#people popping in to say hello is always loved ofc <3 but. it clutters up a lot. if youre new/sharing kind words ill respond ofc! | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

possiblypeachy · 5 years

Text

tea & schemes. (2)

―; summary: Florence finds exactly what she wants, much to her misfortune.

―; pairing: jacob frye x ofc

―; word count: 3.4k

―; warnings: themes of violence/abuse against women but not all too descriptive. light swearing.

―; A/N: hello all!! i’m back again and sooner that i perhaps thought. as it turns out, i still have mad amounts of inspo for this. i feel like this is lacking compared to my last piece?? so give me some feedback and let me know??

please do say if you’d like to be tagged in future instalments :))

(both the Frye twins fall in love easily and you cannot tell me otherwise or i will physically cry. please bear this in mind.)

―; part: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10

― ❊ ―

Peter’s home was modest, with a certain clutter that suited a man still grieving the loss of his first wife. The intruding thought that the mess was from frequent scuffles here never seemed to leave the forefront of Florence’s mind. While he closed the door and hung both their coats up, she couldn’t help but inspect it all with a frown.

“Something the matter, Miss Abberline?” Peter gave her a worried glance, then followed her gaze to their surroundings. He moved to stand beside her and she could feel him hesitate before placing a hand on the small of her back. “Apologies for the clutter; it’s been… different without Abigale around.”

“No doubt, Mr Fullmore.” Florence felt almost sorry for the man; sadness can drive people to desperate measures. “If there’s ever anything I can do to help your mind away from the grief, don’t hesitate to ask.” She offered him a small, sad smile, of which he found some comfort in.

“Well, you being here now is a few steps in a good direction, I think.”

Her mother had always taught her to weigh one’s sins before exacting judgement upon them and Florence was certainly beginning to have difficulty following her words now. Peter always had such a sad light in his eyes and only ever seemed to smile when she popped over to his stall to say ‘hello’. She could tell that the last few months had been rough for him by the ever-present purple beneath his eyes and the grey hairs growing at his temple, despite him only being in his mid-twenties.

Though, the other half that revelled in hearing Freddy’s tales of justice also thought of all the men and women that had gone missing recently. Did one man’s woe justify the decimation of the lives of others? Of course not, she thought; those were innocent people taken to goodness knows where without a choice or an opinion on it. Taking away the freedom of a person was a fate worse than death, Florence has always insisted, and this man was wretched for helping in the process.

The grey-area between morals and law had always been too confusing.

Curious eyes flickered to the second floor and the strange scuff marks on the stairs. If he had children, perhaps she’d have let that pass but, as far as he had told her from their pleasant little chats in the afternoons, his wife had passed before they had the chance to try. A sudden uneasiness prickled at her skin, hairs rising on her arms and neck. In an effort to self-comfort, she crossed her arms beneath her chest.

From his tidying, he turned to give her a reassuring smile-- as though he wanted to ensure no second thoughts arose. Florence returned the gesture but asked a simple: “Do you have a room I might freshen up in? All I need is a mirror or--”

“Certainly, Miss Abberline. There’s a spare bedroom on the first left when you go upstairs.”

“Thank you.” She gave a small nod, a few strands of mousy hair drooping onto her forehead. A devilish smile curled at her lips and, as she ascended the stairs, she leant against the bannister as she turned, “Perhaps, Mister Fullmore,” He stared at her intently. Well, by ‘her’ one means the extra skin exposed by her position, “you might give me a tour of your own room when I return?”

Peter was left with the vision of her skin and lips burned to his eyelids, only able to hear the gentle creak of floorboards above him now. How could one woman be so captivating? He allowed himself a shaky sigh as he opened the liquor cabinet, pulling from it a whiskey he’d been saving for the past few months or so. He could, with all his heart, declare that Florence Abberline was a goddess among women. Well, to him at least.

If only he knew.

There was a sense of loss on the upper floor, as though someone else should be walking these halls beside Peter. Certain things had been untouched for a long while; there was enough dust atop that tabletop clock in the corridor that, if disturbed, it would’ve thrown Florence into a sneezing fit.

Her gaze flickered to the door left ajar to her right-- presumably his bedroom. With a glance back down the stairs behind her and the sudden realisation of the sheer speed of her heartbeat, Florence sucked in a breath and crept her way inside.

The left side of the bed had been unmade, while the other looked still-- unmoved. There was a photo frame on the nightstand to the left. Peter beamed in it, his hand hooked around the waist of an almost sickly-looking brunette, wedding veil framing the sharp angles of her face. She looked happy enough though, despite her illness. Consumption is what drained her life, Florence recalled; Peter could barely say the word without a lump appearing in his throat.

That feeling of melancholy rose in her chest again and she frowned. Peter was a good man. It’s a shame things had come to this.

Tearing her eyes away from the image of them both, she began her investigation. Shaking hands fumbled with the doors of his wardrobe only to find nothing inside. She pulled open drawers, scanning over letters from his mother, a photograph of his siblings, correspondence between himself and some tailor in Birmingham. Reading over the last letter, she found nothing more than a confirmation of his order for a few new shirts and… a dress? Eyes narrowed, she glanced to the postscript to find that he had wanted to gift her a dress-- a courting present, no doubt. Her heartstrings tugged again and, with what will to finish this off she had left, she slammed the drawer shut, flinching upon hearing how loud the noise was.

For a few moments, she stayed still, listening, watching the door.

Nothing.

Good.

Florence fell deep into thought. Where would she hide something? Her gaze flitted from area to area, like she was checking things off of a list in her mind.

Wardrobe? Already looked.

Shelves? Too easy to find.

Desk? Nothing but plain paper.

There was movement downstairs. She worried that he could hear her heart thumping in her chest.

Come on, Florence Abberline; you have sleuthing in your blood.

She suppressed a gasp and scrambled towards the bed, falling to her hands and knees. A hand patted about beneath the bed, eyes closed in fear of what else she might find down there.

Dust.

Leather.

Dust--

Wait.

She tugged at the leather and a notebook came sliding into her grasp. Hands shaking, Florence stood up again and let out a strained breath, like she was trying to calm her nerves but was all too aware of the noise it would make. Placing the book on the bed, she desperately tried to untie the knot at the front but a mix of clamminess and adrenaline stopped her from being able to still her fingers and pick at the string.

A draught from behind her rustled the fabric of her dress but, in her panicked stupor, she didn’t move to investigate, still working on trying to pry her way into his notebook.

“Having trouble, are we?”

That alone was enough to make Florence go into a frenzy and she turned, book in hand, to smack her assailant, ready to jump out of the open window.

Open window?

The windows weren’t open when she first came here.

Her swing got weaker and a hand pressed against it, to gain her attention rather than actually stop her ‘weapon’ in its tracks. Florence, having closed her eyes with the theory of ‘if I can’t see them, they’re not real’, finally let her gaze drag from the book to the body in front of her.

Jacob.

She narrowed her eyes.

Jacob.

“You are the Devil, Mister Frye.”

“So I’ve been told.”

He practically pinched the book from her grasp and shuffled around her to place it back on the bed. He bent his left hand back somewhat and a blade rocketed out of his gauntlet, to which Florence, from her position leant over his side, jolted backwards. The blade retracted again, string now cut neatly through, and Jacob opened the notebook, taking a step back to let her rummage through the pages as she saw fit.

“I didn’t whistle.” She mentioned and she could see him shrug beside her, leant against the bedpost.

He gave a half-smile. “I suppose I simply couldn’t wait to be alone with you.”

Florence laughed quietly and shook her head, turning for a second or two to give him a half-chiding look. “I wouldn’t recommend anything on this bed, Mister Frye. Have you seen the stains?” She raised her eyebrows and gestured with her head to the exposed mattress. Jacob chuckled and straightened his posture, moving to peer over her shoulder and at Peter’s writings in the book.

He had written of his usual daily tasks, making it somewhat of a journal. Florence flicked through the pages far too quickly for Jacob to keep up, leaving him only to hope that she knew what she was looking for. He did, however, notice that her lips would purse and the usual warm tones of her eyes seemed to cool and steel when she was concentrating.

After a few moments of darting back and forth in the book, she came to a messy page, filled with scribblings and lists. She scanned over the writings and her expression recoiled in disdain when she found it to be a list of names and locations. The first six had been crossed off-- all names of people who had gone missing in the area recently. The next was a young lady who she’d spoken with briefly in the public library-- Mary-Anne Parrish. According to this book, she was ‘due’ to be delivered to one Harry Spurling by tomorrow afternoon and--

The bedroom door opened and Florence scrambled to close the notebook. She soon realised it was a futile attempt to cover her tracks, however, when she felt Jacob’s arms brush against hers.

Peter looked betrayed and furious. “Miss Abberline, what do you think you’re doing?” She opened her mouth to speak-- a stupid decision in itself-- but Peter interjected with a harsh point to Jacob, “And, who is this? What’s he doing in my bloody house?”

They were both silent for a few moments. Florence noticed that Jacob had shifted his body so that it obscured more of hers. One of his hands came out in a calming gesture. “Mister Fullmore, we were just… making an…” Jacob glanced back to her and she gave him a bewildered look, as if to tell him that he’s on his own, “...enquiry on--”

“Shut up!” Peter bellowed. Jacob felt Florence tense behind him. “Miss Abberline, I trusted you and-- and now you do this?” He gestured wildly to the book behind her. There was a glint in his eyes that told her that he knew. “You… rummage through my things while I wait, like a mutt, downstairs, thinking that you have any kind of liking for me? I am not,” He was red in the face, spitting as he shouted, “some kind of fucking lap dog!” There was a pause. He exhaled deeply, eyes closed. “What did you find in the book?”

Florence pushed in front of Jacob and he gave a worried look. Her hope was that he would calm down if she approached him. “Mister Fullmore-- Peter-- it was not my intention to--”

“What did you find in the fucking book?”

Jacob gritted his teeth and took a step forward. “Don’t you dare speak to her like that.”

Peter’s crazed gaze darted from Florence’s pleading eyes to Jacob, the flame of anger within him only being stroked further. A cursed smile curled his lips and it made her stomach flip with unease. “I didn’t realise that you were a cheap whore, Miss Abberline. If I knew I could buy my way to you, I would've done it earlier.” Her face dropped, brows knitting together, incredulous. “How much does he pay for you?”

A stinging slap came to his cheek and he reeled to the side, a hand coming up to his face. Florence, enraged, pointed at him, body trembling with a newfound source of adrenaline. “You are a scumbag, Peter Fullmore. A dirty, filthy scumbag--”

“Flor--”

Jacob couldn’t shout out a warning before a backhanded slap cracked across her own cheek and Peter’s other hand connected with her throat. She made a choked cry for help, but it was muffled by the noise of one of her hands grabbing onto the wardrobe door to anchor herself. The other wrapped around Peter’s wrist and pushed, though she knew it was of no use. “I can’t have this harlot telling her brother--”

His hand had barely been there for three seconds before Jacob was upon him, grip tugging at the hair on his head, using that leverage to slam Peter’s head into the wardrobe. The taller man recoiled and groaned, going to nurse the crunch he heard in his nose, but was stopped from moving any further by Jacob locking his arms behind him. Peter, in an attempt to get out of the hold, tried to kick back but a blade poked into his back and Jacob, voice hot and angry in his ear, uttered: “I would advise against that, Mister Fullmore.”

Florence, having now blinked the stars away from her vision, stormed forward, a look of disgust that ladies barely wore painted across her expression. Jacob furrowed his brows, confused at what she was planning to do but, upon seeing how she used Peter’s shoulders as leverage to deliver a swift kick to the groin, it all clicked into place.

Jacob himself flinched, face contorted in almost sympathetic pain, as Peter slipped to the floor. He certainly wasn’t going to be standing again for a while after that.

She gave a little, breathless laugh and leered over him, fury still burning in her eyes. “How’s that for a little whore, eh?” Florence then spat at him, the offending ball of saliva landing on his cheek. “You are a wretched man, Peter, and the world will be a better place with you locked away.”

Silence fell over the room, bar her heavy breathing and Peter’s pained groans. Jacob’s hazel gaze flickered from the man on the floor to Florence. A redness had spread across her cheekbone, already showing early signs of bruising, and one of her hands ghosted across her neck. Strands of brown hair had fallen out of its elaborate bun on the crown of her head and now stuck to her forehead or fell along the side of her face. He could tell that she was hurt, despite her expression not.

“Mister Frye, could you go and collect a police officer so we might depart?” Life was finally bleeding back into her eyes but, for the first time, the smile she gave him seemed to be forced.

Jacob opened his mouth as if to speak, glanced down to Peter on the floor, then back to her, before nodding silently and rushing down the stairs.

When he left, Florence opened her mouth and moved her jaw to one side, trying to stretch away the pain in her face. One of her hands poked at the tender flesh there and she winced, casting a look of contempt to the body on the floor. She moved around him to sit on the bed, a tired sigh spilling from her lips.

Her eyes glanced at the picture on the nightstand again. “You know, Peter,” She began, her voice distant and with such a distinct lack of its usual emotion that it made Peter sober up somewhat on the floor, “it’s a pity that things ended up the way they have; life is a ruthless mistress sometimes. Abigale didn’t deserve what happened to her.” Peter made a noise on the floor, sounding almost like remorse, but Florence continued on. “But, those people in your notebook?” Her face crinkled and she shook her head, almost like she was suppressing tears, “They didn’t deserve that either.”

There was noise downstairs and the creak of stairs being ascended. She gave Peter one last look before the police entered the room. “I only hope that you get the help you need to endure, Mister Fullmore.”

A blur of blue barraged through the door, handcuffs already in hand. Two officers were working on restraining and removing Peter, while the other came to stand before her. “Miss Abberline?” She offered a small smile and stood, to which the officer seemed to be put at ease by, “The gentleman who called us has requested that you meet him outside. Is that okay?”

“Yes, of course. If you could…” She trailed off briefly before huffing out a laugh, “If you could get this notebook to Sergeant Abberline and tell him that ‘I told him so’, I would greatly appreciate it.”

With that, she left quite gratefully; had she spent any longer in that forsaken house she might’ve gone insane. The cool, early evening air was refreshing, sharpening her vision and mind. Honey eyes ran along the length of the road, searching for Jacob’s familiar flat cap and wide frame. A wave and a smile from him drew her attention to the other side of the road and, with a quick look to ensure no carriages would mow her down, she hurried across the road, as though she was a moth and Jacob’s smile was the comforting glow of a lamp.

“The lady of the hour! You really did a number on that bastard.” He congratulated as they began to walk along the street, his arm positioned slightly behind her body providing a calming sense of company.

She grinned and it looked closer to genuine than the last he saw of her. “You should thank my sister, Emily, for that one; Freddy would never have taught me a move so debilitating.”

“Well,” he tilted his head to one side, eyebrows tugging upwards, “remind me to stay in your good books.” Florence’s laugh, while small and quiet, had an authenticity to it that made Jacob’s chattering conscience calm down. Despite him feeling better about her mood, however, he still gave a long, hard look at the bruise forming on her cheek, frowning slightly. “How’s the wound?”

She furrowed her brows then, in a moment of realisation, placed her hand against her cheek, wincing against the pressure. “Fine. I’m the youngest of my siblings, Mister Frye; I can take a hit to the face with grace. Besides,” Her expression melded into one of joking pride, “the Abberline family has a robust constitution. If I had allowed a slap from a man like him to fell me, I would be shaming my very own name.”

Jacob chuckled lightly, his gaze filled with something akin to admiration when he glanced back down at Florence, who was still poking at the new blemish on her face. “Would you mind some company on your walk home?”

“Only if it’s good company.” She finally lowered her hand, turning to give him a smile filled with deviltry.

He gave a mock frown. “I guess I should be off then.”

A gentle smack came to his arm and he laughed, meeting her eyes with as much mischief as she had handed to him, “Stay, Mister Frye; you’re better company than most.” The dimple in her cheek appeared when she looked away from him again, gazing at the bunting hung between the street lamps. “More handsome too.”

He couldn’t help but allow the delight he felt in his chest to bloom to his face. His lips tugged upwards and his eyes flitted down to her. “Wait until I tell your brother, Miss Abberline.”

“You can try, Mister Frye.” Florence grinned, pearly whites on show and a jovial light beaming behind the warmth of her eyes. “You’d be the one told to stay away, not me.”

Jacob smiled, allowing his sight to finally drag away from her. There was an unusual clench in his chest and, with a sense of regret in anticipation of his sister’s words in the future, he realised that he’d been gazing at her in a similar way to how Evie had at Greenie. God, he’d barely been in London a week.

Oh, well.

He suspected staying away would be near impossible now.

#assassin's creed #assassin's creed: syndicate #ac: syndicate #jacob frye #jacob frye x oc #jacob frye x reader #frederick abberline #evie frye #florence abberline #writing #dont know about you guys but tbh i just want to write about them smooching already #i love them both

27 notes · View notes