A/N: Assassin's informants may be one of my lowkey fav tropes (shoutout my girl Juliet!!!). Anyway.
The little stall near the front gate sells some of the best figs. It also offers one of the most opportune ways of listening to Templar gossip - even if only from the soldiers. Information that has become a valuable asset to Jerusalem's new dai. Information that you hope puts you in his good graces, or what's left of them.
With figs secured in a pack at your waist, you make your way across Jerusalem's rooftops before dropping quietly into the bureau. Water trickles softly in the fountains near your feet, and a quill scribbles just audibly enough against parchment to confirm Malik isn't preoccupied with an assassin.
"Dai," you greet, removing the pack from your waist.
"What news?"
You hide a frown, Malik's immediate attention to business halting any attempt at lighter conversation.
"Soldiers are complaining about increased patrols, rooftops included. I have already noticed a larger number of men stationed around the southwest corner of the city."
Malik's hand becomes a fist as a frustrated sigh falls from his lips.
"Fig?"
Malik glares, but accepts your offering. He's barely had any sleep, between the pain, the nightmares, and the grief. You don't know half his story, but you've seen the man work with tears in his eyes, and you've seen him rattled awake with his arm grasping the other shoulder.
"Is there anything I can do?"
"Stay out of trouble. I get enough of it from everyone else." Your eyes meet his dark brown ones and are taken aback by the tired humor that you find in them.
"I'll try."
"Good.'
You laugh quietly, taking a handful of the figs and moving to make the pillows on the ground in the room opposite his workspace a suitable bed for the night.
*
You hiss upon Malik's contact with your wounded skin. Dried blood sticks to your face with frustrating abundance, courtesy of the end of a saber and the blood of a civillian whom you tried to assist.
"What is the point of me telling people things if they don't listen?"
You blink, wondering if you should remind the assassin currently tending to your wound that you're currently the patient and you aren't in the mood for a lecture.
Malik stops, his hand resting gently against your cheek, forcing his thumb into stillness as the urge to affectionately roll it against your skin only grows with his lengthy period of close proximity.
"Malik." His name is breathy on your lips, your eyes too warm and inviting, and it's too much. His lips brush your forehead with a delicate confession hanging in the air.
"You are not meant to come in here with blood on your hands."
Your eyes soften, raising your hand to cover his that still rests against your cheek.
"That's someone else's dirty work, is it?"
"As long as you have your safety, I will have some semblance of peace," he answers with an almost playful tug at the corner of his lips.