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Curiosity	By : anyasy Category: +A through F > Assassin's Creed Views: 7251 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Assassins Creed, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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Title:
Curiosity

Fandom: Assassin�s Creed

Pairing: Alta�r/OMC

A/N: Frankly I think this would have been an automatic attempt by any
curious male plugged into an ancestor�s memory in a supercomputer. XD

Rating: NC17
Curiosity

He
had been kidnapped by a crazy old man and a possibly equally crazy girl and
forced to relive some weird assassin ancestor�s memory through a glass and
metal machine that smelled persistently of lemon. Oh, and he was very
unlikely to survive the experience.

In
the circumstances, Desmond decided that he was more than due a little
curiosity, and so he snuck out of his room in the middle of the night and
gingerly lay down on the Animus.

[Loading
Memories]

�Uh.
Can you load any memories other than these, er, threads?�

[Affirmative.
Please specify, User.]

�Since
I�m his descendant he probably had a girl from somewhere, or somebody, anyway.�

[Affirmative.
Stable memory blocks available. Please specify, User.]

�Um.�
Desmond felt that he was not morbid enough to watch his next ancestor�s
conception and flailed mentally for a moment at the potential wrongness of what
he was doing. �Latest, please. Before the current accessed memory
blocks.� Damnit.

[Loading
memory block: Latest relationship: specifics: sexual.]

�Thanks,�
Desmond muttered, under the glass. That had all the erotic quality of a
cold bucket of water, but then his mind shifted into the scrolling blue.

--

Alta�r
woke like an assassin, enmeshed in habits too old to forget. First he
registered the pain, then transcended it. The broken rib was from the
mailed foot that had crashed into his side when he was down. The bruise
on his face from the fist that had pushed past his guard; the ache in his
shoulder from a stab. He had been careless, and that galled him more than
the pain. He was the best. Should have been. An armed
guard of five in a convoy with the target should not have been a problem.

He
kept his breathing even in a semblance of sleep as he considered this.
How had he survived? There had been a blade, descending for his neck, a ring of
metal as someone else had blocked it, a dry chuckle and the faint whinny of a
horse.

Alta�r
pulled himself further into the memory. He had seen the approach of a
knight in his peripheral vision, a lone man on a black charger with battle-worn
platemail but no surcoat, but had been concentrating on the target�s guard,
given the knight had seemed little interested in what was happening, reining up
his steed to watch instead of aiding either.

Then
he had been aided, it seemed, before fainting.

The
room smelled of salve and he was dressed in breeches, his weapons
divested. The sheets he lay on were of fine cotton. Cautiously,
Alta�r opened his eyes, and bit down a hiss of surprise.

It
was a small room with an arrow-slit of a window, a dressing table with a metal
basin filled with water and a heavy wardrobe. Leaning against that was
the knight, who grinned at his confusion.

Alta�r
was sure he had sensed no one else in the room. Warily, he tried to
sit up, winced at the pain, and stayed put instead. �Who are you?�

�Maximilian.
You have slept quite a while. Feeling better?� The knight seemed amused when
Alta�r showed no sign of recognition. On closer inspection, the man had
russet-brown hair, almost red, trimmed short, like his beard and
sideburns. His handsome face was crinkled into an easy smile, but Alta�r
knew better than to take that at face value. Under his brow his black
eyes were cold, with a cunning, edged wisdom that the assassin had last seen
only in Al Mualim. This man was a commander, but Alta�r had never heard
of him.

A
quick study of his clothes showed no other clues. The man was burned
almost brown by the hot sun, showing that he was likely resident in the Holy
Land, but his clothes were simple, well made but without adornment. His
voice was controlled and pleasant, with the unthinking attention to nuance and
pitch that again spoke of command, and his Arabic had almost no trace of an
accent at all.

�Are
you of the Lion or a Templar?�

�Does
it matter?�

Alta�r
narrowed his eyes and thinned his lips, and the knight raised his large hands
in a gesture of mocking surrender and chuckled. �I am not a Templar, and
that you should have already guessed, Alta�r, for you are still alive.�

�If
you know my name then you must know who I am. Why am I still alive?�

�Curiosity.�

�You
will find that I will not break under torture.�

�And
no doubt you would have also divined that torture was not my intention.� The
knight countered. �Or you would have woken up in far different
circumstances.�

�Then
why?�

�I
have heard tell that your blade is the fastest in the Holy Land. I would
like to test its edge against mine.� Maximilian grinned, and though Alta�r
studied him carefully he could find no mistruth in his expression, save perhaps
the calculation in those cold black eyes.

�If
that is all you desire then you have saved my life.� Alta�r said, warily,
making his distrust evident. �I will remember that when we fight.�

�You
are confident.�

�So
are you.�

Maximilian
inclined his head. �Rest and recover your strength. Do try not to
escape until after we duel. This tower is hidden well, and my archers,
better still.�

--

He
was confined to the bedroom. While bedridden, he was aided by a series of
somber, silent servants. Once he could walk again, food was passed
through a hatch in the door, with a lower hatch for the chamberpot and a change
of water for the basin, and often a slice of hard, aromatic soap. Alta�r
stared through the window, which had a view of a courtyard and a fortified
wall, then an expanse of rocky ground that had little cover to speak of.
Were he to somehow get out of the castle on foot, he would be shot down
quickly.

Maximilian
visited occasionally, usually to speak of bladework or matters foreign to the
Holy Land, to which Alta�r gave carefully neutral responses. He was more
prisoner here than guest, and he very much doubted that the knight wished
merely to keep him for a duel.

Now
very curious himself, Alta�r reacted one day in the middle of discussing
political matters in the Christian Bible with Maximilian by aiming a jab at the
man�s neck. Maximilian blocked, caught Alta�r�s left hand as it swung
round in a punch, then deftly slapped away the next jab, dodging back as the
assassin snapped up his knee, catching his ankle and dragging it up.
Alta�r lost balance onto the bed with a surprised grunt, kicking out sharply,
but found himself quickly pinned, his arm twisted behind his back and his
still-throbbing ribs protesting sharply.

�Finished?�
Maximilian inquired, his head cocked.

�You
are no knight.�

�You
will insult a man in his own castle?� The amusement was still there.

�I
know what I felt was wrong with you now. The way you wore the armor, when
I first saw you, it was battle-worn but it settled poorly on your
shoulders. You are not used to armor, nor broadswords. The calluses
on your hands speak to me of lighter blades, and you are too quick for someone
used to platemail.�

�Very
good,� Maximilian said, with a wolfish grin. �Anything else?�

�I
will need to recover fully before chancing your blade.� Alta�r said,
matter-of-fact. �Who are you?�

�What
do you call someone of skill in defending himself but is yet unknown?�

�A
spy, or an assassin.� Alta�r had known this the moment Maximilian had blocked
his second punch. �Perhaps both. You remind me of my Master.
You are used to command. The Lion must be pleased to have you by his
side.�

�Ah,
a lucky man, to have you call him Master,� Maximilian grinned again, evidently
ignoring the comment about Richard, but there was something lazy in his smile,
now, that made Alta�r suppress a shiver. The words were absolutely
innocent, or could be. Somehow, he very much doubted that.

�I
will not betray-�

�If
I thought you so easy I would have killed you already.� The lazy smile
widened. Alta�r hesitated. He had been told that he was handsome,
but it had been a detail about himself that had never quite interested him, nor
had he ever used it to solve his problems. Furthermore, he had never�
with a man, and he was fairly sure that the Christians� Holy Book
condemned the act (though he had heard different interpretations of the
particular passage in question, and he had certainly heard rumors about Richard
himself). While he considered this, Maximilian brushed a kiss over his
bared shoulder, his beard tickling Alta�r�s skin.

Alta�r
yelped, and nearly broke his own arm, twisting back to see that the �knight�
had shifted back on his haunches, looking amused. �Closest I will get, I
should think. And well worth it.� Carefully, as though releasing a wild
animal, Maximilian backed off the bed, and then let his arm go. Alta�r
sat up, massaging his wrist as the other man chuckled. �You look like a
frightened cat. Rest assured, I have no designs on your person without
leave. A spy or an assassin I may be, but that does not mean I lack for
honor.�

Alta�r
considered this slowly, then forced himself to relax. �You have leave.�

�Feh.
You have a woman and a child. I accept only leave that is freely given.�

�I
had a woman and a child,� Alta�r corrected, disconcerted. He had
been so sure that he had hidden� but no matter. �And the leave is freely
given.�

Maximilian
was silent, looking skeptical, but Alta�r could tell the man was tempted.
A little painfully, he slipped to his feet. One stride, and he was
pressed against the �knight�, leaning up for a clumsy kiss. The next was
fumbled, then hard fingers pressed against his skull, and the next was
bruising, a man�s kiss, with no tenderness, only raw hunger. Dimly,
Alta�r was aware of an arm crushing his slender form to Maximilian�s bulkier
frame, of stumbling back together on the narrow bed and an uttered curse against
his neck in French; his legs spreading and crossing against the small of the
knight�s back and his teeth closing of their accord over the other man�s
ear.

Maximilian
growled, and Alta�r responded by biting his shoulder as the other man all but
yanked off his breeches, settling between his thighs and running his callused
hands with care over his scarred flanks, marked with stories: there, a thin
white line, where a Teutonic knight had once gotten through his guard; there, a
still-healing set of scar tissue against his thigh, where an archer had been
lucky.

Maximilian
snorted as Alta�r bit him again, next to the fresh, red mark. �Do you
make love to your woman like this?�

�We
are not making love, and you are not a woman,� Alta�r pointed out, watching as
Maximilian shrugged out of his clothes, dumping them off the bed, and reaching
for the salve on the dresser.

�Point
taken.� Only amusement. Still, Alta�r had been expecting roughness after
a comment like that, and was surprised again, as fingers closed carefully over
him, stroked, made him gasp, turn his cheek against the pillow, and gasp again
as a finger breached him. He flinched and tightened his fists on the
sheets at the second, though there was only a little hurt, trying to focus on
the kisses pressed against his neck and his cheeks.

�I
can stop if you want me to,� Maximilian observed, and Alta�r realized his eyes
had been tightly shut.

�No,
no,� he said quickly, looking up. �It is just� new.�

�There
will be pain,� Maximilian said, and Alta�r hissed as the fingers pressed
deeper, wanted to say something trite about pain and constant companions, but
arched convulsively and groaned instead, as crooking fingers rubbed against something
within him.

The
man was smirking at his palpable astonishment, bending down to kiss away
his question, stroking pleasure into his veins, both within and without,
whispering soothingly as the third finger burned.

The
light was graying fast when that slowly soothed, when his breathing evened, and
Alta�r sank his teeth harder into the other shoulder as soiled fingers
withdrew, flexed into the pillow next to his cheek, and he was entered, slowly
and carefully, stretched, his hands clawed into Maximilian�s back and
his heels locked over each other. The �knight� was gasping something in
English, then French, then something decidedly filthy in Arabic that Alta�r
could barely catch, then a choked �God damn it, relax, you�re too tight�
that he obeyed, with as much discipline as he could exert.

�I
should have had you on your knees,� Maximilian finally said, his voice
strained, when buried. �It would not have� hurt so much for you.�

�This
is better,� Alta�r said, in a low voice, surprised by his honesty. He had
almost drawn blood, and he opened his mouth for a kiss. The burn faded
quickly, and Maximilian began to move, rocking against him, his fingers between
them in long, easy strokes, darkening against his skin as the light
faded. It was better. Soon even the night�s sounds dimmed for their
notes of pleasure.

--

Swords
had hit an impasse and they were now on daggers of blunted, weighted wood,
their edges coated with chalk. White lines scored their skin and their
breeches, none �fatal�. Alta�r loved the lightning whirl of dagger
combat, fast and frenetic and dancing, and his opponent fought like a panther,
fierce and quick and brutal. With metal they would now both be blooded.

Still,
it was a good counter that gave Alta�r the day: he stamped down on Maximilian�s
foot as he dodged a slice for his neck, used the momentary distraction to slice
a white line up the other man�s breeches and over his belly, to his neck.
Maximilian stepped back with a laugh that was echoed by the archers watching on
the battlements.

�I
concede that yours is the better blade,� Maximilian said, laughter in his cold
eyes and his handsome smile. �We should retire for some refreshment.�

Alta�r
passed the practice dagger to the servant, wiping the chalk dust off his face
as he followed Maximilian toward the tower. Once within, however, instead
of heading for the dining hall, the assassin found himself dragged sharply
towards the servant�s door, down through a narrow passage, through a
suspiciously empty kitchen and out through the servant�s entrance, where a
horse stood placidly, harnessed to a wagon with a large cloth draped over
crates and barrels. A man sat hunched at the driver�s seat, looking
stolidly ahead.

�Your
gear is in there,� Maximilian said, jerking his thumb at the cloth. �What
is it you assassins say? Safety and peace upon you?�

�Safety
and peace,� Alta�r echoed, confused, even as the other man pressed a chaste
kiss on his lips. �I do not understand.�

�I
wager that you may be useful, in the future,� Maximilian shrugged, his smile
now enigmatic. �But you have already been of aid to me, and like
yourself, I do not kill useful men for no reason. Now, I do apologize for
the necessity of this, but��

Alta�r
did not dodge the punch.

--

He
woke up in the middle of the day in the shadow of a cliff face, and dressed
hurriedly in his gear before pulling himself out of the wagon. His jaw
ached, and the driver was nowhere to be seen, nor the horse. Still, the
outline of the visible coast told him that he was near Acre, and he knew the
way home.

Later,
Al Mualim looked askance at his bruises without comment, but seemed puzzled
when he apologized for failing his mission. �The target is dead,
Alta�r. Perhaps the blow to your head addled your mind.�

�Dead?�

�A
clean blade cut through his heart, so reports have told me.�

�Ah.�
Alta�r concentrated. �He was smuggling weapons for Saladin, from beyond
the sea. Strange weapons, that smelled sharp, that looked like thick
metal rods.�

�Looters
must have stolen those when you left. No matter. They will be
recovered.�

�I
see,� Alta�r said, and had no doubt that the weapons would not be. Useful.

�You
smile, Alta�r?�

�It
was a long journey, Master, and perhaps I have not yet fully recovered. I
think I should rest.�

�Safety
and peace.�

--

Desmond
woke with a start from the Animus, made a run for the sink in the bathroom
attached to his room, and swore to himself never, never, to do something
like that again.

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Curiosity