Assassin's Creed X Reader One-shots

Moonlight Visitor

This is dedicated to my dear friend ScreechingLife

I really hope you enjoy this, Kammy~! Stay awesome~♡

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Clean, crisp sheets – fantastically soft and delicate against your skin – are a delightful pleasure after a strenuous day of attempting to carry the mountainous pile of shit people tend to force upon your unwillingly shoulders.

Yet despite the persistent niggling of tiredness clawing at the backs of your eyelids, sleep insisted on remaining infuriatingly out of reach, damning you to the gruelling process of laying awake and obsessing over every mistake you've made since adolescence. Your mind churns, as does your stomach, causing irritable tossing and turning to ensue.

After trying every position humanly possible, it was painfully clear that this would be yet another night of sleeplessness. Oh, well. Might as well find a constructive way to kill time until morning.

Throwing back the paisley duvet which had become an inconvenience in the past half an hour compared to the pleasure it had been earlier, you find yourself automatically drawn to the kitchen – the room had always been a place of solace whenever life took it upon itself to screw you over in the cruellest ways imaginable.

“Mm, leftover pizza.”

You were vaguely aware of the fact that you presently shared the characteristics of a cartoon character; imaginary hearts dancing in circles around your head whilst drool practically drips from your lips like a leaky faucet.

Just as you've seated yourself at the table and taken a rather large bite, an uninvited guest makes their presence known in the living room; they are consumed by the shadows that currently occupy the room, but instinctively you are aware of the identity of this midnight intruder.

Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad, aka ‘White Death’.

Over the past few months, you've grown accustomed to the man's impulsive appearances; normally he'd pop in – a polite way of saying ‘break in' – around dinnertime with an arrogant air and cocky smirk. He'd criticize whatever it was you'd be having for dinner that night before proceeding to pick at your plate without permission. He would then snoop for a while when he believed you were no longer paying attention, then vacate through the window without so much as a goodbye. But his appearance tonight was somewhat unnerving. The mask usually worn in order to conceal his identity was nowhere in sight, allowing you to see the dishevelment of his person; short hair was in disarray and matted with drying blood and ash, bronze skin was tainted by still darkening bruises and open wounds, scorch marks had eaten through parts of his clothing.

“Altaïr?” You enquire, shocked.

“You keep bandages in the bathroom, right?”

He dismisses whatever concern you have for his wellbeing and staggers through the apartment, left leg dragging slightly. The empty glass from earlier that morning is knocked onto the rug as hobbles by into the bathroom, and, regrettably, you mentally utter an array of colourful expletives over the amount of blood he had smeared throughout the place in a matter of seconds.

You make a beeline for the bathroom, cleaning up whatever blood there was along the way with a wet tea towel. Altaïr has taken up position on the toilet – with the lid down, fortunately – and was in the process of removing the clothes covering his upper body. 

You lounge negligently against the door frame and observe him carefully. “Do I get to know what happened?”

He looks up briefly, “No.”