath. Even now he can feel the ghost of Basim's body pressed up against him, warm and solid. He'd almost forgotten it. He had gotten his fill of it centuries ago and he'd never, not once, felt the same kind of surety and warmth and, and, contentment that he felt in Basim's embrace.
Fuck.
Of all the ways his first meeting with Basim could have gone, this was probably one of the worse ones. They could have spoken on a call first. They could have met at the cabin, in the woods, in the animus, anywhere else. Anywhere they could hear each other speak, for fucks' sake.
(He hadn't heard Basim but had felt his groans and growls, in his mouth and down his neck—)
His hands swipe across his torso and linger over the points where he'd felt Basim's grip the hardest: the side of his thigh and the join of his neck and shoulder. Even now he can remember it so vividly he feels a shudder run down his spine. He runs his tongue along his lower lip and worries at the bite Basim left on him with his teeth. The skin splits and he tastes blood again.
At the iron tang on his tongue, Hytham opens his eyes and gazes upwards at the stars again. His cheeks are wet, but he doesn't care.
For his own sanity's sake, Hytham is a man that rarely regrets anything, but God, he wishes. He wishes they hadn't met at the club. He wishes he'd stayed, after. Even now, he could turn the car around and drive back. He knows exactly where Basim would be right now, watched Rebecca make the motel bookings for him.
He could. He would have. He shouldn't have.
He wants.
He sniffs, swipes his arm across his face and trudges slowly back to the car. The cold night air has seeped in through the open door, but he doesn't fucking care. He slams the door shut, buckles the seat belt, and continues on his way to the cabin.
Shaun and Becs reach the cabin just after sunrise. By then, Hytham has cleaned up and changed into his usual clothes. The leather pants and black turtleneck are stuffed in their place in the car's boot, and Hytham makes a mental note to fucking burn them before they ditch the car for another one.
Rebecca dumps her backpack onto the bench opposite the fridge and makes a beeline to Hytham and pulls him into a hug. Hytham goes willingly and hugs her back. He's heartened by her care, but there's still a small, reprehensible part of him that tells him it is nothing like Basim's warmth—
"So." Shaun says awkwardly.
Hytham pulls away from Becs and glances at him, wondering how much they've guessed. They're far from stupid, after all.
"What, uh," Shaun crosses his arms behind his back, "what did he say?"
Hytham has been expecting the question. He shrugs. "I don't know."
Shaun gapes at him. "What do you mean you don't—"
"Couldn't hear him."
"So what did you—"
Hytham only gazes back at him, calm and silent. The way Shaun's face changes from awkward concern to scandalised shock would have been funny if Hytham didn't feel so tired and numb.
"Are you serious?" Shaun demands. "You?" His voice rises in pitch. "At your age?"
Rebecca rolls her eyes as she moves to sit at her desk. "Don't be rude, Shaun."
Shaun opens his mouth to argue, gesturing at Hytham, but a stern look from her quells him, and he throws up his hands in defeat. "Ugh, fine." He focuses again on Hytham's face (which Hytham wishes he didn't), "Sorry, Hytham. Didn't mean to offend."
"No offense taken," Hytham says as mildly as he can. He makes his way to the kitchen(ette?) and asks, "Tea?"
"Decaf," Rebecca reminds him from her desk.
"Earl Grey," Shaun adds, and Hytham only nods.
He's waiting for the kettle to boil when he senses someone approach him from behind. From the tapping sounds coming from Becs' desk, he deduces it's Shaun behind him.
He holds backs his sigh. They mean well. He only inclines his head, but doesn't turn around. "Yes?"
Shaun leans against the kitchen counter with his eyes on Becs' work corner, facing the opposite way from Hytham. "My mum always told me she would see me take the stage," Shaun says casually. "There never was a more dramatic Hastings, she said."
"Bob Hastings," Hytham cuts in.
"I— what? Who's Bob Hastings?"
Hytham feels a twitch of a smile. "An actor."
"What? From when? British?" When Hytham opens his mouth to respond, Shaun speaks over him, "You know what, never mind. Nice try distracting me, but I'm going to say my piece, like it or not."
Why is the kettle taking so goddamn long to boil?
"Fine," Hytham sighs.
"Good. So anyway, most dramatic Hastings, me." Shaun points at himself with both his thumbs. "It's funny, as an act. Not very endearing, but at least it makes people laugh." He leans back and turns away from Hytham again. "What I say or do for dramatic effect should be taken with a healthy heaping of salt. I was an arse to you just now, Hytham. Doesn't mean I don't sympathise."
"I don't want your sympathies," Hytham says.
"That's fair," Shaun allows. "But you have them anyway." Hytham says nothing in response, can't think of anything to say. They spend several moments in silence.
"It's hard to resist," Shaun says suddenly. His voice is softer now. Contemplative.
Hytham still doesn't say anything, but gestures at him to continue.
"The pull. You know?" He sounds almost wistful. "When you find someone… not exactly like-minded. Their mind doesn't necessarily tick the way yours does. But it does in synchronicity to yours. Pitch-perfect. The tick to your tock. And then if you have several life-changing near death experiences with them, it's like… It's hard to go back to just tocking. It's hard to resist when you still have the chance to exist in perfect harmony with them."
Hytham curls then uncurls his fists. He lets out a slow, deep breath. "It's not like that," he mutters.
"No?"
"No."
Hytham is lying. It is like what Shaun said. But it's also not. It's also more.
It's like living in the night, resigning yourself to everlasting darkness and then watching the sun rise again. It's like he's one of those far-flung planets with an obscenely large orbit, so vast he thought he was floating without direction all this time but then finding himself drawn close to his star again.
The kettle switches itself off with a click of the light. Hytham begins to pour while Shaun helpfully places the bags and the strainer within reach.
"I'll tell you one thing, though." Shaun says as he accepts his mug of tea with a murmur of thanks. "The man is just asking to be stabbed one of these days, and if you were the one who did it, well." He shrugs. "I wouldn't blame you."
Hytham snorts, surprising even himself. "What about 'the tick to my tock'?"
"That's why I wouldn't blame you. He'd be ticking you off, wouldn't he?"
Shaun grins wide as Hytham rolls his eyes and carries Becs' mug over to her. She catches his expression. "What now?"
"Don't let him near any poetry," Hytham mutters, and feels, despite everything, a little lighter as Shaun laughs.
They're on their second round of tea when Basim shows up. It takes everything Hytham has to keep a straight face and a relaxed posture as Basim stares at him.
"It's good you've met, because you'll be working together a lot more now," Becs says, watching Basim carefully over the rim of her mug. nonchalantly, her eyes gleaming.
Basim's gaze flicks back toward Hytham. "...Wonderful," he says. A long beat of silence follows, as if they're all in a standoff none of them is willing to break.
True to form, Basim breaks it anyway.
"I assume you have a name?" He asks, voice low and careful.
It still nearly bowls Hytham over.
What the hell kind of question is that? Does he not know? Could he not tell, last night? Has he forgotten —
Hytham raises his chin. "You know my name," he says, soft but firm. His response seems to affect Basim the same way his question had affected Hytham, and silence descends upon them yet again. Shaun and Becs look like they're holding their breaths.
"May we speak?" Basim murmurs finally. He's standing stock-still, hands in fists at his sides. His face is frozen in a cold mask. His eyes are sharp, gleaming.
Hytham meets his stare and nods jerkily. He places his half-full mug of tea on the table next to Becs' laptop, and gestures at Basim to lead the way. As Basim turns away, still stiff, Shaun opens his mouth to say something, but Becs grabs his arm and shakes her head. Hytham tosses her a grateful glance, and follows Basim out of the covered patio and into the clearing. Basim lopes past the firepit and the benches, graceful as ever, and goes all the way up to the stiles at the very edge of the cliff. Hytham, feeling the numbness inside him spread while he desperately tries to keep his mind blank, follows.
They stand there for a long moment at the edge of the clearing, just looking at each other. Hytham drinks in the sight, memorising his features once more in the light of day. Basim still looks as sly and charming and dangerous as he did when Hytham last saw him, despite his ridiculous t-shirt.
Still so fucking beautiful.
Basim opens his mouth. His voice is low. "Hytham." It is a question and not.
It makes his heart strain with yearning. God, over a thousand years, and hearing Basim say his name still feels exactly the same.
"Basim," he responds, just as soft.
Basim's expression cracks apart. "Hytham," he breathes and steps toward Hytham, arms outstretched, face shining with awe. And then he freezes.
Because Hytham has stepped away from him.
"I am not the man you once knew," Hytham tells him, internally marvelling at his own calmness. "Just as you are not the man I thought I knew."
Basim's arms drop like they are leaden. "What are you, then?" He growls.
"Your colleague. Team-mate. Fellow Assassin." Hytham brings up his arm and disengages his hidden blade. "We still serve the light together."
"And that is all?"
Hytham retracts his blade with a snick. "What more do you want?" He asks hoarsely, then almost grimaces. So much for being calm.
"What I want…" Basim continues to stare at Hytham, until his expression hardens. It makes something in Hytham's chest twist so painfully he almost gasps out loud. "What I want is none of your concern if that is all we are."
He's… he's not wrong. Struggling to keep a straight face, Hytham only nods.
For a split-second, Basim lingers as if he wants to say something else. But then he whips around and almost walks away.
Almost, because Hytham grabs his wrist without even thinking about it.
Basim freezes once more.
"Basim," he says softly, and he feels a flinch under his grasp. "Can we not get along? We cannot — we must not jeopardise our missions."
He feels the sinews of Basim's wrist ripple beneath his fingers as he turns to face Hytham once more. Hytham falls silent, breath caught in his chest, waiting.
Then Basim smiles. It is small, and charming, and fucking empty. Hytham knows this smile. He had never thought he would ever be on the receiving end of it, but he really should have known.
He really should have guessed how much it would hurt.
"Of course we can." Basim's voice is a light, airy drawl and Hytham hates it. "I have offered my full cooperation to William Miles already." With a casual flick, he disengages himself from Hytham's grasp, leaving Hytham feeling even more unmoored. "It is no great sacrifice to get along for the sake of the mission."
"Good," Hytham mutters.
"Good," Basim echoes. His face is inscrutable again. He gestures at the cabin, as if to say 'shall we?'
Hytham almost declines, but he can't, not if he doesn't want to make a big deal out of it. So he steps over to Basim's side (ignoring how the familiarity of it makes him shiver), and they make their way back, careful not to even nudge each other accidentally.
"At any rate," Basim muses, "it will be… fun to work together once more, yes?"
He's still smiling that empty smile. The words are too little and too much at the same time.
Fun. Dear God in heaven.
Hytham can't do anything but return an equally hollow smile. "Yes. Fun."
When they reach it, Basim pauses for a split second outside the closed door of the cabin. For that brief moment, his eyes seem to glimmer with curiosity and grief alike. The smile on his lips is both warm and pained. Hytham stops breathing; yearning, and wanting, and wailing in his head.
Neither of them fooled by the other.
Then Basim pulls open the door. "After you."
Hytham nods, brushes past him like it means nothing, ever the consummate liar, and steps inside.