Jacob Frye

He doesn't miss the flinch, the way her jaw tightens, as if she's trying her hardest not to show her hurt. Nor could you miss the way she charges in, needing something else, a distraction for both of them, something that takes her mind off whatever it was, something that distracts him from asking about that flinch. It doesn't work exactly, but he doesn't press her, doesn't ask her what is wrong. He knows she won't tell him, knows that she doesn't trust him, and if she ploughs on, avoiding the subject, she clearly does not want to talk about it. At least, not with him.

"If you all go back home, you won't remember this place." He says it gently, because he doesn't want her labouring under the idea that she will, doesn't want her thinking any good memories here, with people she cares about, will bolster her in her life at home, any future she has to endure. "I didn't. Other people who went and came back, it was as if nothing had happened for them. I didn't remember anyone here, or anything that happened. Not until I got back again."

So any alliance she would have made, it wouldn't mean anything at home anyway. That's what he means to say, although he realises he's not done it well. "What I meant is that he won't remember spending time here, and neither will you. It won't change the lives you go back to. I'm sorry."

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"Yes, Jacob, I caught that part," she tells him stiffly. She did. And she'd even carried it a bit further to draw conclusions, but that doesn't mean she's interested in sharing them. Worse, he means it to be kind, and it's anything but.

She has to leave Jesus here; she can't take him home again, safe, with a future of his own. The only place he has to go besides here is a coffin, despite whatever plans they've made to stay sharp, be ready. Carver is a whole different issue because he has his own group and they've chosen to roam, chosen to let the new world have them wholesale, but they know the score on that one. Their alliance is short lived, and very specific.

He means it to be kind. She holds up two fingers: second question. "Forty three."

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I was thinking how I’m fine enough with such books on my own, but if I’m to read one with you nearby or, worse, you start reading, that will be an exercise in restraint on my part bordering on cruelty

Teasing aside, you’ve made your boundary clear regarding sex with me or sex in general right now, and I’ve no interest in over-stepping it

So if I were to have your company, it would not be with this book.

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You're a very good man, better than I deserve. I won't put you through that, not when you're so good to me.

If you want peace to read, I'll not bother you for a few hours. Or you can tell me what other tricks your little lady knows.

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You deserve everything. I’ll remind you every time you try to sell me that line.

My book isn’t more interesting than talking to you

Let’s see. She dances to some music, mostly bubble pop stuff like that taylor swift person do you know her? One of my theatre guys listened to that kind of music and taught Thunder how to sing from it

She says hello with my accent, sings some songs from my home, and makes a jingle sound like fes used to
Oh and I taught her to make a thunder sound
Proud of that one

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In that case, continue to talk to me. I'd enjoy that.

I don't know the Taylor Swift person. But I found a lot of Ellie's old tapes, in the Hollow when I was tidying it up. If you have a tape of that, you could come play it here. I have other tapes too, of music. Nothing from my world, I don't think. Unless this music happens after my time.

Did you teach her those songs? The ones from your home? Maybe you can do a duet. And I can teach her to say some phrases from London. One of our traditional greetings is "fuck off copper".

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We could do a visit. She’s behaved well enough now and she’d likely like a new place. Besides, I haven’t seen the place properly either except from outside.

I did teach her. Mostly cause she kept singing the same few bars, it was self preservation. You’re welcome to try and teach her whatever you like
But what’s copper mean if not a metal?

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The words are so much like his sister that he almost laughs, but he knows full well that if he does, it'll be worse for him. At least, it would be if Ro was anything like Evie. Still, he doesn't take her tone to heart, giving a one-shouldered shrug. All he can do is tell her his experiences, he doesn't know she's already well aware. If she's going to have a strop about it, that's not his fault.

"Why did you keep count?" He knows that the next question is why- but that's why did you kill them, and he imagines the reason is the same as his - because there was no choice, kill or be killed, or your friends and family will die instead. He's far more interested in how she knows that number so exactly.

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She's already well aware because of him; because he told her he didn't remember anything while he was home, that it all hit him when he came back. When he was already here. She extrapolated from there, and still doesn't like the conclusions she came to in the process.

She drops her hand back into her lap, picking at the edges of her splint where common use has begun to wear at it.

"At first it wasn't something I was doing on purpose. In the early days it was just... panic more than anything, and I can still remember each of them. I can tell you when and where and why and how. Then I think it was... kind of a way to rationalize, you know?" She smooths her thumb over the velcro strap across her palm.

"'I'm not a monster, it's only been six people, I had no choice.' Then I didn't want to be a monster, so I decided I would always remember, so I wouldn't lose something. Now it's people who tried to kill me or my people and couldn't get the job done, or maybe a mix of all of it." She looks up, unashamed, calm. "It's just something that helps me."

Edited Date: 2022-11-01 02:39 pm (UTC)

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"You aren't a monster." He says it carefully, so she understands he means it, that he's considered it. He can't tell her he's seen what monsters look like, seen them change from normal children into devils, he can't say that because he can't bear to think of Jack like that yet, as a boy beyond saving.

He swallows a little thickly but resists the temptation to reach for the glass again and down the rest of the booze.

"If it helps, to remember why and who, when and how, keep doing it." He tells her, and gently, slowly reaches across to touch her hand.

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You are both welcome any time. The ceilings in there are high, she can go for a little flight around the place. Tell me what corners need dusting.

Ah I remember that stage. Sammy went through a stage of just singing one line from a nursery rhyme.

Its one of the things we call policemen. Peelers as well. Or "those wankers".

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Your new contract won't mind?

Yeah, unfortunately she won't grow out of it, she's still a bird as smart as a toddler and forever stuck there.

Your distaste for your local city guard is as colorful as ever. Spoken like a true man constantly caught on the wrong side of it. You're welcome to teach her how to say that.

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She's more than happy for me live away from her in my own home. She won't mind you or birdie visiting, trust me.

Thats better than most people.

And thank you. I'd like to think that I manage to keep them on their toes and keep them moral by killing off any of the bastards that use their power and the law as mask for hurting people.

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Just checking, I've no interest in causing you problems.
When? Cause I've a mind to come over sooner rather than later.

[Because he misses him, but he doesn't have to type that part.]

You sound like an avenging knight. Like a paladin of righteous good. Protector of the small.

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This evening? We can have supper. You're welcome to use my kitchen.

[ It would be the first time anyone has used that kitchen. ]

No love. I just hate the police. Apart from Freddie. He's half way decent.

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This evening. I'll make us something homey.

I bet someone's written something pretty about you, but alright dash my fantasies.
Who's Freddie? I don't recall his name coming up.

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I'll lend a hand, if you'd like.

Do you think? I really don't think there's anyone outside of this city that's ever written anything about me. Nice or otherwise. I try not to appear in written records back home.

Inspector of the London Police. He's a reasonably senior officer, not the highest, but quite high. I first met him when we arrived, and he was helpful. But we're not close friends. He's a useful man to know, all the same.

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I'd like that a lot.

It doesn't have to be history or even news. A child you save tells the story of the big man who made the scary men go away. Someone writes a poem of a dark rescuer they never even truly saw. You live on in many things, love, I would bet anything.

[He tyes out 'heroes always do' and erases it. He still feels it, but as surely as Jacob's likening him to something angelic sits ill in him, this line of praise clearly sits ill in the older man.

Some day soon, he'd get Jacob Frye under him again and whisper every praise and ounce of love he contained into that scarred skin until some of it sank back in.]

Ah, yes, I understand all too well. Sounds a useful ally at least.

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I couldn't say if anyone has ever done anything like that about me. I met an author, when I was younger a few of them. I'll see if I can find you a version of Dicken's stuff.

[ He wouldn't necessarily need to be under him to hear that. ]

Friends in high places can be extremely useful in my line of work.

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I think I've heard the name from others of Earth, but I'd read him if you like his stuff.

[Shh let him have his body worship asperations.]

I can imagine. You've a veritable network to do what you have to do. Takes a lot of planning and groundwork and trust built to maintain it.

Speaking of high places, I have a new picture for you.

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This is not an area of her life that Rosita has any doubt about these days; it helps that they're years removed from the last time her community had to actively go to war, helps that she's learned that she can set it down when she doesn't need it and pick it up when she does. She doesn't crave it. She doesn't leap to killing as a way to solve every problem. She can still work as part of the right group.

The moment his hand moves towards her she's watching it, first just her eyes ticking up automatically, then a faint furrow of her brow as she registers there's a note of something more in his voice, something pained as she works out what he's doing. In the end she leaves her hand right where it is, and looks up to meet his eyes.

"It does. Sometimes I look at someone I'm thinking about going through - one of those guards in the pit, for example - and I think, are you worth being number forty-four? Mostly the answer is no." She presses her lips together, taps her fingertip gently against his knuckle. "The number was thirty-nine before we went into the pit. So sometimes the answer is yes."

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He let's his hand stop there, before meeting hers. It rests against the couch cushion, blunt nails catching on the fabric. It's not her job to offer him any comfort, she's not Vrenille or Chris or Vanessa who would take his hand in theirs, bolster him with that kindness. Not when, in truth, he should be trying to bolster her. That makes him take his hand back and try go push down the thoughts away, focus on her.

"Sometimes it has to be yes. And sometimes you can just knock someone out for half an hour and that'll do the trick," He agrees, "But sometimes you don't want them getting up again."

More often than not in his experience, because he knows he'll likely have to fight them a second time if he let's them get up. If he finishes the job they stay down and donr stab him, or anyone else, in the back.

"Vrenille told me. What you did, he was... I don't know if impressed is the right word. But you got the job done with what you had. You didn't mess around. That's... that's not always easy."

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She lets him withdraw, certainly, and pulls her own hand back into her lap too. She has no idea what he's thinking, what he wants; she doesn't need bolstered about something she's learned to accept as not only necessary, but much preferable to the way a lot of people in her world live. There are people who never leave the community walls.

Those people will die the moment any hardship hits them. Not Rosita.

She raises an eyebrow, and the expression she makes then is the shape of a smirk except this one doesn't quite reach her eyes either.

"This was the fourth time I've been held prisoner by one group of assholes or another. You should see what I can do with my belt buckle if I have to." Some of her fashion choices aren't fashion choices at all in the end. This time, though, they gave her back a better weapon. "That's what I learned when I had to grow up: the world doesn't give a shit. It just moves on, always. You can lay down and die or you can go with it, and I'm not ready to go yet."

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He thinks about that. What would you do with a belt buckle.

"I'd use it like a knuckle duster, myself. With the prong between index ad middle finger. That's a punch that'll send someone reeling." It's a good idea too. "The belt itself? Depends how thick it is, how strong. Good for strangling someone. And obviously as a makeshift restraint."

The options are listed, ticked off. Anything and everything can be a weapon. The fork she used to eat her cake, take an eye out or stab them in the neck, or the thigh where the major artery is. The sofa cushions can be used to smother someone. The cake shoved into their mouth to choke them. It's easy, really. Especially easy when you've been taught since childhood to think that way.

She had to grow up, she says. He wonders what she was like before, when she was training to do all this legal work. Does she even remember that old life?

"Why did you choose to be a paralegal?"

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