Everything is Permitted

[madimpossibledreamer]

For this one, you can blame ninian with Doggone Days (https://archiveofourown.org/works/14842476) and tap_rat’s second chapter of Unfinished Fic Ideas inspired by that (https://archiveofourown.org/works/21598351/chapters/51521491). And then my own brain. And my previous semi-fix-it fics on the game. Because Jacob is a disaster bi that is very satisfying to write and given how his previous canon love interests went in Syndicate he absolutely would start flirting with the reincarnation of Ezio Auditore.

Main Points:
Assassin's Creed Syndicate
Summary: Evie wishes Jacob would use his head more often.  Jacob wishes Evie would stop jumping to conclusions.  They both might have a point.  (Desmond's just here with a hangover.)
Word Count: 1729
Rating: Teen

         “Jacob!” Evie hisses, and Jacob shakes the exhaustion and alcohol from his head because it does not do to face his dear sister unarmed. He needs his wits about him.
         “What have I done today, sister dearest?” he asks with the best smile he can muster.
         “Tell me you didn’t,” she continues, and that’s her scandalized voice, which gives him only a little more to work with.
         “I can hardly defend myself against an accusation if I have no idea what it even is.” He’s trying for angry, defensive, but only ends up with bone-deep weariness instead, which hadn’t even been a desired outcome.
         “‘Miles from New York’,” she continues, voice carefully kept low, and he can hear the skepticism around those words. “In. Your. Bed.”
         Ah.
         Yes, that would bother her, wouldn’t it.
         “Firstly, Evie, nothing happened.” She’s staring at him skeptically, he’s sure without even having to glance over or open his eyes. “We went out drinking with the lads, and it seems being a dog has dulled his sense of where to stop. He was actually stumbling by the time we got back. I was hardly going to ask him to sleep on one of the couches, as badly off as he was.” Like a gentleman. He’s not sure whether to be concerned about the amount it would take to do that to a Master Assassin or be quietly pleased that the man trusted his skills enough not to be too overly concerned about his own.
         He dares to glance over to see that while her arms are still crossed, her eyes have softened. “Firstly?” she clarifies with a raised eyebrow, and she would catch that.
         He takes a deep breath. It had bothered Miles, the abominable way they had been treating each other. (“I realize tensions are running high, but you’re still lucky enough to have living famiglia and you love each other,” he’d yelled, the only time Jacob can recall him raising his voice—as a human, anyway.) He doesn’t want to cause another bloody row, because they make both of them miserable and the last thing he wants is to inflict more on Miles, who by all accounts has suffered more than a man’s fair share—but it also needs to be said.
         “Secondly, you’re treating him as if he were one of your precious artifacts, Evie.” It’s merely the lack of accusation in his voice, the fact that he’s gentle if unyielding, that prevents her from yelling right back, he’s fairly certain.
         “I’m merely treating him with the respect a figure like him deserves!” Ah, but the bite is back.
         “We’re both aware that history is not one of my strong suits, so I don’t remember every last detail,” he admits. It’s a credit she merely sighs rather than starts another lecture. “I do remember enough to know how important of a figure he is—and yes, I am treating him with respect, but here’s the thing, Evie—he’s still a man. A lonely man, whose entire world is behind him. A man who breathes and eats and sleeps, the same as the rest of us. And unlike the last time you warned me, he is not opposed to ‘everything is permitted’, not in this.” (It’d been he who pointed out, “You can’t keep taking it out on your sister that you’ve got a crush on Green—and neither of you deserve that, anyway. You deserve someone who will love you back—and with any luck, not a Templar next time.” How he’d worked it out before Jacob was...well, it showed he was good at reading people, at any rate. It’s not common for Jacob to find himself blindsided by his own attractions.)
         Nearly there, judging by the look of her. Nearly there. “We could keep him on the pedestal, as you wish. He half-expects it, would utter no protest at such treatment. But it would hurt him. Why else would he give us an obviously fake name, attempt to protest that he is merely an average Assassin? He’s already had the weight of the world on his shoulders as Mentor once. Has he not earned whatever sort of rest an Assassin can have?”
         Her eyes soften fully, and it’s rare, that he manages to talk sense into her and not the other way around.
         “I’ll wait for him to make a move, should he choose to do so, but I’m not exactly making a secret of the fact I’m interested for more than just one night of fun, and if not, well, it’s an honor to be the friend of ‘Miles of New York’.” His Italian accent is horrible, he knows, but then, it’s not as if the man’s attempt at an American accent is any more convincing.
         They both laugh at that.
         He hadn’t been interested in the woman at the dance, but it seems the man simply doesn’t wish to engage in anything casual, or perhaps he simply can’t help his flirtatious habits but has no desire to follow through. It’ll be exciting to find out. He’s certainly weak to attention paid to him—and Jacob had been happy to do so, with that face and the attractive accent that merely strengthened with every drink and the way he’d just slip into Italian. He’d even even listened to Jacob’s complaints about their dead father, muttered something about how that would never ‘fly’ in his Brotherhood, not if he had a say, and how can Jacob be anything but helplessly charmed in return? Finally, someone who sees him as something other than the nuisance extension of the good Frye.
         The younger of the Frye twins has never before been inclined to learn a different language, but it occurs to him perhaps he should learn more than a phrase here and there. Maybe even Arabic, since the man’s obsession with yet another dead Assassin legend had borne fruit of its own, it seemed.
         She narrows her eyes, thinking, and then suggests, “Maybe we should have him look at the books.”
         “A rest, Evie!” he protests, and she raises an eyebrow at him, smile mischievous—and they think of him as the troublemaker of the two.
         “He’s getting restless, and I doubt he would protest good, honest work. It would not hurt to have another eye look at the expenses, and so on.” And no one would dare ask Ezio Auditore to do such manual labour, but mere Miles from New York? “Later, obviously, once he’s recovered. I’m not such a heartless task master as that.”
         It’s notable once the Master Assassin has awakened and is coming to join them, because like the day before his skill in keeping quiet is dampened quite a bit by the alcohol. The way they both fall silent at the man’s entrance as he lazily yawns and stretches is hardly discreet, more amateur than Assassin, but then, perhaps that’s for the best. They’re not purposefully trying to keep secrets from him.
         “I, uh.” Miles eyes them both, cautious. “Should I be worried about the two of you plotting?”
         “If you started, you’d never stop,” Jacob tells him with a laugh, and Evie nods with a small smile, and the patience with which he regards their antics wars with no doubt decades of experience of a Mentor taking care of Assassin novices getting up to their own brands of mischief.
         “I suppose I should be happy you listened to something I said and are getting along again,” he murmurs, more to himself than anything, delightful accent a mere ghost, today, though he doesn’t quite have the energy to try to eliminate it completely—or perhaps he’s coming to trust them more—and adds, “...Next time, Jacob, please make sure I drink more water and eat if I’m drinking. I used to remember, but I guess I still haven’t remembered everything about having a human body again.”
         “Headache?” Jacob replies, sympathetic, and thinks. “Evie, dear, do you think Nightingale might have something?”
         She raises an eyebrow in his direction—mostly because many of his romances involve not-particularly well-thought attempts at impressing the subject of his desire, rather than actually intelligently plotted courtship. And yet, Miles deserves it, and it’s hardly effort wasted if it’s still appreciated by both parties, even if nothing comes of it.
         The man winces, going to get some tea. He had suggested that some of London medicine was more advanced than America—than his own time period, he meant, though they both cheerfully ignored that omission—but had yet to get used to much of it, particularly opium and morphine. He wasn’t fond of the hallucinations, which seemed to occur much more commonly with him than Jacob or Evie was familiar with. Evie smoothly steps in to help him.
         “Perhaps a little light refreshment and more rest is in order,” she suggests, a little impish in the glance she sends his way, though Miles does not notice, and—oh hell, she’s going to innocently insist that Miles continue to use his bed, isn’t she? It’s a clear sign saying that she approves, she doesn’t mind, but possibly also a punishment. Not that he minds, either, but the bed is clearly going to smell of the man and he’s suddenly grateful for whatever part of his beard covers the blush that threatens to form at that thought.
         Miles blinks blearily in his direction, sipping at the tea, and then the thought occurs to him belatedly. “Oh. Sorry about commandeering your bed, Jacob. I can sleep on the couch,” he offers, vaguely waving at it, and Evie shakes her head firmly.
         “Nonsense. My brother emerged relatively unscathed, you did not, and it is hardly a hardship.” Yes, his twin is infuriating and he wouldn’t trade her for the world.
         He coughs but takes the opportunity with both hands. “Evie’s right. Besides, I should make sure to have a word with the Rooks. It’s probable our victory means the threat from the Blighters is postponed, if not gone, but it wouldn’t do to assume. In fact, I’ve probably spent enough of the day abed already.” He waves, jauntily, grabs his hat, and tries to make this exit from the train his best yet, showing off—and fortunately, the slight pain in his head only makes him stumble a little bit when the train is out of sight.