[AC Syndicate] first impressions: notorious (Jacob x Reader OC) 2/?

[onewhoturns]

A/N Jan 2019: This was written considering the alternative POV presented in meek.
A/N: Oh god this fic is all over the place. Not the story, just the process. Posting everything in second person on AO3 and third person on FFnet. All over the place. Always looking for comments, reviews, reactions, thoughts, feedback. After writing the first chapter of this I ended up continuing it, and have had a good time naming each chapter based on... well, y'know, first impressions; the label one protag places on another based on the events of the chapter. I named the series first and then decided on the chapter naming method, but I like it. Anyway...

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Series Title: first impressions
Chapter: 2/?
Chapter Title: notorious
Pairing: Jacob Frye/Reader OC
Word count: 3654
Rating: T
Story summary: You’d never found violence particularly attractive. But you had to admit… it looked good on him.
start here (brute pt 1), previously (brute pt 2), next (mad and maddening)

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“Not saying you want trouble, are you?”

You kept your eyes on the ground, slowing your pace. They were only a bit further up the way, and you didn’t dare look to see just who it was. Small posture, meek affect, you blended in to the background, shifting further and further right until you’d ducked into an entryway of a shop, as though reading the bills posted in the windows. You could still hear the Blighters, the soft repetitive noise of hands pushing their victim back and forth, the way you’d seen them do before.

“Look here, I have customers that-”

“Shut it.” The demand went hand in hand with a thick thudding slap of skin on skin, a cry of pain. “Thought we made it clear that you’d be going through the Blighters from now on. You want your shipments coming and going safe and sound like, you hire us.”

The man’s voice was hissed, but apparently more from anger than pain. “Your prices are exorbitant. You know what that means? It means you charge too damn much-” His voice was cut off by a thump and sudden whimper.

“You want your goods to stay good?”

“You’re mad.” He was wheezing, but clearly hadn’t given up. “The whole bloody lot of you.”

Breath was frozen in your chest as you heard a new voice speak up, and you pressed yourself as far into the little alcove as you could, damning your stupid skirts, trying to remember just how many Blighters had been ahead of you. Three? Four? If you turned to leave now, there was no way they wouldn’t see you. Hopefully they’d be heading away the opposite direction.

“You know why they call her Bloody Nora?” You did.

Someone spat, and based on the sudden noise of blades being drawn, you assumed it was the merchant. His choked and muffled wail of pain seemed to support that theory as well.

“This is a warning. Next time, it will be two. Then three. Tell me: would you prefer to start with them all on the left, or alternate hands?”

Quick wet gasps hissed through clenched teeth, and you were fairly sure you knew precisely what had happened. Your pulse hammered high and tight in your throat, trying not to picture the assuredly gruesome mess that would be the man’s left hand. Everything had faded to a muted wash of colour as you focused on staying small, quiet, and still. And conscious. That would be ideal. Keep breathing. Don’t faint.

In an instant there was a shing of metal on metal, followed by a wet gurgle. A cry of surprise from someone other than the Blighters’ victim. You found yourself resting a hand against the wall behind you, trying to stay on your feet. You’d never been this close to such a skirmish, not something so lethal.

“What-”

Thuds and cracks and the briefest noises of struggle, all culminated in at least one body falling to the ground. You doubted a single Blighter remained conscious -- or even breathing.

“Thank- ...thank you.”

There was a piercing whistle and you quickly turned your face further from the noise to peer through the closed shop window as the clatter of hooves filled the street behind you, obscuring the words spoken in a low murmur from where the merchant had voiced his thanks. A few more noises you could reasonably interpret as a man with nine fingers entering a hastily-called carriage, and that very same carriage being driven away posthaste, and then all seemed to have settled.

Excepting not two minutes later when a lady’s shriek pierced the air.

Your eyes fluttered closed with frustration as you once more steeled yourself to leave your hiding place. You’d finally gotten your bearings, and now there was the (disconcertingly) usual hubub about the brand new corpses in the street.

Christ, how was this the usual now?

Chewing at your bottom lip, you clenched fingers in the the fabric at your sides as you slipped back out and down the street the way you’d come, not even glancing back to the scene of the crime. You didn’t want to see it. A little inconvenience to retrace your steps a few blocks and take a different route seemed like a small price to pay for a moment of blissful ignorance.

You’d barely gone half a block when gunshots rang out through the air, quickly followed by the hysterical whinnying of terrified carriage horses, and the thundering racket as traffic surged one way or another, utter chaos sprouting from the direction you’d planned on detouring.

Again? More of this? You couldn’t deny the surge of sheer disappointment. What a way to spend your day off, watching your city be terrorised by gang violence.

Well, what else was there to do but turn a blind eye, pivot on your heel and head down the nearest back alley in the hopes of cutting through to an area a bit less criminally inclined.

You hadn’t expected to see him again so soon.

“Hello hello.” His smile was at a shockingly low smirk-to-grin ratio, apparently recognising you immediately despite having barely met your eyes before you’d looked away.

“Mr. Frye.” The words were low, demure, delivered with a soft nod as you tried so hard to maintain your appearance of ‘too boring to bother with’ while in the crowded streets. It was somehow easier and more difficult in such surroundings, mostly difficult when trying to move.

Even as you ducked your head and passed by into the alley, the man fell into step with you easily.

“Enjoying the city this fine afternoon?”

Flicking your gaze to his face, you immediately noted his cheeky smirk was back. A fine afternoon, indeed. Was he enjoying this chaos? “Hm.” You quickly glanced back to the ground, a sardonic thread weaving through your otherwise mildly murmured words, almost silent under your breath. “Yes, well, can’t go wrong with a bit of murder and mayhem, can you?”

You hadn’t said it for his ears, but if his bark of laughter was anything to go by, he’d heard you loud and clear regardless. “No you certainly cannot,” he mused, shoving hands into the pockets of his coat as he smiled up to the sky.

Steps faltering, you let Mr. Frye move on without you, dropping away and allowing yourself to stare fully at his back once he wasn’t looking. There was that nagging suspicion, newly taken root, that he was far closer to this issue than you’d initially anticipated. And that just wouldn’t do. You wanted as far away from this danger as possible.

Turning silently, you began to head back toward the street, once more running - or, well, determinedly strolling - away from your problems, slipping on the camouflage with which you’d become so adept.

It was either too late, or your tricks simply didn’t work so well on horses or the humans driving them, because you were very nearly trampled into the cobbles by an oncoming carriage, driven by a woman in Rook greens. The shout of surprise was startling, as was the heavy hand grasping your shoulder and hauling you out of the street, but you swallowed the squeak of shock that tried to escape your throat, eyes going wide instead, heart suddenly far too loud in your ears as the vehicle passed inches from your face, the driver letting out a stream of curses.

“Oi! An apology!”

It took you a second to regain your faculties, but you very quickly pulled away from the man’s grip, taking a few shaky steps back and away even as you heard the carriage slowing. It was only a few feet up the road when the driver called back toward you: “Apologies, Mr. Frye. Miss.”

Blinking back to your senses, you watched this Jacob Frye with a hastily guarded gaze. They knew him. They respected him. And that could mean nothing good. Your words were low and verging on a mumble as your eyes hit the pavement again. “Thank you, sir. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” You were several feet down the road before you looked up once more.

You’d known something was off. Usually, the method that let you melt away, it had a feeling. Like floating in lukewarm water -- not particularly pleasant, but comforting nonetheless. And it was conspicuously absent.

Three Blighters stood at the corner you approached, and you were far too aware that they could see you. Not only could they see you; they were actively noticing. It was an experience you’d tried to avoid, and for it to be happening now of all times, piling misfortune upon misfortune, had you quite cross. You stumbled over your own feet, slowing your pace, and watched cautiously as the woman on point straightened, something sparking in her eyes that made you incredibly uneasy.

The Blighter hardly taken one step closer before all three of them stiffened, posture adjusting to something more defensive, eyes all moving at once to stare past you.

“Please, Miss. Allow me to escort you home.”

You didn’t look away from the three Blighters, even as you felt him coming up behind you. Oh this was bad. Very very bad. Respected by Rooks, feared by Blighters -- and now he’d somehow marked you out as well? You craved the safety of anonymity again. But it didn’t seem to be in the cards.

“Mr. Frye…” The hair on the back of your neck stood on end as you risked turning your back to the gang members so you might gracefully decline the man’s offer. He wasn’t looking at you, staring instead with a hard challenge in his gaze at the red-clad toughs, lips a small grim smile. Christ, he was going to get himself killed with an attitude like that.

After a moment of hesitation, you tried to stifle your exasperated sigh. “Fine.”

He’d already taken an imposing step toward the Blighters when you grabbed at his sleeve, tightening your grip on his forearm into something resembling an appropriate escorting position, planting your feet as you might to hold back a particularly snappish dog. Heat rose to your cheeks at the familiarity of the action, and the motion itself seemed enough to snap Mr. Frye from his predatory glare, instead glancing to you with surprise. “I’m quite fond of this dress; I’d hate to see it bloodied,” you explained drily, shooting him a sharp look.

Apparently your presence on his arm curtailed any more violent impulses, as he settled for a sharp-toothed warning smirk at the gang who silently drifted out of your path so the two of you might pass.

You didn’t breathe until the trio was a full block behind you, and when you did you quickly dropped his arm. “You’re a madman, Mr. Frye.” It was hard to cover the irritation in your tone.

He was grinning. “Call me Jacob.”

You stopped short, just barely stopping yourself putting your hands on your hips like you used to when dealing with younger children. “I most certainly will not.”

His lips pursed, and you were about 80% sure he was trying not to laugh at you, his eyes bright and jaw twitching.

You glared right back, heart rate still uncomfortably high, still thoroughly shaken from the morning’s events. “I can’t believe you’d drag me into something like this,” you grumbled, stabbing a finger into his chest accusingly. “You don’t even know me!”

There was no way for him to hide the smirk hooking up the corner of his mouth as he glanced down at you (and he wasn’t even that much taller, damn it, how could he manage an expression like that), raising an amused brow. “Careful, love, don’t want to attract any unwanted attention.”

At his teasing warning your posture adjusted automatically, pulling away, adopting that bland and proper facade you were all too used to, though your suspicious glare didn’t lessen a bit. “You seem to do more than enough of that for the both of us.”

He surveyed the area calmly, and you thought you sensed a flash in his gaze, like he was looking with more than just his eyes, before they rested on you again, clear. His cocky attitude had mellowed a bit, tempered with the smallest dash of humility. “And I do apologise for that,” he inclined his head graciously.

Good.

“...But as it seems the damage is done, it’s only proper I ensure your safe return home. Please.”

You chewed your lip, eyes still narrowed at the man even as traffic began to flow as usual once more, the two of you melting into the bustle of the streets again. That feeling of liquid anonymity was comforting, though you felt the smallest seam in it -- the smallest exception being made for the man who stood before you. Still, you were lost to the crowd. Perhaps that was why you relented. “No fighting,” you insisted, strictly. “No brawls, no scrapes, and dear god no carriage chases.”

“You think so little of me…” He shook his head with a chuckle. “Fine;” he smirked, “No fun.” The laugh was louder at your affronted expression. “I kid, I kid-- just a walk, no trouble.”

There was a long silence as you resumed your stroll back to your employer’s residence, your brow furrowed at the ground. You hadn’t initially planned to return so early, but at this point…

“...Breathe, love, you’re alright.” Mr. Frye’s words were a murmur - chosen to be comforting, you assumed - and you suspected he felt some guilt for his teasing.

Heat rushed up your neck, colouring your cheeks, though it was mostly discomfort that he’d assume you’d need such a thing. Was it that obvious, how rattled you were? “It’s never been this bad before. Not in my experience. Not here,” you admitted quietly, voice hard with firmly controlled anxiety. “If it was Southwark or Whitechapel, the waterfront - hell, even Lambeth I might understand…” But this was the City proper, this was wide boulevards and middle-class homes, and more proper stores than factories. You had come here thinking it would be safer.

“Always darkest before day dawns and all that.”

How could he be so flippant? You hummed your ambivalence, and your words came out a dry murmur, more to yourself than to him. “One must wonder who on earth said that and how they could possibly believe it true.”

There was a soft huff of laughter before the two of you settled into a brief - and surprisingly amiable - silence. His voice was a curious half-accusation when he spoke again. “You’re not from Southwark.”

You shot him a sidelong glance, willing to set aside your worries for his offered distraction. “I’m not?” Mild innocence coloured your tone, even as you felt a touch of reluctant amusement at the statement. He was right, of course. But you certainly weren’t born on these streets. You’d sooner claim Southwark your home than the City borough.

“You don’t sound like you’re from Southwark,” he amended.

Ma would be so proud. A fleeting glance up and you looked away soon after catching his eyes. Had anyone ever watched you with such unabashed interest before? You didn’t think you’d ever let them. It was… not as bad as you’d expected. “Neither do you,” you pointed out, loftily.

“‘Cos I’m not.” He was smirking - though he always was, wasn’t he? Always entertained by something or other. “Crawley.”

You raised doubtful brows. He may not have the same practiced diction you’d cultivated, but there was a bit of it in his speech. Then again you hadn’t met many people from outside of London.

“...And my father imposed elocution on us.” There was a sheepish tilt to his grin, speech almost mockingly affected as he rolled his eyes.

“Us?” Your interest was polite but genuine as you glanced up again, watching him in profile from under lowered lashes. In a moment you wondered what this Mr. Frye had been like as a boy. Not an older member of the family, surely. A younger brother or cousin. He reminded you too much of those younger children -- hungry mouths and grabby hands, too impatient and too reckless, the ones you’d been stuck keeping in line.

“My sister and me.” He’d been watching the walk before them, but now he turned to catch your eyes again and you once more quickly looked away. “You’d like her.”

You hadn’t expected the warmth in his tone. If you hadn’t seen him pummel twenty men you would’ve scoffed at how quick he was to trust, how dangerous it was to be so familiar, so open with strangers. But he could clearly take care of himself. You wondered if this was how Emma felt walking with William -- shielded in a bubble of bizarre safety. For once you’d stopped scanning for gang colours, and you hadn’t even realised it. Stupid. You shouldn’t trust so easily.

...Still. It was hard to remind yourself to be on edge, your tone coming out more playfully teasing than you’d intended. “And how would you know what I’d like, Mr. Frye?” Were you flirting ? You very well might be, now that you thought on it. Damn it. Emma would be absolutely delighted.

He chuckled. “Fine: she’d like you. That bit you do -- your little disappearing act.”

Suspicious eyes darted to the man at your side, his hands suddenly thrust deep in his pockets as he turned an unassuming gaze to the sky in a show of innocence. “Hm.” You pursed your lips, finding it far easier to watch him, to study a face built for impudence, when he wasn’t watching you right back. “It hasn’t seemed to be working as of late,” you deadpanned.

A grin flashed before he tamed it to something more appropriately reserved. “If you’re referring to me, I am honoured. And I can assure you: I’m an outlier.”

Mmhm. Right. “I’m sure you like to think of yourself as one.” You couldn’t help the smirk that teased at the corners of your mouth, your words overly sweet with the smallest bite of condescension.

“First the accent and now I can’t quite pinpoint the attitude either.” It was a playful accusation, only making your smirk more prominent.

You could practically feel your tongue sharpening, and it was delightful. “Don’t all RP accents come with instilled superiority?” Your eyes flicked over the man at your side, teasing, intrigued by this reading he was attempting.

“Yes, but born int-” He stopped himself, fingers snapping at the air in sudden epiphany. “Nevermind, I’ve got it.”

“Oh you have, have you?” It was more smile than smirk now, brows lifted in playful challenge.

“Working in a house like that, it’s most definitely a requirement to have a bit of holier-than-thou,” he jibed, and you shot him an admonishing look. “The question is only which came first: the job or the accent.”

Teeth nipped at your lip as you tried not to smile. A touch of wicked glee coloured your lofty response. “First impressions are important, Mr. Frye, but they can be deceiving. For instance: my first impression of you included the word gentleman.”

A very ungentlemanly snort passed his throat, but he otherwise ignored the barb. “So: born in Southwark, picked up the RP for a job?”

“If you like.” You had to feel a bit smug: you hid your roots well. “What about you?” you redirected, “What brought you here from Crawley?”

“A--” He cocked his head, as though amused by how he might answer the question, finally settling on: “A job.”

Oh how vague. You shot him the incredulous look such a response deserved. He just grinned.

“Well…” The word was low and drawn out, somehow both relenting and cajoling at the same time; half sheepish and all too charming. “Doesn’t every young man deserve a chance to seek his fortune?”

“A fortune gained by stealing from bankers’ wives?” You proposed, scepticism colouring your otherwise innocent tone.

His lips made a half-considering pout, as he shrugged. “A fortune gained alongside the glory of prizefighting?” he suggested.

“And the Blighters chasing after your carriage, that’s part of... the prize fights?”

“Ah.” Now he really did look sheepish. At least a bit. “Well, no,” he admitted. “But I can assure you that cargo found a much nicer home.”

Your face snapped to fix narrowed eyes on your companion. “Cargo?” When you’d seen him he’d been on a coach, no cargo in sight.

The crooked smile was back. Like a child caught lying. “...When was this?”

“This happens regularly for you?” Right. Of course. Mr. Frye had that charming roguish air - you already knew of his sticky fingers - of course he was a full-time thief. How could you have ever let yourself forget it.

“A man’s got to keep food on the table, Miss.”

You shook your head, bemused. “Thievin’ and boxin’ does that for you, then?”

“Ha!” He jabbed a finger towards you in sudden triumph, pulling his gesture back just before he would actually touch you, hand curling into a fist as though suddenly remembering to hold back any violence near your person. “That, there it is.”

“What?” You had to admit it was a bit entertaining, seeing this quick turn of joy.

“‘What’--” He scoffed. “There’s the streets in you.” Again he jabbed, but kept his hands close to himself, a polite distance away even when he obviously wished to point out his success in the most blatant manner possible.

There was no hiding the smirk that quickly morphed into a grin as you shook your head, glancing to your feet, trying to reprimand yourself. After a moment, catching the smug smirk of your companion in the corner of your vision, you trained your face to something a bit more subdued. Still, a wry smile curled your lips. “You’re a bad influence, Mr. Frye.”

His grin was sharp and wolfish and incredibly self-satisfied: “Oh, very.”