I was just guessing at numbers and figures, pulling your puzzles apart

[pushesgently]

Who: Altaïr and assorted loved ones
What: The aftermath of this fight
When: Night of 459 through early the next morning
Where: Odin 105 - A Needle in a Haystack
Rating: Man angst

[Altaïr isn't one to leave things undone or storm out to nurse his own feelings, but there is nothing to be gained by staying in their apartment, and everything to be lost.

How could she think what she does—and how could she say it? Anger and heartbreak vie for supremacy inside him until he tries to push all of it away, though there's guilt there too. But he can't take back his own words and Maria won't take back hers.

Asgard is quiet at this hour, and he finds his feet take the path toward the shop automatically. He'll return in a few hours, no doubt, but for now he has to be—elsewhere. It might as well be there.]

Comments

[Desmond]

[pushesgently]

[It doesn't even occur to him that his grandson, their houseguest—who he forgot about entirely during the fight—might have been awake to hear words that should be private, nor that he might want to say anything himself afterward.]

[familyissues]

[ Voices had roused him earlier, the quiet notes of a squabbling couple only growing in intensity until Desmond, uncomfortable with eavesdropping on such a private moment, made a quiet escape. He's parked himself on a bench outside the little hedgerows that mark the border between the small apartment property and the sidewalk, sitting cross-legged and hooded like a zen statue. Outside it's quiet as it can be in a city so large, the hum of life softer now but no less sensed this late at night.

Hearing someone on the walk, Des glances aside, surprised to see Altaïr there. Nothing about that argument went well then. ]

Rough night, jiddie?

[pushesgently]

[He almost passes right by Desmond, and in any other situation he would curse himself for being so unaware. As it is, he simply stops in place, surprised.]

Yes.

[After a moment, he turns to Desmond, though he doesn't quite meet his eyes.]

We woke you. I'm sorry.

[familyissues]

No, don't be. I couldn't sleep anyway.

[ A little white lie that's not entirely a lie anyway. It's. Odd, and painful, and awkward going trying to figure out a comfortable way to sleep without his right arm. Desmond looks up at his grandfather with some thought. And then quite simply gets to his feet. He knows Altaïr's look, that of a man who's hurting, at the end of his tether, and needs to take a step away. ]

So. Where are we going?

[pushesgently]

[He looks away before Desmond can catch his eye. For all that his grandson knows about him, all the shameful parts of Altaïr's life that he's witnessed, this is the first time he feels ashamed. ]

I am going to the Bureau.

You should go back to rest, whether or not you think you can sleep. You're still recovering.

[familyissues]

I am. But I still have my legs, jiddie, and I'd prefer to stretch them a bit before attempting to sleep again.

[ Aka "I'm coming with you whether you like it or not", while Desmond rocks back on his heels, expectant. It's disconcerting for Altaïr not to look him in the eye, or indeed actively avoid looking at him, and it's worrying. Altaïr doesn't shy away from anything. ]

[pushesgently]

As you wish, then.

[He isn't really surprised. But nor is he in the mood to talk, though he knows Desmond has only good intentions putting himself in a position to listen. Without waiting, he begins walking toward the bureau without speaking another word.]

[familyissues]

[ True to his word, he sets in to a walk at Altaïr's side, matching his pace in a stride or so. There's no expectancy to his silence. Desmond's just there for support, and perhaps to make Altaïr not be the only guy out in his jammies at the ungodly hour.

What must they have said to each other, to drive him out? He glances aside at Altaïr just once, eyes shaded in his hood, then looks back to the path ahead. ]

[pushesgently]

[It's the lack of pushing, the absence of an expectant listener, that ultimately drives Altaïr to speak when otherwise he might cling to stubborn silence. Or maybe it's because it is Desmond beside him, and is very existence is related to the conflict he witnessed.]

Desmond. You've seen some of my future, haven't you?

[It's not really a question, but he has to lead up to what's really on his mind.]</small.

[Ezio]

[pushesgently]

[Quiet sounds or a sixth sense in the early morning might lead Ezio to the top floor of the bureua, where Altaïr is busy at work...and clearly has been at it for quite some time.]

[sicarius]

[If there is one thing that Ezio is familiar with, it is the feeling of a presence being within the Bureau far earlier than he expects. He himself has done this when the explosion happened with him and Desmond, then with Connor. There is a silent exhaustion that hangs in the air, one that sits outside his room at a time that is far too early for even preparing for a run. Ezio wakes after some time, the feeling of a presence coming to his senses a minute or so later, and he rises, grabbing spare clothes and donning them before stepping out.

And what he sees worries him almost immediately.]

Altaïr? What are you doing?

[Not "what are you doing here," not "why are you here," but "what are you doing." He's no fool to how his ancestor works- they are family and he's been through so much with Altaïr that he is just as close as his own brothers. A nagging feeling in the back of his head already tells him that something is out of place, but he doesn't ask for that exactly. Not right now. Let the conversation at least open itself on normal terms.]

[pushesgently]

[Having changed into some spare clothing kept at the bureau, Altaïr is at least no longer in his pajamas, which were an even greater sign that all was not well. But so is his presence and his demeanor, and he doesn't expert Ezio to ignore either. But neither will he explain everything so easily.]

Maintaining these blade.

[The small pile of hidden blades, knives and daggers on the table beside him speak to the truth of that. Sharpened and oiled, they're in good condition, the product of necessary work that isn't necessary to be performed so early.]

[sicarius]

I was unaware we needed them to be worked upon this early.

[His tone indicates perhaps that he knows something is up, but he says nothing about it, instead allowing the other to use the silence in his own way. There is a sense of deja vu, and the Italian recalls the time Altaïr spoke with him when Maria was returned to her Templar years. It is an odd thing, to be standing in the opposite shoes.

If he doesn't speak about it soon, though, then Ezio will push. He has to. Nothing will change otherwise, and it will be for the better.]

[pushesgently]

Now is as good a time as any.

[He reaches for the next mechanism and begins to deconstruct it. This is something he understands, this is something he can fix.]

Since I'm awake, I'll make use of my time.

[sicarius]

[A hand gently covers the blade he's tending, an indication that Ezio thinks that this is enough. He's hurting, avoiding the subject and staying to something he can physically work on, rather than push through, or push forward.]

Altaïr.

[It is said quietly, no sternness, no firmness behind it. Only the concern of family.]

A man once told me that it is better to share a burden and be open, than to close myself off.

[He knows the other is suffering, even if nothing has been said. They know each other like brothers, how could he ignore the other's pain?]

[pushesgently]

[It is extremely unfair to turn Altaïr's own words against him, and the slight narrowing of his eyes as he looks from the blade to Ezio tells him exactly what he thinks of that. But...to ignore them would be the height of hypocrisy, and despite being far removed from his own time and place, he has always tried to live by his principles here. After a moment, he turns back to the task at hand.]

We argued this morning.

[He doesn't specify who 'we' is, nor just how early 'this morning' must have been. He doesn't need to.]

[sicarius]

[He doesn't, because Ezio understands perfectly. Arguing with family is difficult enough, he cannot imagine the pain of arguing with one's wife. It's a start, at least, to ]

Capisco. It was not an easy topic, as I can imagine.

[Altaïr wouldn't be here otherwise.]

[Maria]

[pushesgently]

[womanfromacre]

[The apartment is spotless. A guilty conscience and nervous energy is enough to have sent Maria into overdrive. She hasn't wanted to leave (in case he came back and found her gone), but likewise she hasn't ventured out to try and find him. She doesn't know why that is.

Except, of course, that she is ashamed of herself.

She sets dinner out, having worked hard to distract herself and prepare it all on her own. There is the odd burnt vegetable, and the rice slightly clumped together, but in all it can be said that there's been a little improvement in her attempts at cooking.

And then she starts to feel stupid as the minutes ticks by and she realises she hadn't even told Altaïr that she is sorry and she wants him home.

She glances over at the door, and then back to the picture in her hands of the two most dear to her, of her husband and son, and berates herself for being so stupid that it's by her own making she has neither of them with her at this moment.]

[pushesgently]

[Altaïr feels more himself when he returns. It helps that he is no longer newly awakened from a dreamless sleep, but moreover, Ezio helped him, and for that he owes his friend.

Later, though. More urgent matters await. It's early for dinner, but late for returning to Maria. He would have done so hours ago had he not thought she needed the time. Perhaps they both needed it.

But despite all the time he's had to prepare better words, when he opens the door and sees his wife, he has no idea what to say.]

[womanfromacre]

[She looks up at the sound of the door opening, her expression somewhat reminiscent of a rabbit caught in the sights of a hound. For a moment she just looks at him, flooded with relief and anxiety that he is even home at all, and then, very gently, she lays the picture down upon the coffee table.

She looks at it one last time, then back to her husband before she looks at the ground, thoroughly contrite.]

We... we never did have breakfast.

[pushesgently]

[He was not afraid to face her continued wrath if necessary, but the wave of relief he feels at Maria's contrite tone is palpable. He steps inside, letting the door drift shut behind him.]

I suppose we didn't.

[womanfromacre]

[Hesitantly, she gets up from the sofa but makes no move towards him.]

You must be hungry.

[pushesgently]

Maria, no.

[Altaïr shakes his head, and this time he does step forward, reaching for her hands as he approaches.]

We need to talk about it, habeebti. I don't want to pretend it never happened.

[womanfromacre]

Habeebi please, I don't want-

[She sighs and squeezes his hands as he takes hers.]

I'm sorry, can't we just- I don't know how I can stop feeling like this.