assassin_daddy | Duplicity Inbox

"The Templars." He says, "And yes, he was. He was a nasty piece of work that would probably have beaten any pickpocket he caught half to death. And winter would have done the rest."

He knows some people would say that thieves deserved the noose. Jacob doesn't believe that. He never has and he never will.

"He was a quick learner. Wanted to climb every rooftop in London, learn all the secrets the city had. I'd find him outside in the middle of the night practising his aim on bottles lined up on the garden wall, have to shoo him back to bed. And even then he'd want to know about missions I'd done or that Evie had done, stories you know."

"The Templars," she repeats after him like he had the Spanish words she'd used earlier; she's every bit as much learning a foreign language as he is.

Whatever reservations she might have - whatever context she lacks - it doesn't survive being able to vividly picture a boy someone like Jacob might become attached to, and the corner of her mouth tugs upward.

"Better to learn with a teacher than get in trouble by himself, hm?"

"Better to have a teacher that remembers getting in trouble and can help get you out." Jacob says, the obvious fondness in his tone and the smile on his face only tempered by the recent loss of the boy.

"That's when I first started saying he was my son. There were policemen in the pay of the Templars who would try to get him charged with this or that, and without a parent, those kids end up in prison or debtor's jail. I would go pay the fine and sign a docket to say I'd make sure he didnt do whatever made-up crime theyd pinned on him. And then... well. Then I just adopted him."

That isn't how it would have worked in the old world, but it would have been even simpler in the new; no more documents, no more IDs, no more policemen or bribes with dollar signs on them. And a lot of no more parents.

She settles back against the couch, leaning her shoulders into it and stretching her legs under the coffee table.

"How old was he then?"

"Nine, almost ten by that point." It had taken time, for Jack to fully trust him, to spend more time at Jacob's home than on the streets, but Jacob had known better than to push too hard. Street kids were smart, they were tough. That's how they survived. Much like Rosita.

He falls quiet, for a moment, letting thoughts, memories of what seems like a simpler time occupy his mind. It wasn't simple of course. Not with Jack getting in trouble, trainees to manage, and not long after that Sammy. But they'd managed it, somehow.

She waits for him to go on, leaving him space to talk about whatever he's thinking about behind his eye, but she's not terribly surprised that he seems to have stalled out for the moment. She watches the candle flame for a few silent moments, considering for herself what - if anything - she wants to offer in turn. More anecdotes of long dead family members? A rainy day memory of her mother?

She breathes out. "For years after the virus, I didn't even know what day it was, let alone have time to do anything like this. I didn't want to do anything like this - we were losing people in droves, faster than I could meet them or learn their names. When shit really hit the fan, I went from cities to camps to groups to just me and one other person for a while, and still people were dying all around me. I hardly wanted to think about it."

A tactic she still uses, though not quite as mercilessly as she did back then just to stay alive.

"But if I'm honest, I could have the last couple years, if I'd wanted to. I didn't. I don't like to think about anyone whose picture I might add to my ofrenda these days. I don't like knowing that I don't have anyone to build it with me. I guess this is me sucking it up." That, and this:

"I chose whiskey as an offering for... a friend. That saved me, and was killed. And I hope that if he can make it through, if he can find me here, that he enjoys it."

He lifts his head when she speaks, glad of something else to think about. It's worse, far worse, than what Jack did and what he became, but it's not his grief. It's removed, it's not stabbing him in the heart over and over. He knows that makes him sound callous, but it is the truth of the matter.

"It's something I don't think anyone else could understand unless they lived it too. I can't even imagine all the different ways that hurt. And no one could blame you for shielding yourself from that hurt."

"And no one would be prouder than you than your family. For doing this now. It doesn't matter if you could have done it before, it wasn't right for you to do it then. You were taking care of yourself. And like you said they love you. They understand its been hard."

He looks back to the whiskey, and nods, smiling slightly.

"It's a long road. I think whoever it's meant for will be glad of a drink at the end of it."

Like you said, they love you. Rosita swallows, because it was easy when she decided to pour the whiskey that it didn't matter what anyone else thought, she was the only one that knew; she didn't give Jacob any details but she knows them, and she knows there's very little chance Abraham who walk a long road now any more than he had when he was alive just to see her. Just to be anywhere near her.

She swallows again and closes her fingers more tightly around her bent knee.

"I hope so." That her family would be proud, even though she doesn't think they would. That it doesn't matter. That they love her and understand. That he would be glad.

But the point is, she's still doing it. The point is, maybe he regretted doing what he did. There's so much she can't know. But it's still something she does. And that's the important part.

He reaches out, slow, like he's trying to pet a cat, and then gently puts his hand on hers.

"I hope so too."

She's not expecting it. She doesn't jump, doesn't startle, he moves too carefully for that - but her eyes still dart down the moment he actually touches her, and the lightness of it actually makes the thick feeling in her throat worse for a moment.

But even if she's surprised, even if she wouldn't have instigated, she is a tactile creature after all; she turns her hand over under his, and takes his hand properly in hers.

"I'm... happy you asked. And spoke."

"Thank you for listening."

She's the first person that's heard some of these stories, not just here but at all. He didn't do much talking about the past, it was a different country, a far away place.

But when it came to Jack, when it came to her mother and the people she had lost so recently, it feels so much closer. Maybe it will help bring them back tonight, if only for a short time.

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