2A/N: Did I say this series was a oneshot? Oops. I accidentally wrote more. Enjoy lol
Usual content warnings for abuse, swearing, etc. But also, BIG WARNING for gore this chapter. I didn't intend to make a particular scene really gory, but it turned out really nasty and I felt like it was fitting to keep it that way (for reasons that will soon become clear), so just a heads-up if you're not good with that kind of thing. If you want to skip it, you'll probably see it coming, and just jump to the horizontal line under it when you do.
Thanks for all the love, favorites and follows. It means a ton!
George Westhouse had always looked up to Ethan Frye. The man had saved his life, after all, when he was jumped by robbers out by the mill and Ethan swooped in to tear them to shreds; that was how he'd been convinced to join the Assassins in the first place, to become part of something bigger than himself, and in that Ethan had always been his stalwart protector and mentor. To George, Ethan was a clever, intelligent and well-spoken man, full of wit and tidbits of Assassin history, always teaching George something new and telling him fascinating stories of his Assassin travels; and for many years, George had considered the man to be his closest and truest friend.
So when Ethan's ten-year-old daughter, Evie, had confessed that Ethan was abusing them, it had been the greatest shock of George's life. He could never have imagined that his friend would do something like this, but he could not deny the mottled purple bruises on Jacob's arms and the tears in Evie's eyes, and in that moment surprise and horror had given way to cold rage. He had risen from their bed and stalked into Ethan Frye's bedroom, Hidden Blade burning on his arm, ready for answers.
Ethan was still fast asleep when he entered. George shut the door, and then locked it and stuffed a towel under it for good measure, so as not to frighten the children in case things got ugly. Then, still burning with fury, he had stormed over to the bed and shaken Ethan awake. "Wake up," he snarled, as Ethan opened his eyes and blinked groggily at him. "You've got a lot of explaining to do."
"What?" Ethan said, blearily. "I don't -"
George seized him by the collar and slammed him back against the bedframe with a loud crack; Ethan yelled in pain and rage, and tried to fumble for his Hidden Blade, but he was too dazed from blood loss to snap the latch in time before George had pinned him to the bed, Hidden Blade drawn and pressed against his throat. "Answer me," George snarled, as Ethan struggled feebly against his grip. "What the fuck have you been doing to those kids? Why does Jacob have bruises?"
"I didn't mean to," Ethan slurred, weakly. "It was only a couple times."
"A couple?" George could barely contain himself; he could feel the anger building in his body, the urge to jam his Hidden Blade straight up his mentor's throat into his brain. But he resisted the temptation. He needed answers - he needed to understand what had happened to his best friend, the man he had thought so virtuous and untouchable. "What's wrong with you, Ethan? What happened to you? The Ethan I knew -"
"I never wanted kids." Ethan's voice was dull. "I never wanted the fucking kids. I tried to talk Cecily out of having them. But then she did, and now she's dead." He spat the word out. "And it's because of them."
George went cold inside. He stared into the flat eyes of his mentor, so hateful and angry, and finally understood the twisted chain of logic that had led this man to do such terrible things. He remembered the night that Cecily had died, how Cecily's mother had insisted that Ethan take the children despite him saying he didn't want them, that he couldn't even bring himself to look at them. You'll learn to love them, she had reassured him, and Ethan had certainly played along with the pretending, had kept up the illusion of loving his children for ten long years. But now the pretending was over, and George looked into those dead eyes of his best friend in the world, and realized he no longer recognized him.
"You could have given them up for adoption," he said, softly. "Or given them to me. I would have taken care of them. You didn't have to hurt them."
"Serves them right." Ethan sounded utterly unapologetic. "If I'd had the chance I would have done it earlier." He spat at the side of the bed. "If only I could have smothered them when they were born. Then I wouldn't have had to -"
George drove the blade straight up into Ethan's brain, deep into his neck, spurting arterial blood over his arms. Ethan uttered a ragged, hollow scream and jerked like he'd been shot, and George hastily clapped a hand over his lips to silence him, so he wouldn't frighten the children; and George stared into Ethan's eyes as he twitched, swore, clawed at George one last time, and died slowly and painfully in his arms, wanting to see every moment of it. He felt a strange need, an obligation to the old Ethan Frye he had once known, to watch the death of the monster he had become.
Then, feeling hollow and empty inside, he pulled the blade free from Ethan's skull, and Ethan slumped to the blood-soaked bed, dead. He wiped sticky grey brain matter off his blade, then went into the washroom to clean the blood from his hands, so the children wouldn't be afraid when he returned.
And that was the last time George Westhouse saw his friend, as he left the room and closed the door on him forever - broken, crumpled and dead in his own bed, a shell of what he had once been. Rest in peace, old friend, he thought. It was more than he deserved.
He never thought twice about taking the children home with him that night. There was nowhere else for them to go, after all, and he figured that if he could give them a better place to stay than the orphanage, at least for a little while until he could find a better arrangement for them, then that was the least he could do. And besides, he loved his little Fryes, and it broke his heart to think that the only father they had ever known had done such horrible things to them - all without his knowledge, all under his nose. And yet he still felt, in some way, responsible for not seeing it sooner.
And so the Frye twins became his - temporarily, he insisted to himself, still trying to convince himself that he would find a new home for them soon. But not even a week had passed before he had decided that his temporary solution was going to have to be permanent, because there was no way he was letting Jacob and Evie suffer alone in one of the dingy orphanages down the road, and because despite himself he already loved them. He wouldn't have had it any other way.
But first, he knew, he would have to get through to Jacob.
The first few days were the hardest. Evie was shy and anxious at first, always hiding from him and avoiding him whenever she could; but she wasn't really afraid of him, he soon learned, and sometimes she would run up to him unexpectedly and hug him fiercely, and bury her little head in his shirt, clearly seeking comfort. She loved when he told her all of his Assassin stories and gave her history lessons, and she reveled in exploring his house, always finding new spots and secret places with the thorough patience of an archaeologist on the hunt. She made friends with his housekeeper, Louise, and she loved running around the backyard and trying to balance herself on his flower boxes, practicing her Assassin footwork; and perhaps, George thought, it was the joy of finally being rescued, because it seemed that first week that Evie Frye was the happiest little girl in the world.
But Jacob... Jacob was a different story.
He had trusted him enough to hold him on the carriage ride home, but after that, it was as if George had publicly declared his alliance with the Templars. Every morning when he came in to wake up Evie with a good morning kiss, it was to find Jacob sitting protectively in the corner, watching him hawklike, as though to make sure George never laid a finger on his sister; and whenever George reached to touch his hair or reassure him Jacob would flee as though he'd been burned. He refused to eat or drink anything while George was around, as though terrified it would be taken away from him; but in the morning George would open the pantry to find he'd been raided overnight. Clearly the boy ate ravenously when he wasn't looking, because he would often find entire boxes and cans of food gone without a trace.
And he could have sworn, after a few days, that his belts were slowly going missing, too.
"He's scared," Louise told him softly, as George stood staring blankly at the empty spot in his closet where he was sure he'd just put a brand-new set. "He thinks you're going to hurt them, too. You mustn't blame him."
"I don't blame him." George closed the closet door, feeling an ache in his heart. "How do I get through to him? What do I do?"
"Well," Louise said gently, "you could start by telling him he can have food. Clearly he thinks he has to steal it to eat."
So George decided to try making a move on the pantry, before Jacob's appetite cleaned him out of house and home. That night he made Evie pork and beans for dinner, and then saved an extra plate and loaded it high with mashed potatoes and extra meat. Then, cautiously, he carried it up the stairs and left it outside Jacob's door with a fork and a napkin, as a kind of peace offering.
The plate was clean the next morning when he came back to get it, every crumb.
So he did it again. Over the next few days, he made bangers and mash, red potatoes, turkey sandwiches, pulled pork and kettle chips, everything that Evie told him was Jacob's favorite foods; and every night he would save a plate and leave it outside Jacob's door, and every morning it would be empty.
And then one night, on a whim, instead of leaving the plate outside, he knocked on the door instead. "Jacob," he called. "Can you open the door?"
There was a long silence. Then the door opened a crack, and Jacob's eye peered out, staring at him distrustfully.
George offered him a plate. "I made grilled cheese and green beans. I thought you might want some."
Jacob reached out, tentatively, and George gave him the food and watched as he sat down on his bed to eat it. Then, still testing his luck, George sat softly down beside him, noticing for the first time how thin he was.
"I won't hurt either of you," he said, and Jacob, who was wolfing down the grilled cheese like his life depended on it, looked up cautiously. "I won't lay a hand on Evie, or you. You have my word."
Jacob stared at his plate for a while. Then he spoke, a bit tentatively. "Sorry I took your stuff."
"It's okay." George reached out, tentatively, testing. Jacob flinched away at once. "It's okay," George soothed. "It's okay. I won't hurt you."
Jacob grimaced, but gingerly allowed George to stroke his hair; the fear in his eyes was palpable, and for the second time that day George felt his heart ache.
"Fathers are supposed to protect," George told him. "And that's what I'll do. I'll protect you. Both of you. Okay?"
Jacob's lip quivered; then, wordlessly, he leaned into George's chest, and George wrapped his arms around him, holding him tightly. And there they stayed for a long time, George stroking his hair and murmuring soothing words, relieved that Jacob had decided to trust him again.
And over the next few weeks, Jacob finally made his presence known in the house, no longer hiding in his room or lurking in the shadows; he showed up to dinner when he caught wind that George had made cookies for dessert, and George was so delighted that he gave him three extra helpings. He started to jump around on the outdoor furniture, just like Evie, and play Templars and Assassins with their toy soldiers. Sometimes George would be sitting in the living room and hear him plinking on the old grand piano in the parlor, with Louise guiding his fingers. "No, that's a C-sharp," she'd correct him gently, and he would try his best to keep up as she taught him Hot Cross Buns, Fur Elise and Turkey In The Straw. For the first time, George thought fondly, it felt like Jacob was finally beginning to relax, to realize he was safe here.
And finally, as George was sitting on the couch reading the newspaper, Jacob crawled up onto the cushion beside him, nimble as a jungle cat, and tugged on his sleeve. "George," he said.
"Yes?" George lowered his newspaper to show he was listening.
Jacob opened his mouth as though to say something, then shut it hastily, clearly nervous.
"What is it?" George coaxed. "Do you need something?" He was so delighted that Jacob was talking to him that in that moment he would have given him anything he wanted.
"Can you teach me Assassin stuff?" Jacob asked, tentatively. "Not the bad stuff. Like the cool stuff."
He was so young, George thought; and that was so much to ask. He didn't even know if they had the gift yet, if they had strong enough blood to see through walls or jump from buildings and land unharmed. But when Jacob looked at him beseechingly, with such tentative hope in his eyes, his heart melted. "Oh, all right," he said, and Jacob lit up like a Christmas tree. "What do you want me to teach you?"
"Teach me how to fight," Jacob said earnestly. "I want to learn how to fight."
George frowned. "That's a lot to ask," he said. "I don't know if you're old enough -"
"Yes I am!" Jacob said, impatiently. "Teach me."
"But Jacob - you have to understand what you're asking," George said, trying to impress upon him that he was going to teach him the art of dealing death; but it only seemed to frustrate Jacob, who started to get tears in his eyes.
"I want to be able to fight back," he said, with such desperation in his voice that George finally understood why he wanted to learn, and felt his heart break. "I want to fight back when people hit me. Teach me."
"Jacob," George said, softly. He reached to touch his hair, but Jacob pulled back as though stung.
"No!" Jacob hit his arm angrily, and George hastily yanked it back; it hadn't hurt him at all, only startled him, but Jacob froze the moment he did it, apparently realizing what he'd done. He looked at George with wide eyes, and scrambled to get off the couch and run away, clearly expecting to be punished.
"No, no, Jacob!" George tried to catch him, but Jacob fled upstairs. "Jacob, it's okay! You didn't hurt me!"
He reached the door of Jacob's bedroom just in time to hear Jacob jamming a chair up against the doorknob. George sighed, realizing the boy intended to sit in there and wait him out until he left.
"Jacob," he said, reassuringly. "I'm not mad at you. Let me in."
There was silence from the other side, but George could swear he heard sniffling.
"I'm not angry," George said. "In fact, I'm impressed. That was a good hit."
"I'm sorry," Jacob sniffled.
"Don't be sorry." George tapped gently on the keyhole. "That's exactly what I'm trying to teach you. Good form and everything."
He heard a tentative giggle from the other side. "No it wasn't," Jacob said. "That was terrible."
"Well, maybe I can give you some pointers," George said, playfully. "Can I come in now?"
There was a loud scraping sound as Jacob moved the chair, and then the door opened. Jacob stood there, smiling tentatively. "Teach me how to hit better," he said, and George laughed and lifted his hands, palms open.
"Come on," he goaded, and Jacob struck his palms once, then twice, and then a third time, gaining bravery each time. "Come on. Harder. You have to put your back into it."
Jacob looked at him fearfully, but when George gestured that it was all right he stepped into the next one and whacked George's palm hard, brass-knuckle style; he cringed back at once, clearly expecting a beating for the affront, but George laughed and told him he was doing great, and Jacob looked at him with utter relief, clearly realizing in that moment that he really was safe with him. He hit his hands a few more times, and then tried a whirling move he had learned from Evie, battering George's palms back with incredible force and agility for someone so young, and George was amazed and delighted at how natural he was at this, how easily it seemed to come to him.
"Harder," he encouraged. "Give me a good one. Come on."
"Rah!" Jacob yelled, punching hard into his left palm; that one actually knocked George off balance a bit, so fearsome was the strike. He marveled at the fact that this ten-year-old boy had just done what few trained adults could manage, and in that moment he looked at Jacob and saw the Assassin he would become someday in the set of those small shoulders and the fierce fire in his eyes.
"Excellent," he said, and held up his hands again. "Just like that. Do that again."
And that became how they trained, and as time went on George started to understand that this was how his son let off steam, that he really loved using his fists like this - that it made him feel powerful, able to take the world on, to combat the powerlessness of his childhood. So he bought him a punching bag, and then, when Jacob's constant whacking became too much for him to stand, he bought him some practice dummies, planted them in the backyard, gave him an old pair of brass knuckles and told him to go wild. He would often wander outside and find Jacob whaling on the dummies for hours on end, in the day and long into the night, fearsome and angry, face alight with fury; and sometimes he suspected who Jacob was seeing in those moments, whose face he was imagining on those straw-and-cloth heads.
And finally, when Jacob was old enough, George started to give him blades. First a small training dagger, then a proper cane with a sword tucked inside, one of his own favorites; and it seemed that the more Jacob trained with these, the more his confidence came back. He loved boastfully showing off his talents to Evie, who would indulgently smile and clap whenever he perfected a new move or sliced the heads off his training dummies. And on the day George handed him his first Hidden Blade on his sixteenth birthday, he glowed with joy as George carefully strapped it onto his arm, clearly eager to prove himself once he was given the rank of Initiate in a few years.
"You're not going to go on any missions yet," George said; that, he knew, would wait until they were twenty-one. "But for now, I'm giving it to you to train with, so you're ready when that day comes. I'm trusting you to be responsible with it and to take good care of it until then. Do you understand?"
"I understand," Jacob said, more solemn than George had ever seen him.
"Be very, very careful with it, and don't ever let an enemy take it from you, especially not a Templar," George went on, adjusting the fit and tightening the buckles around his wrist. "This is an ancient and dangerous weapon, and it will take a lot of practice before you fully understand how it works. If you're not careful with the mechanism, it'll slice your finger off."
"I'll be careful," Jacob said, clearly understanding the importance of this moment. "I won't let you down. I promise."
George looked at him, and in that moment he realized how much his son had grown. "I know," he said.
It was funny, how quickly the years went by. It seemed like hardly a blink, and suddenly he was standing in the trainyard in Croydon, speaking over his shoulder. "Think you both can handle it?"
And the response he'd been expecting came not from behind, but from above. "What a question."
He whirled, and there were his twins, grinning fiendishly from atop the train car beside him. "Oh, right, my mistake!" he said, too amused to scold them. "Ladies and gentlemen, the unstoppable Frye twins. See them nightly at Covent Garden!"
Jacob laughed. "Keep up, old man," he said, and Evie extended a hand to help him up; George grabbed it and clambered up with them, grumbling about being too old for this kind of thing. But he couldn't help smiling at how proud and eager Jacob looked, his eyes alight with excitement; he was ready for his first mission, and so was Evie, her eyes already turned to the horizon to watch the approaching train.
"George, honestly," Evie said, with a fond glance back in his direction; clearly she had already anticipated what he was going to say. "I've studied the plans of the laboratory and have every route covered."
"And I've got all I need right here," Jacob smirked, unsheathing his Hidden Blade with a fierce snick for emphasis. George sighed, mock-exasperated with his children's antics.
"Of course," he said, and then, to his utter amazement, Jacob reached out and patted him gently on the shoulder.
"Chat later, Dad," he said, warmly. "We've a train to catch."
And George could not help smiling as he watched his twins race towards the oncoming train and leap nimbly aboard. "Jacob!" he shouted, pretending to scold them. "Evie!"
"What?" Jacob called back, laughing. "We're just taking the express route!"
George waved a dismissive hand, chuckling. "May the Creed guide you, you vagrants!" he shouted at their receding backs, knowing they would hear him.
And later in the day, he returned to find them both sitting at their designated spot behind the steel warehouse and waiting for him, looking very sheepish. He sighed. "What went wrong this time?" he asked.
Evie sucked in a breath and turned to face him, obviously knowing they were in for a scolding. "There was a slight complication," she said.
"How slight?" he said, severely.
"The lab exploded," Jacob offered, helpfully. Evie shot him a furious look.
"Jacob," she hissed, but George said flatly,
"You derailed a train."
"Oh!" Evie said, feigning shock. "He did, did he?"
"Well," Jacob grumbled, "the train derailed and I happened to be on it. But I killed my target."
"Brewster is also no more," Evie put in.
"Then all in all a successful mission," George said wearily, "in spite of you two." He gestured to Evie. "I'll talk to you about the lab in a moment. I'd like a word with Jacob first."
"Yes, sir," Evie said, and bowed off, leaving George alone with Jacob, who stared at him dolefully, clearly expecting another lecture about responsibility and staying on task.
"Sorry," he muttered.
"For the train?" George settled down beside him, looking at him thoughtfully. "I don't care about the train. I just wanted to make sure you were all right. It's hard, the first time you kill a man."
Jacob stared at his boots, saying nothing.
"I know it still bothers you," George said. "You still have the nightmares. I didn't want to force you to do this if you weren't ready for it."
"I was ready," Jacob said, quietly. "I didn't hesitate."
"Good." George reached out, tentatively, and laid a hand on his son's shoulder; when Jacob did not move to stop him, he left it there. "I'm proud of you, son."
Jacob managed to smile at that. "Always have to be the softie, don't you." But there was still a strange note in his voice that made George worried, and he knew something was bothering his son. He could always tell.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
Jacob picked at one of the gears on his Hidden Blade. "That night you took us home with you," he said, and George softened at the memory. "Did you kill him?"
George hesitated, and knew he had no choice but to tell him the truth. "Will you hate me if you know the answer?"
"No," Jacob said, looking up. "Tell me."
"Yes," George said. "I killed him."
Jacob nodded; clearly he'd been expecting this. "I hope he suffered," he said, simply. It was such a small thing to say, and yet George knew what was behind those words, and knew how much pain Jacob had been through to wish a death like that on anyone.
"You'll be all right," George said. He touched his son's face gently, the scar on his eyebrow from when Ethan Frye had gotten a little too rough. "You'll always have the scars. But the wounds will heal."
Jacob looked at his boots. "I love you, Dad," he said.
And at that, George didn't know what to say. In the eleven long years since he'd taken him in, his son had never told him that before. He had said thank you and please, but never had he said he loved him.
"To hell with you, Jacob," he said, fondly. "How can I be mad at you now?"
"It was my plan all along," Jacob grinned, clearly trying to play it off as a joke, but George could sense the relief in his voice, and knew he had meant it. "Are you going to go scold Evie now?"
"I'm not going to scold either of you," George said, rising to dust off his Assassin robes. "Although I do wish you had both been a little more subtle."
"Well, you know us," Jacob smirked. "Subtlety isn't really our specialty."
The weeks passed. George got letters from Evie every few days, telling him about their conquest of London and new landmarks in their journey. He noted with amused suspicion that her letters started to mention Henry more and more as time went on. Looks like she's taken a liking to him, he thought, when one letter went on and on about Henry's findings and archaeological discoveries in gushing detail. He'd imagined they would get along.
But the letters didn't focus on Jacob much - she would just toss in an occasional note about his progress in taking over the districts of London, or a little jab at his expense. Apparently he'd started a street gang called the Rooks, which did sound very much like something he would do, but beyond that George had no information to go on. He had no idea how his son was doing, and after a while it began to gnaw at him. He wondered if he should pay them a visit, just to make sure Jacob was doing all right.
Am I hovering? he wondered that night, as he hopped on a train bound for London and soon found himself stepping into the Fryes' train as it was stopped in Waterloo Station the next morning. He worried that they would think he was an intruder, but when he entered the lounge car and saw his son lounging on the couch, and Jacob lit up at the sight of him and sat up like a shot, he knew with a warm glow that he was welcome. "George," Jacob said, amazement in his voice. "You came by?"
"Just thought I would pay you two a visit." George settled down on a chair, and Jacob hastened to fetch him a glass and pour him a drink. "How have you been, Jacob?"
"Oh, splendid," Jacob said, earnestly. "I've taken over four districts of London now, and the Rooks are spreading like wildfire. We've almost got Starrick cornered."
"Good. I'm glad." George smiled at his son, loving the twinkle in his eyes. "I was hoping you would enjoy London."
"Well, it does have plenty of Templars for me to kill." Jacob winked. "So I'd say I'm enjoying it just fine."
"Of course." George took a drink, and then ventured to ask, "And you've been feeling all right?"
Jacob hesitated. "I had an - an episode a few weeks back," he said at last, reluctantly; and George's heart dropped. "But it was all right. Clara got me home, and Evie got me through it. And I've been doing fine now."
"You should have told me." George looked at him meaningfully. "Which reminds me, why is it always Evie who writes to me these days? Why haven't you written me anything?"
"Well," Jacob hastened to explain, "there was, ah - a shortage of stationery. And the paper store was closed. And I ran out of ink."
"Is that so." George sighed fondly. "Well, why don't you write to me sometime. I always look for your letters. I want to hear that you're doing okay."
"You know I'm fine, Dad," Jacob said, looking sheepishly at his boots. "I always am."
"Tell me you're okay anyway," George said. "Even if that's all you write in the letter. It'll make your old man feel better."
And sure enough, he got a slightly scuffed-up and wrinkled letter in the mail a few days later. He knew it was Jacob's because Evie always had beautiful, looping handwriting, but Jacob's was a bit less legible, and the address scribbled on the front was barely recognizable as English. Still, the sentiment of the carefully pressed seal and the little, hand-picked London stamp in the corner was clear, and the message inside, while brief, warmed his heart.
Doing okay today. - Jake
And down at the bottom, a little postscript, those simple words that meant so much to George Westhouse, who had gone through hell and back for his Frye twins and knew they had done the same.
P.S. I love you, Dad.
