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Christmas Eve, 1868
Ned arrives at the station well after midnight, an hour so late it seems that even London should have retired from its perpetual dumping of rain for the night. No such luck, not even on Christmas Eve: heavy clouds have blacked out the stars and the downpour is loud enough to compete with the noise of nearby carolers traveling home after Midnight Mass.
"Here we come a-wassailing among the leaves so green," they sing, smiling with apple-cheeked joy at Ned, layered in scarves and woolen coats he envies. He remembers being similarly bundled up making caroling rounds with his family, and how he never seemed to feel the cold then.
He touches his hat in acknowledgement and waits for the Frye twins' train to chug and lurch to a halt, eager to escape their merriment. Ned adjusts the parcel under his coat, tucked close to his body to spare it from the rain.
Their caroling follows him onto the train. Through a plume of smoke from the engines and the steady stream of water still dripping from his brim, Ned sees them become smaller and smaller.
"... And God bless you and send you a happy new year, and God send you a happy new year."
The train starts to pick up speed and trundle off toward their nearest hideaway. The rocking, unsteady motion beneath Ned's feet always makes him feel more like himself—more alive, perhaps. Which is funny, because he gets seasick something terrible. Smiling faintly, Ned lets himself into the compartment.
Evie Frye is still up. Ned has long suspected she doesn't sleep. Two of her green-clad associates are up, too, stifling yawns as they stand sentry. Evie sends him a little nod and bends back over her lettering, smooth brow quickly furrowed with concentration. She looks wholly absorbed in her work; Ned decides he'll talk to her later, and moves on.
It's no secret that Ned loves trains, but for most of his life it was mostly an academic affair. He took a few trains in and out of New York with his mother, and he didn't have the chance to appreciate much more of the construction than its luxury. Luxuries like being able to cross into other compartments without risking life, limb, and his bowler hat in the elements. He somehow manages to jump across the space between compartments with little but the moonlight to guide him, and fumbles for the latch in front of him.
"Blast," he says, once safely on the other side with the door closed in a hurry. He wipes as much rain as he can from his face.
"Yes," Jacob Frye agrees, with his usual laughing tone. "Who tried to drown you, Wynert? Let me know and I'll dispatch them for you. Free of charge."
Ned gives in to the inevitable and removes his hat, then his spectacles. The monogrammed handkerchief in his pocket is mostly sodden, but there's a dry corner he uses to wipe the lenses. When he replaces the spectacles, he has the unimpeded view of Frye hunched on a chair with a half-empty bottle of something brown in front of him, and a filthy rag pushed to a cut on his lip. His whole face looks distinctly battered. "You should do yourself a favor and dispatch whoever gave you that fat lip."
Frye grins, but it's a flicker of an expression. Ned wants to peel off his cold, wet clothing and collapse on one of the couches, but he's always had a hell of a time sleeping on this train, and knowing Frye is up in this state—on Christmas Eve, no less—would itch like a bug bite.
Ned sighs internally. He retrieves the parcel, wrapped in plain brown paper and tied with string, from his coat and puts it on one of the couches. "Merry Christmas," he says, sitting. "Pour me something, would you?"
"Is it? I'd forgotten," Frye says with the flippancy of someone who is lying. He dutifully procures a glass—Ned holds little hope of it being clean—and pours his brown swill into it generously. He even brings it to Ned, and surprises him by sitting in a seat across from him, legs outstretched so his booted feet nearly knock into Ned's toes. It's no surprise, however, that he's brought the bottle. He swigs directly from it and shifts his body gingerly, like even his bones hurt.
"Cheers," Ned says, and manages to knock back a respectable half of his glass. It burns the whole way down, almost suffocating. When his throat seems capable of producing sound again, he indicates the package next to him. "This is for you. And your better half."
"You shouldn't have." Frye dabs his rag at the scabbing wound at his lip. "Really. We didn't get you anything."
"Yeah, well, I give gifts to all my employees. It's good for morale." This is patently a lie. Ned had seen a pair of guns out shopping one day. Not identical, more like siblings: one had a gilt handle and the other an inlay of some sort of dark, polished stone he doesn't recognize, but they're alike in shape. The association was immediate and obvious. He doesn't know anyone else so uniquely dedicated to the killing art, either. It seemed boorish to leave the guns for any lowlife—any other lowlife, that is—to snap up, so he'd purchased them. Ned can appreciate the craftsmanship of any good weapon, but his own practical pistol suffices for him, and who would Ned give them to if not Evie and Jacob Frye?
The two of them sit in weary silence, Ned hoping the liquor will do its job of warming him from the inside out so he won't end up shivering. He thinks Frye either needs company or a complete lack of it, and he figures if it were the latter he would have been kicked out by now. Being a fairly forthright individual when it suits him, Ned isn't going to wait for Frye to find the bottom in his pit of misery before deciding to share it.
"So what's the story?" he asks.
"You mean my face?"
"Yeah." Ned sips more, looking impassive. He's asking for Frye's best interests, not his own. If Frye wants to carry his suffering like a noble cause he's welcome to it, but Frye's brittleness is giving Ned the impression he's liable to climb to the top of the train and shout his ills to the world. Or else jump off it. "Did someone take exception to it?"
Frye shrugs. He tucks the bottle between his thighs as a holding place. Ned nearly snorts.
"Just fight club. Even Assassins have to make a living, you understand."
"You lost?" Ned says, eyebrows raising. He's had occasion to see the twins cleaning up at a fight club, and half of London is whispering about their exploits to the point they've reached semi-mythic status. He amuses himself to think of London's terror if it ever realized the Frye twins only frequent the clubs as a passing diversion.
"No, I won." Frye shrugs again. "One of them got lucky and snuck in a few good hits, that's all."
Ned narrows his eyes. Frye is too well trained for one person to get the jump on him; the story isn't quite adding up. "I've never seen you with a scratch before. Must have been a bruiser."
Frye's mouth twists. The cut on his lip loses its battle against his expression and starts welling blood again.
"On Christmas Eve, too." Ned takes another sip. Frye's jaw tenses. "They still run rounds on holidays?"
Caught out, Frye laughs darkly and slugs from the bottle. "No, they don't," he admits, and then nods to the parcel. "What'd you get us? Give it over, Wynert."
Ned rests a forestalling hand on the box. "Tell me who ruined a perfectly acceptable face and I'll let you have your present."
Frye makes a face like he's smelled something awful. "My face is—more than acceptable. And I'm not a child you can bribe."
Ned taps the box with an idle finger. "We both know you can take it if you really want it, but what sort of gift would that be?"
"I don't know," he mutters, irritated. "I might like it better than blackmail."
Ned lifts his hands and spreads them in supplication. "Hey, it's your present. Do whatever you like. I just thought you might like some friendly conversation on Christmas Eve."
Frye leans forward and snatches the present up too quickly for Ned to even consider stopping him. He puts it next to him, though, and only fiddles with the string. "What're you doing here, anyway? Don't you have somewhere to be?"
That might have stung Ned on his first winter in London, but not now. He gives a wry grin and shrugs. "Sure, I had invitations to fifty parties. I'm the talk of the ton. Plus there's Mass with my family, and—oh, wait, I'd have to swim across an ocean for that."
Frye has the grace to look uncomfortable. Ned sighs.
"I need to talk with your sister, I owe you payment for the last job, and I bought your ungrateful ass a Christmas present."
"Thank you," Frye says meekly, looking up with wide and tender eyes.
Ned looks away. "Open the damn thing, Frye."
He does, scrabbling at the paper before his talented hands remember themselves and make quick work of the job. Inside the box is a mahogany case, with a black-velvet bed for the guns to lie upon—it's a gorgeous sight, and Ned looks back and takes a steady sip while Jacob's face is quickly lit with surprise and wonder. If one overlooks the scruff of his sideburns and paltry beard, he looks disarmingly young.
Oh, Christ, Ned thinks. I'm drunk.
"Good lord," he breathes. One hand flits across the gilded gun and then darts away like he's not allowed to touch. Ned's guess as to his preference was right. "That must have cost… a mint."
Ned makes a noncommittal noise.
Frye bites his lip for a moment, looks at Ned, and then back at the guns. He's gazing down at them like a loving mother regarding her child. "I—don't know what to say."
"'Thanks' works for me."
"I… Six Blighters accosted me when I was leaving a bar. They proceeded to take revenge upon my person. Or tried, anyway." Frye said it in a rush, like he was in a hurry to lance the wound.
Ned nods. A back-alley ambush makes more sense. "Not happy with your requisitioning most of London, are they?"
"Not happy with me killing their leader. Or that's what they told me. Apparently there's a hefty price on my head—and the Blighters aren't concerned if the rest of me happens to be attached to it or not."
"You killed their leader?" Ned's heard rumblings of the twins' exploits, and is regularly updated on the Rooks' expansion. Keeping up with it all had begun to seem like a pointless task. Jacob and Evie fought Blighter thugs left and right, seemingly every other day. But he did think he remembered hearing something above and beyond the usual—a significant blow to the gang. There were some mumblings of Frye joining forces with the Blighters months back, too, but Ned doesn't put much stock in gossip, and it's turned out to be false: the Rooks are still the Rooks, and still wearing those atrocious green uniforms.
Frye snaps the lid shut over the guns. "Roth," he says, in a low and dark tone.
Ned considers that for a moment. "Roth. Not that weaselly man with the mustache?" He'd dealt with him once or twice and is thankful it wasn't more, for Roth was mercurial and dangerous and Ned prefers to work with people he can mostly trust not to stab him on a whim. Ned's partial to coin, and in a business like his sometimes he can't be picky about where it comes from, but that was before the Frye twins came along and started cleaning up.
Frye's eyes widen again, and he barks a laugh so loud it startles them both. "Yes. Sorry, yes. That… Roth."
"Well, good riddance. I hope you sent those Blighters to join him."
Frye tilts his head, like he's listening to something far away. A smile curls the corner of his mouth. "I did, yes." A thin trickle of blood starts to creep down his chin from that same cut that won't stay closed.
"Frye, you've got—" he gestures, and Frye lifts his dirty rag. "Oh, good lord, no."
The cheap booze spares him from second-guessing. He stands, crosses the scant space between them, and fishes out his own clean, if damp, handkerchief. Now he's hovering over Frye, which is an odd vantage point. Frye has to crane his neck to up to look at him. The lantern in the corner catches the glimmer in his eyes.
Ned starts daubing the cut so Frye will stop peering up at him like a fawn.
"Thank you for the present," Frye says.
"You're welcome. Do you have any medical supplies? Ointment?" The gentle puffs of Frye's breathing keep catching the skin of Ned's hand, even seeping through the overlong cuff of his sleeve.
"I don't know."
"This might scar if you don't treat it right."
"I never scar." Frye raises an eyebrow that is most definitely scarred and then smiles up at him when Ned pulls the handkerchief away to check if the bleeding's been stemmed. "Are you worried for my acceptable face?"
"Would you stop smiling? You keep reopening the cut," Ned says, exasperated. "Your sister probably has ointment." He hopes Frye hasn't noticed the slight tremble in Ned's hand, but the man is an Assassin—there's no doubt he has.
A regrettable warm feeling is pooling in his stomach, and he can't even attribute it to the alcohol.
"Probably," Frye agrees lazily. The look in his eyes is not helping the warm throb in Ned's gut.
Luckily, Ned knows what will put an end to this madness immediately. "Why did you make up some story about fight club?" he asks in a bland tone.
As expected, Frye stiffens slightly. Ned imagines he can feel it, even though his touch is minimal and blocked by the handkerchief. "I suppose for the same reason you're lying about why you're spending Christmas on my train."
"Fair enough," Ned says. It's easier to feel prickled than it is to feel… whatever other emotions Jacob Frye inspires in him. Frye, for all of his deadly prowess, seems so much like a kid, and they both categorically refuse to speak seriously. Ned is forever wry, slippery like the thief he is, and Frye is always laughing at the fires he starts. It's not the best foundation to build on. The two of them are not meant for more than short doses, but...
The idea of spending Christmas Eve alone again seemed unbearable when he knew he had a train he could find sanctuary on. And he had the gift for the twins. Now his own folly is staring him in the face. Literally: Jacob Frye will not stop staring at Ned's face, taking careful inventory of whatever he sees there.
"I don't mean to imply that I—um, that is, Evie and myself—don't like having you here. Especially if you bring us presents." His voice is soft, lullingly so.
Ned carefully peels the fabric away from Frye's face. The bleeding has stopped again. For now.
"I'll keep that in mind."
"Ned." Frye catches Ned's wrist in his long fingers when Ned makes to pull away. "I'm sorry. Christmas is… difficult. Our father… well, Master Assassins see no need for frivolity. Evie buries herself in work and I spend the day drinking, if I'm not—Well, we're not great company. But if you want to spend Christmas with us, we're happy to have you." His hand is warm, and there are scrapes on his knuckles. He still hasn't let go of Ned's hand.
"And presents." Ned's throat is suddenly feeling tight. He clears it. "Well, I'm sure it's no secret that Christmas is, uh, difficult for me too. Spending it soused and patching you up is better than the alternative, so I think I'll stick around. Maybe get some shuteye."
He pulls his hand back, but Frye leans closer, like he's chasing it.
"You can never get to sleep on the train. Stay up and drink with me."
"I'd rather not."
"Why not?"
"I've had enough." Ned's breath is coming shallow and fast.
"Let me thank you for the gun."
"You've already thanked me, twice you've—"
Frye slides his hand through Ned's thick, rain-curled hair, fingers so deliberate and slow the sensation of them chases shudders down Ned's spine. He's leaning up, eager by the look on his face and shy going by his eyes. Ned has to bend to even their height difference. Frye's grip is so tentative that he could pull away, but Frye's mouth is lush and parted and right there, inches away.
Frye exhales right before their mouths meet, a hot rush against Ned's skin. Frye's lips are chapped and there's a faint metallic taste, or maybe Ned's imagining it, but after a beat—Ned thinks both of them are surprised that this is actually happening—he yields readily. His mouth opens wider for Ned's tongue at the slightest push.
Frye isn't clumsy, as Ned might have suspected, or overly practiced. He takes what Ned gives and follows his lead. The kiss is sweet, and a thorough exploration; Ned cups Frye's bruised face in his hands to further direct it. The working of Frye's jaw beneath his touch is a remarkable feeling, and even the rattling under their feet seems to quiet for the duration.
When Ned breaks the kiss, Frye's eyes take a moment to blink open.
The look on his face is as wondrous and disbelieving as when he'd opened his gift. Ned will regret kissing him later, along with his morning headache, but for now, he gives a small smile and pulls back a few feet. He holds out his handkerchief, though, and after a dazed moment, Frye takes it. The letters N.W. are folded into his palm.
"Merry Christmas," he says, his own tone coming out low and meaningful in a way he didn't intend but still won't regret.
"Happy Christmas," Frye replies. "That was, er—"
"Incredibly stupid," Ned says, rubbing the back of his neck but not quite able to stop smiling.
"Yes. Let's do it again." A glint of flirtation is in back in Frye's eyes, but he's clearly serious.
Ned just shakes his head. He's painfully aware of his susceptibility to terrible impulses right now, and when it comes to Frye in general. "You only get one," he declares. "The other's for your sister."
As quick as he can, he snatches the mahogany case from beside Frye and skitters away with it, making for the compartment door. He gets it open one-handed, and he can't regret the stinging wind and rain in his face when he hears Frye howl indignantly behind him, "You are not allowed to kiss my sister, Wynert!"
The look Evie gives Ned when he arrives in her compartment grinning madly and soaked to the bone, holding the case aloft like a trophy, is its own sort of present.