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ghostyattheblogg

Jun 8

homeybadger

Ezio’s Birthday Baking

Summary: You have some ideas for Ezio’s birthday present, and you settle on something special from his past

Warning(s): None

Pairing: Ezio x gn!Reader

Notes: Ezio’s birthday was mentioned in the book Assassins Creed: Renaissance, he wound up wishing himself a happy birthday. This is my way of rectifying that situation

The first thought you have is a blade.

It comes easily- too easily. Steel is the language of your shared life, after all. Balanced weight, clean edges, something that disappears into a sleeve and reappears at the exact right moment.

You can already picture it: a fine Florentine make, subtle engraving along the hilt, nothing ostentatious. Something worthy of Ezio Auditore da Firenze.

Something useful.

The idea settles in your thoughts, solid and tempting. You turn it over slowly, like a coin between your fingers, feeling every contour of it: the practicality, the familiarity, the way it fits so seamlessly into the life you both lead. It would be easy. Thoughtful, even, by the standards of your world.

And then you stop.

No.

You set the imagined blade aside just as firmly as you would place one back onto a table. The thought leaves a faint aftertaste- metallic, familiar, wrong.

Ezio has enough tools for killing.

Ezio does not lack for weapons. You have seen the evidence of that in ways most never will. You have watched him tend to them in quiet moments: hands steady, movements precise, as though each blade demands respect in return for what it is asked to do. You have seen how naturally they disappear into him, becoming less like tools and more like extensions of his will.

And you have seen, too, what they take.

Not openly. Never that. He wears ease like armor- smiles that come quickly, words that flow even quicker, charm that bends tension into something lighter. But there are moments, small and fleeting, where something heavier slips through the cracks. In the set of his shoulders when he thinks no one is looking. In the brief stillness after a job is done. In the way his hands linger just a second too long when cleaning blood from steel.

A knife would not be a gift. Not truly.

Not on his birthday.

You lean back where you sit, letting your weight settle into the worn familiarity of your chair. The wood creaks softly in quiet protest, a sound you’ve heard so often it barely registers anymore. Around you, your space exhales into stillness, dim light pooling in the corners, the faint scent of crushed herbs and oil lingering in the air, the hush of a place that exists just slightly apart from the rest of the world.

Beyond it, Florence refuses to be quiet.

The sound reaches you in softened layers, filtered through stone walls and shuttered windows- voices overlapping in distant conversation, laughter that rises and falls like something alive, the uneven rhythm of footsteps striking cobblestone. A cart rattles somewhere far off, wood against wheel against road, followed by the faint call of someone trying to sell something to someone who may or may not care to listen. It is a city that does not sleep so much as it pauses, briefly, between one breath and the next.

Somewhere within that pulse, Ezio moves with it.

You can picture it without trying. The way he slips through crowds as though they part for him without knowing why. The way he turns chaos into cover, noise into camouflage. He does not simply exist within Florence- he threads through it, bends with it, shapes it in small, unseen ways that ripple outward long after he has passed.

Your fingers tap idly against the table, a quiet, uneven rhythm that fills the space between your thoughts. Once. Twice. Again. The motion is unconscious, something to anchor yourself as your mind turns over possibilities.

Something refined, perhaps.

The idea arrives more slowly this time, less instinct and more consideration. You let it unfold.

Ezio had once been a nobleman, raised among silk and polished marble, where wealth was not just possessed but displayed. You can almost see it as clearly as the blade you imagined before: rich fabric, deep colors that catch the light like poured wine, stitching so fine it disappears unless you know to look for it. Something tailored. Something elegant. A ring, perhaps, set with a modest stone- nothing gaudy, but unmistakably valuable. A piece of the life he once lived, given back to him in some small, tangible way.

Something beautiful.

Something his, in a way the rest of the world no longer allows.

Your fingers still.

The thought lingers longer than the blade did. It almost feels right. Almost.

But then it shifts.

Because you have seen him now: not as he was, but as he is. The man who moves through shadow and sun with equal ease, who wears practicality like a second skin. The one who dirties his hands without hesitation, who does not hesitate to ruin fine fabric if it means getting out alive. Silk would catch. Jewelry would glint. Wealth, worn openly, would draw eyes- and Ezio has spent far too long learning how to avoid exactly that.

And beyond that, it would be a reminder.

Of what he lost. Of what was taken. Of a life that no longer fits him, no matter how well it once did.

You exhale quietly, the idea unraveling in your mind as you let it go.

No.

Not that, either.

The answer does not come quickly.

It drifts in without announcement, soft as dust in late light, carrying with it the faint echo of a night you had not thought to revisit until now.

It had been late.

Not the kind of late filled with urgency or tension, but the rare, fragile kind where the world seems to loosen its grip. No summons. No footsteps at the door. No work waiting with sharp edges and sharper consequences. Just time- unclaimed and unthreatening.

Those nights were uncommon.

Ezio had taken that rare mercy and made himself at home in your space as though it were the most natural thing in the world. Not with the careless entitlement of someone who assumes welcome- but with a quiet, unspoken trust that he already was.

He had stretched himself out without ceremony, occupying the space fully, comfortably. One arm tucked behind his head, elbow angled just enough to tilt his posture into something almost languid. The other moved as he spoke: slow, loose gestures that traced the shape of his words in the air, as though he had nowhere else he needed to be and no reason to rush toward it.

There had been no tension in him.

No readiness coiled beneath the surface. No constant awareness of exits, of angles, of threats.

Just… ease.

You had not asked about his family.

You rarely did. Not because you did not care- but because you did. Because you understood that some things, if pulled at too directly, unravel in ways neither of you would thank the other for.

But Ezio, on nights like that, when the world loosened its hold and the silence felt safe enough to inhabit, he sometimes offered those pieces freely.

“My mother,” he had said, his voice dipping into something softer, something less performed. His gaze had drifted- not to you, not to anything tangible, but somewhere just past the ceiling, as though the memory hovered there, suspended above him, waiting to be touched. “Made the best sweets in all of Firenze. I am certain of it.”

You had turned your head then, just slightly, studying him from where you sat. One brow lifted- not dismissive, but unconvinced in the way that invites argument.

“You are biased.”

“Of course,” he had replied without missing a beat, the answer slipping out with easy confidence. A smile had followed, faint but genuine, though he still hadn’t looked at you. “But I am also correct. She would make them on special days… or when my brother and I had been particularly insufferable.” A small pause, just enough for the memory to sharpen. “Which was often.”

That had drawn a sound from you- low, brief, something that hovered between amusement and acknowledgment. Not quite a laugh, but close enough to brush against it.

“What kind?” you had asked, the question slipping out before you could consider whether you should.

Ezio had tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing just a fraction as he sifted through the recollection. Not hesitating, choosing. As though he were selecting from something far more precious than any blade, any coin, any possession he carried now.

“Frittelle,” he had said at last.

The word lingered, warm in the air between you.

“Fried,” he continued, his voice gaining a touch of quiet fondness, “dusted with sugar. Sometimes filled- with cream, or citrus, depending on what she had.”

A faint breath of something like a laugh followed, softer than before.

“You could smell them from halfway down the street.”

And then, Ezio smiled.

Not the one he offers the world.

Not the practiced curve that disarms and distracts, that smooths over edges and turns suspicion into something else entirely.

This one was different.

It did not ask to be seen.

It simply existed- gentle, unguarded, warmed by something untouched by the man he had been forced to become. For a moment, the years between then and now seemed to thin, like mist burning away under morning light.

“I used to steal them from the kitchen before they had cooled,” he went on, the faintest trace of mischief returning- not sharp, not performative, just… remembered. “And she always knew. Always.”

“Did she punish you?” you had asked.

Ezio had let out a soft huff of laughter then, quieter than usual, edged with something that might have been fondness, or grief, or both so tightly woven they could no longer be separated.

“She made more.”

Tracking down the ingredients is not simple.

Florence has no shortage of sweets, but this- this matters. You ask questions carefully, circling the city in a way that would almost resemble one of Ezio’s own routes if it were not so distinctly… softer. Bakers, vendors, an older woman who eyes you with suspicion until you mention the name Auditore, and then with something like understanding.

By the time you return, your hands carry what you need.

The process is unfamiliar.

Messier than you expect. Less precise than a blade, less predictable than most things you are used to. Dough sticks where it shouldn’t, oil heats unevenly, sugar dusts your hands and refuses to leave.

But you persist.

You try once. Twice. The third attempt comes closer: golden, lightly crisp, just soft enough beneath the surface. You fill a few, leave others plain, dust them carefully.

When you finally step back, you study the result.

They are not flawless.

But they are right.

You find him as you so often do: suspended in that strange space he occupies so effortlessly, somewhere between motion and stillness, presence and absence. Ezio Auditore da Firenze is not hiding, not exactly. But he is not meant to be found, either.

A rooftop, this time.

The tiles are sun-warmed beneath your boots as you climb, their heat lingering from a long day now slipping toward evening. The city stretches out below and around you, Florence caught in that fleeting, golden hour where everything softens- edges blur, shadows lengthen, and even the worn stone seems to glow as though lit from within. Light spills across domes and towers, catching in windows, turning them briefly to fire.

Ezio sits at the edge of it all like he belongs there more than the ground below ever could.

One knee drawn up, the other leg angled loosely over the drop, posture relaxed in a way that would look careless on anyone else. On him, it reads as balance. Control. The quiet confidence of someone who knows exactly where he is, exactly how he will move if he needs to.

He notices you before you speak.

Of course he does.

There is no visible start, no shift that would betray surprise. Only the subtle turn of his head, the faint adjustment of his shoulders as awareness slides seamlessly into acknowledgment.

“There you are,” he says, his voice carrying easily across the small distance between you. That familiar ease settles into place as naturally as breath, wrapping around the words like it always does. “I was beginning to think you had forgotten me.”

You step closer, the space between you closing with quiet certainty.

“Unlikely.”

The single word lands without effort, dry and steady.

His gaze finds you fully then- and, just as quickly, shifts.

It flicks to what you carry.

It is a small movement. Brief. But it sharpens something beneath the surface- the curiosity that lives just under his charm, the part of him that notices everything worth noticing. His head tilts slightly, not out of confusion, but interest.

“And what is this?” he asks.

There is no suspicion in it. Only that easy, probing curiosity, dressed in lightness.

You hesitate.

It is subtle, barely a pause, but you feel it all the same. The weight of the moment settles in your chest, not heavy, but present. This is not a blade. Not something practical, not something expected. There is no easy script to follow here.

“It is for your birthday,” you say at last.

The words seem to land somewhere deeper than you intended.

Ezio stills- not completely, not in a way most would notice. But you see it. The near-imperceptible shift, the way something behind his expression flickers before he can quite catch it. Surprise, yes, but softer than that. Something unguarded, exposed for only a heartbeat before it is carefully, skillfully folded away.

He does not like being caught off balance.

“You remembered,” he says.

His voice is quieter now. Not lacking in warmth, but stripped of some of its usual performance. There is no teasing edge, no clever turn waiting behind it.

Just the truth of it.

“I listen,” you reply.

Then you extend the bundle toward him.

The motion is steady, deliberate. Not rushed, not uncertain. The cloth catches the last of the sunlight as you hold it out, its edges glowing faintly gold against the deepening hues of evening.

He takes it more slowly than you expect, as though the act itself has shifted in weight. His hands- so often quick, decisive, already halfway into motion before thought can catch up- pause around the bundle with unusual care. The cloth rustles softly as he draws it closer, and for a brief moment, even the air between you feels like it has tightened, held in anticipation.

When he opens it, the scent reaches him first.

Warm. Sweet. Familiar in a way that does not belong to the present.

It rises gently into the rooftop air, carried on the last remnants of sunlight, and something in Ezio’s posture changes so subtly you might have missed it if you weren’t already watching. The world does not stop- but Ezio does, for just a breath.

For a moment, he does not speak.

Does not move.

He simply looks.

Then, carefully- almost reverently- he reaches in and picks one up between his fingers. The pastry is delicate, still holding the faint softness of warmth beneath its sugared surface. He turns it slightly, as though confirming it is real, as though memory alone might have been playing a trick on him.

“…Frittelle,” he says at last.

Quieter than you have ever heard him.

The word is not spoken so much as released, like something that had been kept too long behind closed doors.

You watch him.

Not just the recognition in his eyes, but what it pulls with it. It is not immediate. It arrives in layers.

First the scent, then the texture, then something deeper- something that does not belong to the present rooftop or the stone beneath you, but to kitchens long gone. To warmth that did not have to be earned. To laughter that had no sharp edges hiding beneath it. To a version of him that did not yet know what it meant to survive becoming someone else.

His gaze softens- not outwardly, not in any way the world would notice- but in a way you do. You see it in the absence of defenses.

When he looks up at you, there is nothing carefully arranged there.

No charm assembled to soften the edges of what he is.

No mask waiting to be put back on.

Just him.

“You remembered that night,” he says.

It is not a question.

“Yes.”

The word comes easily, steady in your mouth.

“I thought,” you add, voice lowering slightly, “you deserved something that did not belong to… all of this.”

You do not need to name it.

He understands.

The city below. The work. The weight that never quite leaves his shoulders, even when he pretends it does. The life that presses in from all sides and never asks permission before demanding more.

Ezio exhales.

It is soft, almost disbelieving- like something in him has been caught between recognition and disbelief, unsure which one to choose.

Then he smiles.

Not the practiced curve that meets crowds and strangers. Not the easy confidence worn like armor.

This one is quieter. Unguarded. Real in a way that feels almost private, as though it should not exist outside this moment.

He lifts the pastry and takes a bite. His eyes close briefly as he tastes it.

Just a second.

Just enough for the world to fall away from him without asking permission.

When they open again, something in them has shifted. Not healed. Not erased. But softened at the edges, as though the memory it carries has, for once, chosen not to cut so deeply.

“These are not quite as good as my mother’s,” he says.

You snort softly before you can stop yourself. “I expected as much.”

“But,” he continues, the faintest trace of warmth returning to his tone, “they are close enough that I will forgive you.”

You arch a brow. “How generous of you.”

That earns it.

A quiet laugh from him- genuine, unforced, unmeasured. It slips out easily, like something he has not had to think about in far too long. The sound lingers between you, lighter than the air that carried it.

For a moment, the city below feels distant. Not gone. Just… less immediate.

“Stay,” he says after a beat.

He tilts his head slightly, extending another pastry toward you as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

You take it.

His fingers lift.

Careful. Unhurried. Not the hands of an assassin reaching for steel, but something quieter- something deliberately restrained. He takes your hand with a gentleness that feels almost at odds with everything else you know about him, as though he has chosen this exact moment to prove that not all of him is built for violence.

His thumb settles lightly against your knuckles.

And then he leans in.

The motion is slight, but intentional. Controlled in the way only someone trained to never waste movement can manage. His lips brush the back of your hand- not performative, not exaggerated, but steady, deliberate, unmistakably sincere.

A kiss.

When he pulls back, he does not immediately release you.

His eyes are still there when he looks up, close enough now that the world behind him blurs into soft gold and shadow.

“You did not have to do this,” he says.

His hand still rests around yours for a moment longer than necessary, as though letting go would make the moment less real than it already is. And Ezio does not seem in any hurry to move on from it.

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