Assassin's Creed X Reader One-shots

A Doctor's Care (Malik x Reader)

Sorry it took so long, but it's finally here! I hope this reaches your expectations ^^ RavenRainyBlack

**********************************

Another nightmare.

It must be. Why else would he be so restless whilst asleep?

You observe the patient carefully, ready for when he eventually woke, but as of right now, there wasn't much to be done except sit, watch, and occasionally clean the sweat from his sweltering forehead with a cold, damp rag.

What is he dreaming about, you can't help but silently wonder. Some past horror, undoubtedly, if his agitated jerks and fervent murmuring were anything at all to go by. Could it be of the same incident which had caused him to be in such an awful state? The name ‘Kadar' has been whimpered quite a few times over the past few days – a friend, perhaps?

It's been a little over a week now since he's been placed into your care but the patient has shown no indication of rousing to what can be defined as full consciousness. You first thought him to be dead when he was brought to the clinic, that's how severe his injuries had been, but fortunately, he seems to be healing. Not as fast as you'd like, but these things cannot be rushed. You've done everything even remotely possible in order to ensure his survival; cleaned him, bandaged him, stitched him, and provided more than enough pain medication to keep him comfortable. All that can be done now is wait, day after day, to see if he comes around.

Al Mualim never visits, which is not only strange, but you find his lack of concern and consideration for his men to be in poor taste. Occasionally a member of the Brotherhood will check in for an update on their brother's condition, but none ever stay for longer than they have to. It was rather upsetting, really. Surely this man must have someone in his life to care for him? A wife or girlfriend? Siblings? Anyone, besides yourself, that cares whether he lives or dies.

The other Assassin's that had dropped off this poor soul informed you that his name was Malik Al-Sayf, but little else was shared, leaving you to ponder over the unfortunate history of this handsome enigma.

He was an Assassin, that much was certain; you had initially confused their uniquely fashioned robes with the traditional garbs worn by scholars, but it soon dawned on you that no scholar would ever be armed so heavily. And it was only after accepting a contingent under your care did the term ‘Assassin' write itself into your vocabulary.

Dipping the cloth into a bowl of fresh water, you begin the daily routine of bathing him. Many of the smaller wounds had almost completely healed – scars would be left behind, but you highly doubt that would matter to this particular individual. His arm, however...you've cared for many patients who have had to have had limbs amputated, but this case was doubly upsetting. How was this going to effect his duties as an Assassin? Surely they wouldn't expect him to go out into the field, would they?

************

After a gruelling nine days clouded with tension and uncertainty, the patient shows signs of waking.

Securing the fresh set of bandages to his freshly amputated arm, strong, calloused fingers unexpectedly wrap around your wrist, keeping you firmly rooted to the spot.

Your eyes flicker over to his face in slight alarm, but also concern. His eyes are opened wide and unblinking, full of wariness and accusation. Clearly he has no recollection of how he came to be here, and is most likely trying to figure out whether you were there to help or one of the one's who helped facilitate his current condition. It was understandable that he chose to lash out like a frightened animal, but now you were forced to suffer the consequences of his unease.

“Please, calm down, Ustaaz Al-Sayf. I'm here to help you.” You attempt to soothe and reassure him, but it does nothing to loosen his grip, and you can't yank yourself free no matter how hard you try. More pressure is applied and the distinct crack of bones fills the compact space, and at this point, you're afraid he might break something in his distress.

“Who are you? How is it that you know my name?” He demands, voice hoarse from a weeks disuse, but still just as cold and deadly as you'd expect from a man of his profession.

Reluctant, and given no other choice, you place the thumb of your free hand against his amputation wound and press down. Hard.

Recoiling in pain, Malik releases his grip on your wrist, as expected, and stares up at you in a way that would have caused you to feel guilty had he not first provoked you. Giving your reddened wrist a soothing rub, you can only watch as Malik shuffles towards the edge of the bed, wincing and swearing incoherently with every movement.

“I would advise against that if I were you.” You warn, but make no physical attempt to stop him. “Please, stay in bed and-”

Too late.

As suspected, Malik had forcibly dragged his legs out from the tangle of blankets and attempted to stand. One. Two. Three. As if on cue, the extent of his injuries and several days of unconsciousness take effect, and his legs can no longer support his own weight, causing him to collapse upon the floor with a loud and sickeningly painful smack. 

Malik hisses after landing but seems to have lost some of his hostility on the way down. He remains sprawled across the stone, unmoving, repeatedly muttering expletives and glaring sullenly at the ground.

You can't help but comment, voice laden with disapproval. “I did try to warn you.”

The stubborn mule forces himself onto his back and you're left struggling against the urge to berate him for his lack of compliance; fresh blood soaks through the many bandages still wrapped around his torso, now you have to restitch, rebandage, and get him back onto the bed. How is it possible for one injured man to create so much havoc in the space of sixty seconds?

You suppose you shouldn't punish him too severely. After all, you've heard most Assassin's are born into the life and taught how to wield a blade at an exceptionally young age. It's only natural for this poor soul's first instinct to be fight.

However...now you were left with the difficult task of getting him back into bed. By yourself. Oh, joy.

You kneel on the ground before him, keeping your distance and both hands raised in a sign you meant no harm, thinking he may finally realise that you have not set out to intentionally cause him harm. “My name is (Y/N) and I'm a doctor - I've been tasked with taking care of you.”

Malik regards you with scepticism but doesn't object to having you help him off the floor – with great difficulty, you may add – and get him situated back in bed. The bowl of bloodied water and old bandages had gotten knocked off the bedside table in the process, but you'll clean that up later. At least the hard part was over.

“How are you?” You inquire politely, not wanting to aggravate him further.

He responds with a question of his own, “Where am I?”

For the first time, he examines his surroundings with a curious unease. It was only a quick sweep of the room, but you are fairly confident that, if asked, he could describe every single item in this room, down to the most microscopic of details.

Propping some pillows behind him, you help ease him into a comfortable sitting position. “In a small clinic – my clinic – just outside of Masyaf.”

“We have our own doctor at the castle.” He informs you with a slight edge to his voice, dark brows pulling together, the corners of his lips tugging down into a slight frown to emphasise his distaste. “Your help is completely unnecessary.”

The glass pitcher almost slips from your hands, but you manage to keep a firm grip at the last second. Well then. This one is definitely going to be a difficult patient. Too stubborn. Unwilling to accept a helping hand.

“If you do not require my assistance, then by all means, there is the door.” You tell him cattily, setting the pitcher down with more force than necessary. “You are not a prisoner here, Ustaaz Al-Sayf; many other patients are in need of a bed anyway.”

Did you take offence to his words? Certainly. And with good reason as well. Too many potential clients have previously turned their noses up, naively believing you to be nothing but some clueless woman. But over the years, you have more than proved how capable you were in this chosen profession, and have built up a rather impressive reputation amongst the community.

Surprise flickers across those dark eyes. Clearly he hadn't been anticipating such hostility, but if there's one thing you've come to learn since choosing to work in a male-dominated industry is not to accept disrespect just because of gender.

“I did not mean-”

“Yes you did mean.” You interrupt, stooping to clean up earliers mess. “But it's fine. I'm quite used to having my credibility questioned due to my being a woman.”

His gaze is intense, near penetrating, but at least he has the grace to look a little contrite.

Straightening up, you fix him with a hard stare. “I shall return presently with fresh bandages and a hot supper. After that, you are free to leave if you so wish.”

And with that you leave the room, leaving Malik to think about his behaviour like the bratty child he was impersonating whilst you spend the time checking up on the other patients and preparing this evening's supper.

Once everything had been taken care of, you return to the private bedroom upstairs with a fresh roll of bandages and steaming broth. The patient seems to have calmed down considerably in your absence, though now he appears burdened by another emotion: sorrow. You honestly don't know if this is better or worse.

“I brought you some broth,” you announce, shuffling towards the bed and setting the tray across his lap. “Are you in any pain?”

This afternoon's dose of pain medication should not have worn off just yet, but it felt necessary to ask seeing as how Malik has failed to shift his focus from the place his left arm used to be.

When he didn't respond, you spoke again. “I do apologise for not being able to save your arm; the state you were in when I first laid eyes upon you, well...you are lucky to be alive.”

There's a glimmer of pain in dark eyes but it disappears hastily behind his eyelids. “Lucky?” He mumbled, voice barely understandable despite the lack of noise in the vicinity. “Luck would have been me dying upon the surgical table.”

You watch him in silent desperation, mouth opening, wanting to console him in some way, only to close again and keep every sound locked away. Every patient had their own unique way of coping, and most of the time you are able to help with the healing process, but this time...

He was not a man that seemed dependent on anyone but himself; no amount of succour would ever truly be enough, or even accepted.

Easing into a wooden chair by the bed, you scoot closer in order to help him with his meal. “Allow me,” you say softly, holding a full spoon to his mouth.

But he blatantly ignores the offered spoon held pointedly in front of his face, thick brows coming together to form a frown. “I do not need to be fed like a child.”

Ah, the anger has returned.

The utensil is snatched from your grasp and the broth it held spills onto the blankets. Your brow twitches faintly, the irritation from earlier working its way back into your bloodstream.

“Are you deliberately creating unnecessary work for me?”

“It is your job, is it not?” He retorts haughtily, proceeding to try and feed himself, ignoring your frustrated attempts to help.

With a sigh you lean back in your seat, watching and waiting patiently, counting down the seconds until he creates an even bigger mess. “My job is to help those in need, Ustaaz Al-Sayf, not serve the wants of an inconsiderate churl.”

Ah, and there was your prediction becoming a reality; broth spilled onto the exposed area of his bandaged chest due to the unsteady tremble of his hand, causing him to swear, profusely.

“Why is this so hot? You are deliberately setting out to do me harm.”

“Oh, for heaven's sake!” You release a harsh puff of breath and snatch the spoon from his hand. “I cannot believe you actually convinced yourself that I had sabotaged the broth to burn you. Impossible. Simply impossible...and idiotic.”

The scowl from earlier this afternoon drags its way back onto his face but he appears to have run out of abuse for now.

You take a much needed moment to regain composure before trying again. “I know this is not ideal – for either of us – but you need to eat, and you're far too weak to feed yourself, so...let me help you. Please.”

Though he looks close to throwing another tantrum, he keeps all commentary to himself and begrudgingly allows you to feed him. For the time being.

***************

Things had been going relatively better than expected.

Malik has proved that there's more to him than simply unadulterated angst and rage; there were still times when he could be harsh and abrupt, but once receiving a scolding, he is all too quick to apologise for such rudeness – and you forgive him every time. The loyalty he possesses knows no bounds, and you're fairly confident there isn't another man wiser throughout the Levant.

As had become the nightly routine, you wished the other patients pleasant dreams before balling up the front of your chemise and scurrying upstairs in a flurry of excitement, eager to hear more of Malik's tales. The man had lived quite an extraordinary life, at least you always thought so. He took the Creed and its tenets rather seriously; such unwavering devotion was just as admirable as it was worrisome, though you keep such thoughts to yourself. But when he wasn't speaking of the Creed, he would relax, even smile, and speak of all his favourite literature; books had never taken up refuge within your heart, but whenever Malik would recite a sonnet or text, it was as though the angels themselves were speaking.

However, Malik still kept you firmly at arms length whenever the question of what happened the night you took him into your care would arise. There was a constant glaze of sorrow and despair contained within those dark eyes during the short intervals between conversation, which you did your best at erasing by offering another topic to discuss.

It was upsetting to be kept at a distance, never allowed to fully submerse in his unrivalled beauty; forbidden to see the damage dealt to his fractured soul and admonished for extending a helping hand. But in all honesty, it was probably better that way – you were supposed to look after him, not get swept up by his good looks and native wit. And yet, you find yourself thinking about him constantly; before work, during work, after work...there wasn't a single moment when the man was occupying your mind.

But you already know how this relationship will end. In a few days time, he'll be well enough to make it on his own again, and he'll run off back to the Creed he was so devoted to, leaving you behind without so much as a single thought.

You knew this and yet you still were not prepared for that day.

You pull up a chair and settle by his side, eager for another narrative.  “What tale have you for me tonight?”

But something was different.

At first glance nothing appeared out of place, but when Malik angled his head towards your location and the candlelight illuminated his bronze skin...you knew something was definitely wrong.

“You're crying.”

And it was a sight capable of breaking your heart – even more so when catching him discreetly attempting to wipe the tears away. But you catch his wrist, preventing him from completely scrubbing away the evidence of his sadness. If he was crying now then it was imperative he continue and not keep such crippling negativity contained.

“Did something happen?”

“It is nothing you need worry about.” The words were a broken whisper. “A childish nightmare. Nothing else.”

“You don't have to put on a brave face for me, Malik.” You say softly, expression serious. “I'm here to listen.”

Those dark, soulful eyes search your own (colour) orbs for a few seconds before you're caught off guard by an onslaught of fresh tears. What torment could he have suffered that was strong enough to reduce him to such despair?

Plucking a kerchief from the drawer, you are quick to dab at the corners of his eyes, and for a worrisome change, he doesn't refuse your help.

“Kadar.”

That one word contains the same agony as that of a thousand tortured souls.

Pain etches itself deep into the slight crinkles of his face – a harsh testament to the amount of time spent slaving away under Masyaf’s scornful sun. He bites down on his lip with enough force to tear the skin, a spill of crimson escaping the small slit and getting swept up with a flick of his tongue.

You ease the blanket from his white-knuckled grip and tuck it back around his waist, ensuring to smooth out any wrinkles. You don't want to ask and risk upsetting him further, but it's an unfortunate necessity if you're to help with the healing process. “Is Kadar a friend of yours?”

At first you believed he had chosen to ignore you. That speaking was far too painful. But then he raised his head, wide and unfocused eyes hovering in your direction. “Brother...he was my brother.”

Was?

You regard him with confusion for a moment, brows knitting together, until realisation quickly dawns in your (colour) eyes. You open your mouth to speak but hastily closes it without uttering a word, pain written across your face. Closing your eyes for a moment, your shoulders slump.

“I'm so sorry.” You bow your head as way of apology. “I never meant...I shan’t say another word.”

He offers a rigid shake of his head and wave of the hand to stop you. “It is fine.” It comes out as a mumble. He tries convincing you that he wasn't as shaken as he initially made out, but the smile he wears fails to reach his eyes.

You pour a glass of water and hold it to his mouth, helping him drink. “You know...this is a safe place, Malik; anything you say won't ever leave this room. And, well...I happen to be a good listener.”

The sadness returned to his eyes and his body slumped into the pillows, almost as though he were awaiting confirmation to be upset. “Altaïr,” he growled, a vicious sound similar to that of a rabid dog. “If not for Altaïr, my brother would still be alive!”

Altaïr. Yes, you were quite familiar with the man despite having only a single encounter, but he was the type of person who left a lasting impression – a horrible one. You can still vividly recall the arrogant air constantly swirling around his swaggering form, scarred lips frozen in a permanent smirk, and golden orbs overflowing with superiority. It was a miracle that you had managed to heal him and send him on his way without poisoning him – the thought had most certainly crossed your mind more than once.

“He did not heed my warning; all the chaos could have been avoided had he not been so arrogant. And my brother...my brother would still be alive!”

The man shatters before your very eyes like a clay pot. The slight crack of his voice summons tears to your eyes, as does the sob being forced back down his throat.

You should remember your place; he was the patient, you the doctor. All that should be offered was a kerchief and words of sympathy. And yet...you find yourself unable to physically walk away. You want to be the one to console him. To take care of him. To take away the pain. You want to be the only one there for him...with him.

Before you can mull over the consequences, you are already crawling onto the bed and ushering Malik into a comforting embrace; one hand cups the back of his neck whilst the other rests on the back of his head, fingers knotting in short black hair.

He clings to you the same way trees cling to the Earth. In his hour of need, you were his saving grace. His rock. The one he trusted enough to reveal his true self to. 

Knowing he trusted you so impeccably made your heart soar.

In a way, you felt guilty. This man was suffering, currently sobbing in your arms, and yet you were happy. No, wait. Sorry, no, not happy. It was more a sense of...privilege. It was a privilege to be in his life.

“I promised! I promised Kadar he'd always be safe with me!”

Malik wailed in anguish, the words barely understandable between bouts of gasping breaths and mucus-laced sniffles.

You said nothing. What could you say? An apology would mean nothing, and you knew little else of what had happened between these men. So you did the only thing you could do – you held him. You provided the strength he no longer had but so desperately needed. And it was then, in that moment, that it struck you hard and fast.

You had fallen in love with this man.

***************

Malik spends the next fortnight recuperating until he was back on his feet and all too ready to move on with his life. 

Your entire world had crumbled when a member of the Brotherhood arrived one morning, a perfectly rolled parchment in their possession, addressed to none other than your patient tucked safely away upstairs. It was good news, according to Malik; the fear he held for his position was all for naught, and rather than spend his life wallowing in self-pity away from prying eyes, he was to move on to Jerusalem, where he would be assigned the role of Dai.

You watch, failing to keep the tears at bay, whilst Malik prepares a horse for travel. He struggles to attach the saddle bags, but your offer to help is denied - he's adamant about proving himself capable.

He soon approaches, black djellaba fluttering around his legs with each long and powerful stride; you had sewn the left sleeve to the shoulder to keep it from dangling uselessly by his side and getting in the way. You had failed to notice how tall he was until he stood before you, lips pulling back into a tiny smile.

“Thank you for all you have done for me.”

You attempt to smile but it doesn't quite work out how you had planned. You should be happy for him, or at least convince him that you weren't completely miserable at his leaving – after all, it's not every day that someone is granted a second chance. But his new gain was your loss. And you never learned how to handle loss.

Concern rises in dark eyes and a strong hand comes to a rest upon your shoulder. “You are unhappy; did I leave behind a mess?”

You laugh, despite yourself, but it's short-lived. “No. No, you left the room immaculate, as though you weren't even in there.” And he never will be again.

“Then I do not understand...”

The space between you both decreases slightly as he takes a small step forward. “It's nothing you need to concern yourself with, Malik. I'm happy for you. Really.”

“I do not doubt you are happy for me, but something else is clearly bothering you.”

Damn him. You would blame the Brotherhood for teaching such frightening astuteness, but you knew such a talent belonged only to him. The man treated you as though you were one of his novels – easily flip open the pages and immediately understand what was happening from a line or two.

The slight pressure applied to your shoulder does not go unnoticed, and neither does the rare tenderness glimmering beneath his lashes. “I don't want you to leave.”

The words had left the safety of your mouth without permission, yet surprisingly, you did not regret them. Perhaps, a small and naive part of you believed he would stay were you to tell him the truth. But that was just childish fantasy. The wants of a lovesick fool.

It is difficult to know how he feels about your confession for his expression remains the same. But then he says exactly what you knew he would.

“I can not abandon my Creed, (Y/N). If that is what you are asking of me, I am afraid I cannot-”

“I would never ask that of you, Malik,” you interject. “Please do not think of me as being so selfish. I...I only wished to express how much you have come to mean to me over this past month. I know I would eventually would come to regret staying silent.”

Something flickers in his eyes and his shoulders sag. “Revelations are frivolous when one no longer has the time to act upon them.” His eyes lock with yours. “But if this is to be our last encounter, then I feel it necessary to confess that I, too, have come to develop affections for you.”

Hearing those words causes something within you to snap, and for the first time in your life, you allow your heart to make a decision. “Then why can we not stay together? I have not felt this way about anyone before and I fear the outcome of a future without you in it.”

His hand falls from your shoulder only to grasp your own hand a second later. “(Y/N)...”

You can see the battle currently happening in his eyes – you were making this difficult for him, but there had to be something in life worth fighting for, and Malik was it.

“My Creed does not allow-”

“It does not allow abandonment, I know, but I am not speaking of doing such a thing.”

“Then what are you speaking of?”

You didn't hesitate. “Let me come with you.”

That managed to take him by surprise. “Come with me?” It sounded as though the words were foreign to him. “But what of your clinic? Your work?”

You took hold of his hand, trapping it in between your own. “I can start up again in Jerusalem; and I will not be fit for work when I am going to be constantly tormented by the knowledge of losing you. Malik, please.”

He didn't say a word and you were forced to suffer in silence, obsessing over the multiple ways he could reject your pleas. But to your surprise and absolute delight, he agreed.

“I have already lost the one person I loved more than anything in this lifetime – I do not wish to lose another.” He raised his hand to cup your cheek, making you smile. “I must leave for Jerusalem today, but I shall prepare a room for you.”

Excitement, joy, elation, all these emotions coursed through your veins at once, shaking you to the core. Without thinking, your lips forced themselves onto his, but you were pulling away before he could even react.

It was rather amusing to see him look so dumbfounded.

“This is...thank you!”

He smiled in a way you never deemed possible. “No, thank you, (Y/N). I have gone through life with the belief that the Brotherhood was my only purpose. But you have given me another.”

Words cannot adequately recount the nature and complexity of the affection that passed between the pair of you in that single look. But it was enough to tell you that you were going to be by his side forever.