[AC Syndicate] first impressions: mad and maddening (Jacob x Reader OC) 3/?

[onewhoturns]

A/N Jan 2019: Whoops sorry, couldn't avoid it anymore; OC gets a name and I apologize for that, I assume some won't be a fan of the choice. But damn I loved writing this chapter. Got me out of a real emotional slump to be honest. I know it doesn't directly follow the last chapter (there are a few days in between), but I wanted to write it so I did and then I wanted to share it so... I did.

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Series Title: first impressions
Chapter: 3/?
Chapter Title: mad and maddening
Pairing: Jacob Frye/Reader OC
Word count: 4907
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 (notorious)

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He was waiting for you as you entered your mistress’s room. Grinning. “Lizzie.”

You froze for just a moment before quickly stepping in and closing the door behind you, frowning. You tried to keep your voice even, if edged with wariness, a plethora of thoughts suddenly buzzing in your head. “...Mr. Frye.” Why was he here? How did he know your name? What was he-- oh god -- Your heart leapt to your throat with a rush of anxiety, eyes widening before you glared. “You could’ve been caught,” you hissed, stepping forward, glancing around the room as if you might spot something amiss. “I could’ve been anyone!”

How dare he laugh like that. “No you couldn’t have.”

Nothing out of place, save for the open window -- no drawers disturbed or trunks left open. It didn’t mean he hadn’t stolen something. Maybe something small? You took another step toward him, scanning his person quickly, checking for suspicious glints of jewelry or trinkets spilling from his pockets-- damn it, why did that stupid top hat suit him so well? “Yes I could,” you insisted, crossly. Christ, why were you worried for him -- your job was on the line, too, if things went missing, and that meant the roof over your head and the food in your belly.

His step forward was quick and quieter than you would’ve expected from a man of his build. The fingers - skin and the leather edges of his glove - brushing your chin made you jump then freeze as he lifted your face, watching you with amusement. “No.” His voice was a low murmur and he was far closer than he should be, his eyes too intensely interested. “You really couldn’t.”

You’d stopped breathing. As soon as you realised that fact you blinked, swallowing hard, and jerked your face from his hold, eyes shooting to the floor. You felt the too-warm flush on your cheeks soothed by that cooling sense of blankness that came with what he’d called your disappearing act. It was a relief to be nothing for a moment. To take a breath without his eyes on you. It let you snap back to your senses.

“Lizzie,” he whined, dropping his hand and rolling his head back in exasperation, making no attempt to stay quiet. “You’re making my head hurt, love, please come-”

“If you would keep your voice down, Mr. Frye.” Your voice was a tense whisper, watching him warily, too distracted to keep your meek facade. Half of you was hyper aware of the last place you’d seen Mrs. Hanover the housekeeper (speaking with the cook, discussing their cold storage; three floors below), and half was coming up blank trying to theorise on why the thief was here.

His head was still tipped back, but you saw the smile twist his lips as he lazily rolled it forward again, fixing you with a look that was too sharp for your taste. There was a fire in it, but not the sort you may have expected based on his earlier closeness. No, this was a violent chaos, burning to be free. “Make me.”

Your brow furrowed in confusion. There was a beat of silence.

“How? ” You made no attempt to hide the utter bafflement in your voice.

The man smirked. Like you should know what that meant?

“You are a prizefighting champion, sir,” you reminded him, shortly. Wasn’t this obvious? “I am a maid. I cannot make you do anything, merely ask.” You shook your head, unsure what exactly he expected of you. “And that is what I am doing.”

Eyes narrowed in playful suspicion as he took a swaggering step toward you, and you almost immediately took a step back. “A maid.” It wasn’t a question, but the phrase was still steeped in scepticism.

What on earth was he getting at? “...Yes?” Another step forward, another step back. Your skin had broken out in gooseflesh: something was not right. Why was he coming at you like this?

“Your cover is good, I’ll give you that.”

“Cover?” The question was a perplexed murmur, and he promptly ignored it.

“Who do you really work for, sweetheart?” He spoke smoothly, continuing to move forward, something in his tone coaxing you for an answer you weren’t sure how to give.

Your face flushed, anger battling with caution, all shaded with an echoing frustration at how senseless his words were. And calling you sweetheart like that-- “You are too informal, Mr. Frye!” you snapped, struggling to keep your voice low as you demanded, “And I would have you speak plainly, if you will.”

“Plain-?” Seeming to tire of bickering, he sighed and pulled back, rolling his eyes. “Fine.” There was a quiet click-shing as he presented you a forearm, a thin blade sliding from the gauntlet he wore: “Let’s have at it, then.”

The words had hardly left his lips before he swung, a heavy fist going straight for your head.

You were no fighter.

You barely managed to stumble back, falling to the floor with wide eyes, swallowing your shocked cry. Cringing away, hands lifted defensively, you couldn’t even calm yourself enough for your usual tricks, eyes scrunched up and turned to the floor as you braced for a blow, grimacing.

No blow came.

Your heart was racing like a frightened rabbit, a fluttering pitter-patter shallow in your chest, legs tangled before you, a mess of fabric and trembling limbs. Breathe. You were shaking. Christ, you couldn’t stop shaking. Get a hold of yourself, woman. Your jaw ached, fused shut by a stubborn refusal to shout, tongue cleaved to the roof of your mouth. It felt like forever, but must’ve only been a few seconds before you could focus enough to slip on an attempt at your defensive modesty.

The choked noise from his throat - too loud in the suddenly silent room - broke your concentration almost immediately, eyes snapping to him, as tense as you’d ever been in your life.

He at least had the decency to look almost as shocked as you. The combat stance was gone, though the blade still protruded from the device on his arm.

You watched the pink rising under his skin.

“Ah.” He cleared his throat hard, shifting nervously on his feet. “Well.” The shock was briefly replaced by dumbfounded confusion, cocking his head at you, lips parting as though he might ask a question before his mouth snapped shut again. “...Right.” He blinked several times, looking away, adjusting back to a more casual position, blade sliding away once more, brow furrowed as he seemed to reconcile this new information.

You simply watched, dumbfounded.

He lifted a finger, as though to make an interjection to a conversation that was definitely not happening. “So-” Down it went again, as he contemplated his words. Finally, he looked at you again. “So you’re not a member of the Order?” He sounded practically hopeful, as though you might correct him.

You weren’t sure when your hands had lowered, but now you just stared at the man before you, stunned. “...Order?” you asked weakly.

He fidgeted, ears going red even as he kept his mostly confident posture. “And not part of the Brotherhood?” There was that same hope again. It was like he expected you to have some kind of sudden realisation.

What on earth… You wracked your brain for his meaning. “Is that… a union thing?”

He let out a weak huff of amusement, but you couldn’t bring yourself to join - far too aware of a hidden blade that could spring out at half a second’s notice. As he noticed your silence, he also fell quiet. Gradually his face grew more serious, regret clear in the firm line of his lips. He took a few steps toward you and you winced as he lowered a hand. Hazel eyes skirted away from yours -- good, he should be ashamed -- as he lowered himself to one knee. The hand he offered was unarmed.

“I believe I owe you an apology.”

The air hung heavy in the silence as you stared at him in disbelief, head spinning. Finally, you came at least somewhat to your senses. Your gaping mouth snapped shut and you slapped his offered hand away, suddenly feeling a fury. A fury that threatened your better sense to not push the buttons of a man with a hidden blade. “You’re damn right you do!” You hated how shrill your voice was as you struggled to your feet without his help, tinny with a hysteria that, while understandable, was still humiliating. “You could’ve killed me!”

His lips twisted as his eyes darted away again, his tone not nearly as apologetic as he’d claimed. “To be fair, I expected you to fight back.”

“With what?!”

He’d darted his eyes back to you, scanning over your figure like he was trying to find an answer himself, lips parted as though he might make some undoubtedly foolish attempt to argue his case, but then you both heard it.

The housekeeper was calling your name. “Is that you? Are you alright, dear?”

Your heart was once more painfully lodged in your throat, a series of options flicking through your head, calculating just how likely Mrs. Hanover was to seek you out regardless of your answer. You could call out, assure the woman of your well-being, but undoubtedly she would still come find you. And would that be so bad? Perhaps that was the best way to ensure Mr. Frye’s departure. After all, it seemed (at least at this point) that he was reluctant to harm you. And if he wanted to mince words with the housekeeper, he was welcome to it as long as you were in the clear. Would you be in the clear? Did you even have the time to think on it?

You reached for the doorknob, prepared to warn of the intruder, to bring the attention you so often avoided, but apparently Mr. Frye had made his decision just a bit quicker. A hand clamped down over your mouth, reining your whole body back to collide with his, at the same moment that an arm wrapped around your torso, pinning your arms to your sides even as you reflexively tried to reach up to pry his fingers away from your lips.

So you couldn’t reach the hand over your mouth, fine. You hesitated, too aware that you could still reach his other arm, could still try to wrestle yourself free. But you weren’t a fighter, you knew you weren’t a fighter, and he was-- god, he was; you could feel it even clearer than you’d seen with your own eyes, could feel the sheer power of his body at your back. Every inch of you was on high alert, even as you tried to think rationally, to set aside that first chaotic instinct of fear. Hadn’t he just been apologising? Shouldn’t that mean you weren’t in danger? But then why--

“I don’t want to hurt you, I just want to talk.” His voice was a low murmur and--

--and his breath was hot against your ear, each syllable vibrating on your skin.

...It was… peculiar.

You did not appreciate the sudden drip of uncertainty gradually flooding your body.

There were footsteps from beyond the closed door, someone already halfway up the stairs; you’d memorised that creaky step within your first week of service.

“Key?”

What? An expression of confusion furrowed your brow, trying to interpret his-- oh. There was one to these rooms, yes, but you didn’t know where the mistress kept it. They weren’t kept locked. You shook your head. The movement brushed your cheek against his nose, his lips making the briefest contact with your jaw. Christ, you hadn’t been this close to a man in… well, since Papa died. And that had been a very different type of embrace from… whatever this was. When had your mouth gone so dry? Damn it, focus.

The brief moment of hesitation in his movements made you wary, but then he seemed to have made a decision.

It happened in a flash. Your squeak of indignant alarm and pain was stifled by his hand as he yanked an arm behind you (not as hard as he’d manhandled his competitors in the ring, but still, it wasn’t exactly pleasant) and the next thing you knew you were in your mistress’s closet, thoroughly disoriented.

Not even the dressing room? Or the bathroom? You had to pick this?

Of all the doors, he’d chosen the one leading to the smallest space. And of course he’d joined you. Of course. Sod the concept of propriety or scandal, why not cram oneself into extremely close quarters with a woman he’d barely met. “If you’d asked-” fingers pressed against your lips, silencing you far more politely than the first time. He’d let go of your arm as well. I could’ve told you which room had an exit, you dolt. But you didn’t protest.

There was the sound of a door opening, but not the one you’d expected. So the housekeeper was checking the linen closet first -- fair, you often changed sheets as part of your duties. But that was just a longer wait. Here. With him.

Finally taking a moment to breathe, you were suddenly incredibly aware of your position.

It was too dark to see him at first, thank god, but you could imagine well enough, could feel the wood of the closet door against your back and the tension in his wrist where it nestled into the skirts against your hip, hand tight on the handle to keep the door closed. He was close. Very close. Knowing the size of this closet you suspected he may actually be putting himself in some amount of pain to keep from being even closer. A soft grunt of discomfort seemed to confirm your theory, as did his slight shift forward. That would be the hooks at the back, undoubtedly digging into him. Despite your wish to, you didn’t voice the mandatory objections, mindful of the calloused fingertips on your lips. At this point you’d be in just as much trouble as him if the two of you were caught. More, even.

Your eyes were just adjusting to the thin stream of light peeking under the crack in the door (hardly much to see by, but you were getting vague outlines) when you heard a soft clacking. You strained, as if opening your eyes even wider in the dark would somehow allow you to see what-

You caught the tiny light reflected on the metal of the offending hanger in the practically empty closet, half-hidden by what you could reasonably assume was his shoulder, watching it nervously as it swung. He’d hit it, then. You couldn’t exactly blame him, given the small space and his own rather bulky form. You wanted to, though. Especially as he shifted and the clack came again.

Lips pursing, you held back the admonishment, instead reaching past him, stilling the movement with a firm hand. You’d had to lean forward to do it, and now thought you might be regretting that choice, as the movement had slipped his fingers down your lips, pressed your body a bit closer to his, draping your arm against his chest, and you realised too late that letting go now would just send it clattering once more.

He shifted again, and you could sense him looking down at you even if you couldn’t see his eyes. There was a creak as the door to your mistress’s bedroom opened, and you tried not to breathe. Fingers slipped until they cupped your chin, his thumb brushing over your lips like a warning you didn’t need. You had no intention of speaking, of being caught. In fact, it would probably be better if you just…

It was hard to do in such a position, but if you set your mind to it… Gradually you felt your body settle into the proper demeanor - awkward with your hand propped over his shoulder, but achievable - and slipped into that practiced modesty that—

His hand tightened on your chin, face ducking beside yours as a soft, barely breathed, “Ss,” slipped through gritted teeth.

Was he shushing you? But you hadn’t made any noise. It was a silent trick, just a… Ah. Right. He’d said it before. He said it made his head hurt, but you didn’t understand how that could be true. But here he was, suddenly far tenser than he’d been a moment ago, crowding into your space with an air of frustrated confusion. Stop He’d wanted to say stop, that must’ve been it. A plea.

You dropped your attempt immediately, half fascinated and half guilty. You’d never seen someone react to your… whatever it was… like that before. As soon as you stopped he let out a short breath, his grip loosening, the tensed muscles of his arms relaxing. “Thhh.” Again, barely breathed, a silent sound of mostly air that tickled your ear. Thank you. Well, at least he was appreciative.

It was your turn to tense - free hand lifting and nervously bumping into the fabric of Mr. Frye’s coat (and to his credit, he held quite still) - as the door barely two feet from your hiding place creaked open. The bathroom. So Mrs. Hanover was checking the full rooms. You grudgingly admitted perhaps the closet had been the best choice after all.

It felt like ages, though you knew it was barely a couple minutes, waiting for the housekeeper to make her search. As you heard the woman entering the dressing room, you had the sudden realisation that he hadn’t moved away. He’d relaxed, yes, but his face was still close beside yours, his breath still--

--still licking down your neck. A quick stream of curses slipped through your mind as you stiffened to keep from shivering. There was the smallest huff of air - of laughter - and you quickly released the hold you’d reflexively taken on his waistcoat. When had your hand slipped past his jacket? Oh god. And of course now he could probably feel the heat from your face even if he couldn’t see you glowing red. You could hear the pounding of blood in your ears you were blushing so hard. You felt the itch in your throat, that nervous need to cough, to shed the tension, to do something, but you had to stay silent. Instead you swallowed hard and pursed your lips, nibbling at one for a moment.

That had been a mistake. That hadn’t helped at all -- on the contrary, your lips were suddenly more sensitive to his touch. Bad idea. And of course his thumb still brushed your mouth, of course it did, and you could swear he was grinning, you could swear it! But you need only endure this closeness just a moment more. One more moment.

This was ridiculous. You should be outraged at the impertinence. Maybe you would’ve been, if you truly were who you pretended to be. If you hadn’t grown up seeing lads like him. Worse than him, really -- less polite, less respectful. Compared to what you’d witnessed in the east end, from flirtations to harrassments, Mr. Frye was a catch. Even if he was a thief. At least he was a good one.

But damn it, you were better than that now. You were moving up in the world, had been ever since you and your Ma had left Whitechapel. Respectable. And respectable young women didn’t cosy up with thieves in dark closets.

And how could you have forgotten how he had very near killed you just minutes ago?!

Perhaps you couldn’t let go of the hanger just yet, but you withdrew your other hand from his chest, balling it into a fist at your side as you reminded yourself of your righteous indignation.

It was irritatingly hard to hold on to.

He was too easy to make exceptions for, and you had to stop doing so.

The sound of his throat clearing, subtle as it was, was too loud so close to your ear. Blinking your thoughts back to the present, you realised with a start that the housekeeper had moved on. His thumb had dropped from your lips, though his fingers still brushed your chin.

“I think we’re in the clear.” Still, his voice was a barely-breathed whisper.

“Right.” No, not right, think before you speak. Realising your mistake you hurriedly - awkwardly - crossed your arm between the two of you to stop his hand on the door handle as he shifted to open it. “Wait! Did she leave the door to the bedroom open?” If she did, you’d still need to tiptoe about until she was back down a floor, until you could close it again.

There was a pause, but when he whispered again it sounded at least partially amused. “How would I know?”

You tried to ignore the way his hand brushed your cheek, tracing your jaw too delicately for such calloused digits, like his fingers couldn’t keep still. Too familiar, he was far too familiar. “Well did you hear it?”

Again, a pause. His voice and his wandering fingers, lighting against your cheekbone. You thought he might be censoring himself, but you weren’t sure. Perhaps he was just trying to remember. “...Yes.” This time it was louder than a whisper, more confident, though still low, and - Christ, you hadn’t realised you’d be able to feel the timbre of his voice, that was… that was different.

Surely there was something you should say in response. Some kind of confirmation. Damn it all, he was distracting. As his touch left your face you thought you’d seen the last of it, but he’d only drawn away to reach back, taking a firm hold of your wrist, reminding you to let go of the silly hanger. And-- Eyes narrowed in suspicion, even in the dark. He was doing that on purpose, wasn’t he? Guiding your hand down his chest like that. Your fingers tensed, but he made no move further down his torso. Good. You didn’t know what to expect from the cheeky bastard.

The two of you were still too close. You should say something. Scold him. You should really pull your hand away.

You should.

...So why weren’t you?

Your mind went blank for a moment as he leaned closer, practically pressing you against the door, both arms now trapped in the rapidly diminishing space between your bodies. At least his lips weren’t quite so close to your ear this time, his smirk audible and the words a half-singsong warning spoken above your head: “Careful, now.”

Careful-?

The door opened and you stumbled back, still flustered, barely able to steady yourself before you might fall. You bit your tongue to keep the curse from your lips, glaring at the man who now strolled leisurely from your hiding spot. He was giving you a look - amused, but still with that touch of disbelief he’d had before. “Huh. You really aren’t trained, are you?”

“Trained.” The word was flat as you struggled to push away those niggling thoughts of too close in favour of the righteous indignation you really should be focused on.

Mr. Frye glanced away, shrugging and flapping his hand noncommittally. “You know.”

Alright. Enough was enough. You closed your eyes, hands clasping before you as you tried to collect yourself, to set aside the mortification of your close-quarters hideaway and instead hold this man accountable. You let out a soft sigh, trying to be patient, staring at his feet. “No, Mr. Frye, I do not know. That is precisely the issue. But if it has anything to do with your unexpected assault earlier, I believe I am owed an explanation.” You gave a short nod, satisfied that you’d regained your composure.

He’d turned away a bit, patting at his coat, and when you glanced up again— It was so hard to not immediately try to hide, seeing the massive curved knife he’d drawn. Too hard. Instinct kicked in, and you-

“Lizzie, stop.” It was only slightly more request than command, but there was enough softness in it - and he hadn’t raised the blade. So you relented, raising your chin again.

“I would rather you not call me that, sir.” Your jaw was tight, unappreciative of his informality.

“Why not?” How could he sound surprised at that? You’d met him, what, three times? Four? You barely knew his name. And yet he seemed so innocently taken aback that you didn’t want him to speak so casually with you? “It’s what your friend called you.” The knife hung limp in his grip, forgotten for the time being.

Your friend… “Who exactly…” You already had your suspicions before he answered.

“The blonde you were at the match with. Fulton, Fuller, something like that.”

Emma Fuller. Soon to be Shearer. That… You sighed, resignedly. That made sense, then. Emma was the only one who called you that anymore - the only one you let call you that — the only one you didn’t actively avoid, anyway. You pursed your lips, glaring out the corner of your eye as you remembered the sneering way the nickname had slipped from grimy children’s lips. You’d put a stop to it when you could, in favour of something a bit more refined. Still, Emma was notoriously bad at listening to you.

“So it’s true, then?” He shook his head, his words a murmur of incredulous amusement. “Whitechapel born and bred.”

You tucked nervous fingers into your pockets, worrying the loose threads hidden within, but kept your voice steady, meeting his curious gaze head-on. “Mr. Frye, my history is mine alone and none of your business.”

He shrugged, nodding his assent, glancing away. “Fair enough.”

You actually felt relieved for a moment. Before he spoke again.

“I just… I dunno. From there to here…” His head was lowered, eyes fixing on yours from beneath the brim of his hat, with a tone that covered mild suspicion with a mask of casual curiosity. “Seemed like a cover. ...Or a job.” How did he manage to sound so genial with that hard edge underneath it all?

“It is a job,” you insisted, scowling, arms quickly crossing over your chest defensively. “It’s good work and I was lucky to get it.” Years working in the shops, months of carefully chosen words and actions, curating your impression for the wealthier ladies of the city; it was a bit insulting to call it luck, actually.

“No it—” He shook his head, shedding that air of intimidation easily. “With your, erm,” his smirk at the ground was wry as he searched for the word. “...Talents. It just seemed…” He trailed off, but this time his bemusement seemed genuine. “...How do you do it, anyway?”

You didn’t need to ask what he meant. “I…” You hesitated. “I don’t know.” Shrugging halfheartedly, you let yourself watch him with sharp eyes as long as he wasn’t looking at you. Your voice was softer than you wanted, too much of your own uncertainty - your own puzzlement at how honest you were being - sneaking through. “I just do.” You hadn’t even considered it something unusual until somewhat recently. “...I’ve never had someone notice before,” you admitted quietly.

There was a pause, a small contemplative frown twisting his lips. He watched his fingers playing along the intricate engraving on the knife, but it looked more like fidgeting than a threat. When he spoke it was a distracted murmur, and you had to wonder what was on his mind. “Evie does something like it.”

Evie? Was that a friend of his? Oh god -- was that his wife? If so, should you be relieved? You blanched, head buzzing, confused not just by his words but by the bitter taste they brought to your mouth. Stop it. Get ahold of yourself. Change the subject. The words tumbling from your lips weren’t exactly a subtle change of tack. “What’s the knife for?”

“Hm?” He glanced up, then back, as though suddenly realising what his attentions to the blade might look like. “Not for you, love, god no,” he assured you easily, tossing the blade casually into the air, as if to prove its harmlessness. You jumped, a quick shock lighting through you, barely having time to jar you before he’d caught the handle again, giving it an impressive-looking twirl. There was a flash of that cheeky grin again. “Nah, this lady’s for Blighters, mostly. And Templars.” Another flamboyant twist and flick, light dancing along the metal with the fluid movements as he took a couple steps toward you, voice lowering in a teasing murmur. “And rogues and thieves…”

He’d practically set you up. One of your brows lifted incredulously, mouth already opening, about to point out that he himself seemed to be the latter, when his earlier words were fully processed. “...Blighters?”

A smirk curled his lip as he gave a half-nod.

Your face went blank. “So…” He didn’t wear their colours, but… “You work for the Rooks, then?”

His eyebrows shot up and you watched a look of pure delight dawn on his face. His lips were tight and you knew he was trying not to grin. Trying and failing miserably. “Work-” There was a small huff of laughter as he dropped his gaze to the floor, teeth flashing as he shook his head. “I don’t work for the Rooks, love.”

Oh thank go--

“I am the Rooks.”