Duplicity Inbox

[assassin_daddy]

Jᴀᴄᴏʙ Fʀʏᴇ "I'm no criminal. I just do as I please."

 

Leave a voicemail, a text or a video here. Jacob will get back to you. 
His pre-canon update inbox can be found HERE

Comments

[assassin_daddy]

"Alright, you're an Indian food virgin." He says woth slight amusement, and then adds "Not that this is Indian food. Its about as close as I've found in the city. And its good."

"So rice- I think it's probably different from the rice you have, a different variety. Then we have chicken curry, which is like a Tari Wala, and fish curry, and I don't remember the name of that one. The dish with peas in is Mutter Paneer, the white cubes are cheese. It's the most amazing sort of cheese I've ever had. The fried, spicy potatoes are... something aloo. And bread. Naan, it's called."

He brings over the bottle of lassi too, "This is yoghurt, but made into a drink with mango. I thought it might be nice for dessert. Or if it gets too spicy for you." He teases, sitting down to eat with her.

"There's probably going to be left overs. But all of this is good the next day too."

[handleyourshit]

She recognizes the bread, although she doesn't remember it's called naan until he says it; the curries all look similar and smell fantastic, but she doesn't know those words at all. Nonetheless she's happy to let him dish it out, until he makes the comment about spice and she snorts.

"I'll do my best to keep up," she assures him, picking up her fork. "It smells amazing. Which one's your favorite?" She's assuming it's here, since she didn't have a preference.

[assassin_daddy]

He knows she'll be fine with all of these dishes, none of them are too spicy to have actual flavour and they aren't a patch on what he's actually eaten in India when he's visited his sister and Jayadeep.

"My favourite of what they make here is the paneer," He admits- and that's what he helps himself to first, the paneer is soft and smooth, the peas add a pop of freshness, the spice it's cooked in warms you from the inside out. It's simple and delicious. "After that? The fish. But in India? Its all a hundred times better."

He'll let her help herself to whatever she fancies, the fish is creamier than the chicken but the spice has sunk deep into the white flakes. It's almost too good to be true.

[handleyourshit]

With few exceptions, Rosita has gotten into the habit of eating quickly and not thinking too hard about what she's putting in her mouth. Sure, there are good times during the spring and summer, and the winters have gotten gentler since they've had a chance and knowledge to prepare, but she still catches herself eating as much as she can, as fast as she can, even now.

She takes some of each and makes herself not shovel it in.

"I'm a scavenger and a scout back home," she offers as she picks up her fork. "Sometimes it means I get first pick of whatever I find, but usually it just means I miss out on whatever they're cooking inside the walls. It's a learning curve to oh my god."

She likes the fish, the way she cuts off and immediately takes another bite, and then a third attests.

[assassin_daddy]

He pauses in his own eating to listen to her, taking a swallow of water instead and nodding. He's never had to forage, the nearest he's come was going through hedgerows as a child with his grandmother and picking berries for preserving, or helping woth the apple harvest. But that's not anywhere near the same as she must be doing.

But then she tries the fish and clearly its a good choice on his part as she takes fork
full after forkfull. He's pleased she likes it- he isn't sure she felt the same way when she cooked for him, but he thinks she did, he remembers her watching his reaction, but maybe that was just to see if he cried because of the spice. Then again, she can't be immune to it, the anticipation of seeing what the other person thinks of something you think highly of, or love, or made. It makes your heart beat a little faster.

"It's good, right? They're not far from the Arena, so I end up in there a lot. They're nice people." Which is more than some LIERs will say about the natives.

[handleyourshit]

"It's amazing," she says, and doesn't bother to stop chewing to do so; it would be a little embarrassing, if she bothered with being embarrassed, which she doesn't. For as close as she keeps her emotions most of the time - and she does; it's the reason Jacob is questioning now if she'd been as anxious, as pleased that he'd liked her casserole as he is about his offerings - she doesn't mind showing her genuine enjoyment of this.

Even the bread is delicious. Good lord. She uses it to wipe up the sauce from her first helping before going back for a second.

"We don't really have spices anymore. Just what we can grow or find, and that goes pretty quick when you're trying to feed a community through winter." She's been involved in those discussions; she is, often, on the side of practicality over luxury. "You said you grew up with this though?"

[assassin_daddy]

His smile is bright and easy, wide as a smile can be. Sharing food is such a wonderful experience, it brings people together and cements them. While this food inst from his culture, it is something he thinks she'll like more than the traditional foods of his home with its potatoes and vegetables, its bangers and meat gravy.

"They're not very common for us either. Even with the Empire and trade as it is, most people can't buy cumin and turmeric and that sort of thing as easily. And things like cinnamon or saffron won't grow in Britain. But there's got to be herbs and things that grow where you are. Or could, under glass."

He gets a little more of the chicken and the paneer, letting her have more of the fish, "India is part of the Empire, so some of the food they have made it to us. And my father spent several years over there, so he would have the cook try and recreate it. And then once we met Jayadeep, he would make us more authentic things."

He gives a slight shrug, "Not all the time. But we did eat a lot of Indian food. As well as whatever else was easy to grab."

[handleyourshit]

"They could," she allows. "Mint takes over fucking everything. It's just not a priority when you can grow just a bit more squash or potatoes instead of a half plot of basil, feed everyone two extra days instead of seasoning a few pots of stew."

And Alexandria makes a lot of stew.

"You had a cook?" She glances up from finishing her second helping, from giving herself more of the chicken. She is, though, slowing down. "Who is Jayadeep?"

[assassin_daddy]

He doesn't know too much about growing things, not really, but he does know that about mint. "That's why you have it in a pot, I think," He says, but really it doesn't matter, what is far more important is feeding people for longer, not adding mint to things.

"My father was a widower, he had two small children, a day job and assassin work. I don't think, even if he'd known how to cook, he would have had time." He explains, but in truth they had been middle class anyway, having a cook and a maid wasn't unusual. "And Jayadeep was an assassin in London, he helped us when we first arrived there. And now he's my brother-in-law."

[handleyourshit]

"Yeah, well, we didn't know that did we?" she chuckles. Maggie might have, honestly, but she'd had enough else on her plate at the time and now they're stuck with an entire hillside of mint.

There are worse things, especially with the smell.

"Oh," she says, sobering, when she's reminded that indeed, Jacob never got to know his mother at all. Everyone she knows has lost a lot of people, lost most everyone they know in turn, but there's still a bit of sorrow in her for that. "So Henry and Jayadeep are the same person?"

[assassin_daddy]

"At least its useful for more than just cooking." Jacob offers. It's good for teeth and as a soap, from what he remembers. Or something you put in soap.

He picks at some more of the paneer, finishing that mouthful before he nods.

"It's a little... complicated. But my father had a hand in training Jayadeep too, before we were born. When he brought Jayadeep to England, he decided to call him Henry instead. Henry Green." Jacob's scowl says exactly what he thinks of that. "Then again, his enemies didn't associate an Indian man with that name, so it helped keep him safe for a long time."

[handleyourshit]

"I'm from America," Rosita reminds him, smiling wryly back. "I'm familiar with the concept." Ellis Island did its fair share of changing names to something more anglicized.

She's sopping up sauce with her bread again, but it's not the ravenous push she'd started with - it's more, now that she's unwilling to be wasteful and she takes her time.

"My mother was an immigrant though. I'm glad you aren't adding to the problems we tend to have just existing somewhere we're trying to make a living."

[assassin_daddy]

"I've lived through them deciding black people could be people." He says, understanding what she means, although Ellis Island happened after his time. His present time, anyway. As it is in 1888, there are still people from everywhere flooding into America in the hopes of a better life. He doesn't know how many of them find it.

The food is good, a wonderful way to bond. He wishes more people would be open to experiencing other cultures and accepting people, food seems to be a great way to do that to him.

"London is a big hub of people, from everywhere, at the moment. Freed people from America, the Irish, Indians, Germans, Arabs. It's better for having those people, I wish we were better at being more accepting."

He pauses again, because there is something new in her home that had caught his attention, and to be more accepting, he supposes he has to understand what things are. So he looks back to the coffee table, the flowers, the candle, the offering, and he decides to just ask the question.

"That looks like an altar?" He asks, although the skulls are a little strange for someone from a protestant background. "What is it for?"

[handleyourshit]

"Unfortunately they were still working on that in my time, albeit less obvious." And not just black people, but Rosita listens to that list of people and decides he probably hasn't encountered many latinos. She's not bothered, as long as he keeps not being an ass.

They're not the ominous kind of skulls that tend to be pervasive around this time of year for most people; the brightly colored paper isn't the only difference, but the patterns she drew on when she couldn't cut them out finely enough are pretty rather than gruesome, and their grinning mouths are smiling, welcoming rather than leering. She didn't make it for anyone but herself so it hadn't occurred to her to say anything, but she glances over when he mentions it - and she smiles.

"It is," she confirms. "We call it an ofrenda. It's for Día de Muertos - the day of the dead." Rosita doesn't have an accent as far as Americans are concerned, except when she says her name or drops into Spanish, and then she speaks quickly and fluidly before it vanishes again.

"I haven't done anything for it in years. I'm trying to give this place a bit more of a chance though, and it seemed like a good place to start."

[assassin_daddy]

"It's not as easy as you'd hope it might be." He agrees, although it clearly hurts to admit it. He knows that people can be good, they can be bad, but for the most part they're both, or neither. And that makes making the world better so much harder.

But he's happy to turn his attention to what she's saying, rather than things he can do nothing about while in Duplicity. Hell, he can only chip away at it at home, but that's something at least. Back to the here and now, however-

"An ofrenda for the Día de Muertos." He repeats, trying to make sure he gets the pronunciation right. He hasn't spoken any Spanish for years, and he's not as good at it as French or German, but perhaps she won't be offended if he tries to pick it up again with her. "I've not heard of the Day of the Dead. What's it about?"

He can guess, but frankly, he'd rather not and actually let her tell him about her traditions. They are hers, after all, and she doesn't seem like the sort that would appreciate him just making assumptions all over the place.

[handleyourshit]

On the contrary, her smile reaches up into her eyes for just a moment when he mimics the words she used, and she says them again - more slowly this time - so he can hear them properly before she answers. So he can have a prayer of working them out.

"My mother taught me. She moved up to Texas from Mexico, where it's a much bigger holiday than Halloween. She said it was about family, and coming together," she explains, setting her fork down so she can get up from the table and cross the short distance to the display.

"It's the one night a year the world of the dead and the living are close enough to touch, and those you've lost can come be with you again. The four elements are here - salt from the earth, the skull banners flutter in the air, water in the glass, fire in the candle - flowers to honor those who have died. Normally there are pictures, too, but - I don't have any." She presses her lips together, reaching to straighten one of the marigolds in its place. "Different people put up different offerings to give the spirits strength for the journey. The candle guides them home and lights their way back again so they aren't trapped. The gifts can be tailored to your loved ones - a favorite sweet, or an instrument, or a piece of jewelry."

She's chosen a shot of the whiskey for hers. She figures if Abraham did go through the trouble of making the journey all the way here, he'd like that better than water.

"I don't know how much I believe in it, but it's... nice. And Mama believed."

[assassin_daddy]

He's glad of her repeating them, it gives him a better chance to get them right after all, and he turns in his seat as she goes to stand, watching her approach the ofrenda but not doing so himself. It seems such a personal thing for her something that means something not just as a connection to her mother, but as a connection to those she's lost. He doesn't know of Abraham yet, but he can see something in the care she takes over the flowers that it's important.

"We don't have Halloween." He says quietly, trying to think of what they do instead in Britian. They don't really have a special date, per se. "Or anything like this. Or maybe some areas do. We... my family aren't religious."

He does feel that maybe he should do something. He should try to do something for Jack. What Or how, he doesn't know. He's not sure he should try to disturb his spirit either, but...

"What happens if you don't have the candle, or something for them?"

[handleyourshit]

"It's not always religious," she answers, and when she looks up from where she's knelt to be able to reach it better and sees him watching but coming no closer, she tips her head in invitation. Yes, it's personal. It's also meant to be shared, and the people she has to share it with is extremely limited.

"I mean obviously it is for a lot of people, but it doesn't have to be. It isn't for me." She doesn't have the luxury of right or wrong, heaven or hell, sin or virtue. She just does the best she can and tries to stay alive. "It's just... nice, to think of them again, and think that maybe they're thinking of me too."

The little tea light is almost out, and Rosita has a new one sitting nearby ready to light. It makes the whiskey shine beside it.

"They can still come, if everyone wants it badly enough. They're still who they were in life: it's easier for some, harder for others. We ease the way because we love them. When we can't, they understand because they love us." It's a bit of a rationalization, but she says it anyway, and hopes it's true.

[assassin_daddy]

Jacob sees the gesture and gets up, using a paper napkin to clean his hands of any crumbs before approaching. She says it isn't religious, but it does seem sacred, and he knows those are two separate things.

He kneels with her, between the sofa and the coffee table, still watching as she changes over the candle.

"It is. Good to remember them, I mean. And hope they are happy." Healthier than they were. What sort of man would Jack be, if he hadn't been so ill? If the madness hadn't consumed him? Happy. Wild, a bit like Jacob had been, charming too. Probably in trouble every other minute.

He finds that there's gathering tears in his eye, and he doesn't trust himself to speak again before he wipes the moisture away.

[handleyourshit]

Rosita has absolutely no idea what happens to people after they die; she has never pretended that she did, and before she came to Duplicity she was ever more certain that it was nothing. This place, of course, blows it all entirely out of the water but she hasn't been able to work that in yet, so she ignores it for the time being.

She feels the heaviness beside her before she actually consciously registers that he's wiping tears away, but she knows what to do with that. She sits, and she makes space, and she acknowledges that no matter how many people she's lost she does not know what he's feeling right now by not saying a single word about it.

When his grief has risen to the point he might make some kind of noise, sniff or cough or something else, she starts talking in a low, steady voice.

"When I was a girl, Mama had what felt like entire photo albums of our ancestors, and we'd build our ofrenda together, and she'd tell me stories as she set out each picture. Some of them were stories that had been told to her by my abuelos, her parents, and to them by theirs. Some of them were her own. It let us keep our family close, which is really the point even if you don't believe in the dead being able to find their way back in any real way." She wishes she'd had more patience for it, then, but children rarely do, and then her mother's picture was added to the display.

"I've lost... so many people. It's hard to think about them all so I usually don't. I just keep going because if I let myself miss them, I think I'd lay down and die too. It's the same for most people back home. But I still think about those stories Mama told, and... I think maybe there's space for it, now. Here. If we want there to be."

[assassin_daddy]

He's glad of the distraction. He wasn't so caught up in his own thoughts that he'd forgotten about her there, and Victorian sensibilities mean that he needs to get a handle on himself, calm down, stiff upper lip and all of that nonsense. Her words are enough to pull him back from memories of his son, and he takes a deep breath and turns his attention to her.

He doesn't know anything about his own family, not really. He knows what his father was like. He knows a little about his mother from what his grandmother would tell them when they were small. But other than that, he doesn't know anything. They don't have photographs. There was only one sketch of his mother, but he doesn't know what happened to that when his grandmother passed. All he knows, really, is that they were assassins. That's how they lived, that's how they died. He always wanted something else, something normal, but maybe he can have that through the stories she remembers. And maybe it will help both of them.

"I would love to hear them," He says, voice soft and a little unsteady before he fully gets a grip, "If you want to tell them."

[handleyourshit]

It would be easy to say that she doesn't - and true, too. She's spent a lot of time learning to never linger, never wallow, but to keep going. Don't ever look back. Don't yearn for what no longer is and never can be again.

She looks sidelong at him though, searches his face a moment, and thinks maybe she can make an exception this once.

"I'll try," she says, "But this holiday isn't about just one person. It's about the living, too. About the people we still have beside us." Just say it, Ro, she chides herself, and so: "Will you trade me? We can work through it together. Remember and honor together."

[assassin_daddy]

Not looking back and not lingering in the past is one thing, but shoving it out of mind entirely? He doesn't know if that works either. Who they are and where they came from is something important to most families, and it seems it certainly was for hers. To forget everything they did, all the things they achieved? That doesn't sit right with him.

He nods, when she speaks to him, taking another deep and calming breath to try and control himself, get a grip on himself.

"I... I think that sounds like a good idea." He says, and looks from her to the ofrenda. "Is there a set way to do it? A way to tell stories, or something like that?"

[handleyourshit]

She thinks maybe in some families there were, but as for hers? She shakes her head: "No. It's whatever you want to share, whatever's important enough to you to remember. Mama used to take each picture from its place on the wall one by one, and as she arranged them on the ofrenda, she'd tell me the story that went with it."

Which is not the story she'd like to tell about Reyna Espinosa, but she thinks her mother would approve that it's her legacy now anyway. They don't have pictures. Even if Rosita had had time to grab them out of her apartment in Dallas, she would have lost them a dozen times along the way from Texas to Alexandria, where she again has walls to hang portraits on - or here, if she had a mind to do so.

She presses her lips together a moment, wiping her palms down her thighs where she's knelt as she thinks, sifting through the years to find the thread to start.

"My favorite was tío Humberto. He had his mule with him, Guapo, his back piled high with packs and his tongue hanging out around the bit, like this." As a child she'd mimic the animal's face with her own, and her mother would do the same, and they'd laugh. Rosita sticks her tongue out now and smiles a moment after. "They worked for the miller in the town, carrying goods to customers and carrying back whatever was traded for them. There were chickens running between Guapo's hooves, and Humberto was trying to look serious but there was always mischief behind his eyes."

[assassin_daddy]

Pictures are nice, they put faces to names and stories, but they aren't the be all and end all. The important act is the repeating of the stories, the memory, the sharing of it, or so he thinks. Those are what keep people alive in the hearts of those that come after.

They've not known each other long, hardly any time at all, and the times he's met Rosita they've talked seriously, and she's been sometimes a little reserved. So he's not expecting her to stick out her tongue like that, a wonderful impression of a mule, and he can't help but laugh as she smiles. That is clearly all part of the story.

"I can't help but think Guapo and Humberto were a well-matched pair. All the donkeys I've ever known have had mischief in mind."

He's not sure if there is more to her story, but he thinks he has something he can tell her, something in a similar vein.

"My grandmother- we called her Nani, because she was Welsh- she had this little cottage on a hillside in the middle of nowhere. The hills around were covered in scrub, heather and thorn bushes, and you couldn't grow anything. But she had this little garden at the back, with flowers and vegetables and whatnot, and she'd spend every sunny moment out there, messing around with something, weeding something else, or talking to her bees."