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The nightmares still startle him awake in the middle of the night sometimes. On the worst days, it almost feels like drowning; when he opens his eyes to complete darkness and struggles to catch his breath, when the muffled sounds of screaming stay echoing in his head long after he’s realised it was just another bad dream. He sits up in the bed and pulls his knees up to his chest, tells himself that it’s the chill in the air that’s making his hands tremble.
Though long healed, the old scars still ache, as if the tired burn of terror and torture has settled in his very bones. In those most vulnerable hours right before the first light of dawn, when it’s so dark it seems like the sun will never come up again and the visions of suffering are the most vivid, he could almost lose himself in it all again. In the fear, in the pain.
He would have lost himself a while ago if he were alone with all this.
Next to him, Freddy stirs with the softest sigh, and Jacob turns his head to the side and rests his cheek on top of his knees to look at him.
“Nightmares again?” Freddy murmurs, eyes still closed but always so attentive, so watchful, even when he’s half asleep.
Freddy, his Freddy, who falls asleep curled against his back and wakes up in his arms now like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like they’ve been doing this for years even though it’s barely been a few months since they both finally realised that they wanted the same thing, since Freddy slammed Jacob against the door of his Whitechapel lodgings and kissed him with all the frantic fervour of a man who’s been waiting to do this for almost twenty years and Jacob kissed him back just as passionate, just as desperate.
Almost twenty years. It’s still hard to wrap his head around it; that they could’ve had this so much earlier, all the way back when they first met. Jacob almost wanted to mourn the time they’d both lost on pretending they didn’t have feelings for each other, but he’s finally feeling at peace, now, for the first time in a long while. How could he ever mourn something that he gained, not lost?
After everything he’d been through, after Evie’d moved to India, after Jack, Jacob didn’t dare hope for much anymore; it was probably for the best anyway.
(He told Evie that it was okay, all those years ago when she made her decision to leave the country. He hoped it would be okay; after all, he’d been doing perfectly fine and London was thriving. Jacob only ever wanted the best for his sister, so he smiled at her and told her to follow her heart; but the city felt different ever since she left.
Evie wrote him letters every other week at first, telling him about all the places she’d seen and the people she’d met, mentioning her Assassin responsibilities in a new unfamiliar world, complaining about the relentlessly hot weather. Jacob could only bring himself to respond to less than half of those letters, and his words always came out wrong, as if he were addressing the damn queen and not his own sister.)
They say that eventually you can get used to anything, even loneliness. It was not unlike trying to get used to an open wound in his stomach, but Jacob was nothing if not stubborn, kept telling himself that maybe he just needed more time.
That was all in the past, though, so far behind him that it almost feels like that despair never belonged to him in the first place. Evie came back when it mattered the most, to save his life and fix his mistakes without blaming him for a single one of them; and she’s back in India already, but she left him with a promise that next time, she’d come back to stay, with Henry and the kids. Jacob still misses her all the time, misses being able to tell her anything—but he’s not alone. He knows now, so stupidly late to realise it but finally he knows that even in his darkest moments he’s never been alone.
He reaches out, brushes his fingertips against Freddy’s cheek; the corner of Freddy’s mouth twitches in a sleepy smile.
Maybe, Jacob figures, the thought still almost shy, too good to be true, maybe he won’t ever have to try to get used to loneliness again. The fear is all but gone, too, the kind that had been crawling under his skin ever since Jack took hold of Whitechapel, drew his noose tight around the borough and around Jacob’s neck.
Jacob no longer associates Whitechapel with Jack, with that devastating feeling of utter hopelessness. It’s simply where him and Freddy do most of their work—and there’s still so much work to be done, to heal the damage done to the borough, but they’re doing their best, and on some days, it almost seems like it’s enough. He doesn’t associate any other borough of the city with being left behind or being betrayed either, though he’s been through so much of it; but Freddy’s presence shines gold through the whole city, now, enough to keep Jacob warm even in the worst autumn weather London has to offer.
And every day, he gets to come home to Freddy’s cosy little flat in the Strand. The place is nothing like Jacob’s cold Whitechapel lodgings; it reminds him of the old train hideout a little, but it’s not quite like it either. The train was comforting in how busy, how loud and alive it always was, filled to the brim with familiar faces and friendly chatter. Jacob’s changed over the years, though, learned to appreciate the calm and quiet too, and this is what he finds in the safety of Freddy’s flat. It’s a stark but much needed contrast to the endless, almost cruel noise of London, a soft refuge from the long days of exhausting work. Even the landlady’s perfect; an elderly widow who’s quite possibly the only person in the whole city who’s not even remotely interested in gossip or the details of the private lives of her tenants.
And thank god for that; Freddy used to keep a window open late into the night whenever he was home. He’d always say it was stuffy inside and he needed some fresh air, even if Jacob grappled up to the second floor and tumbled in to find him wrapped up in a blanket, clearly cold and miserable about it. He’d always insist he was fine even as he immediately motioned for Jacob to close the window.
Jacob never pushed him; he was just thankful to still have somewhere to go, to still have someone who welcomed him in even despite all the trouble he always brought with himself.
The windows are usually closed now, though, ever since Freddy’s handed Jacob a key to the flat. No more breaking and entering, Freddy demanded, voice warm with amusement, then closed Jacob’s fingers over the key, covered Jacob’s hand with his own, and said, so soft, it’s your home. You belong here, and you don’t have to sneak in.
Jacob wonders if he’ll ever get used to this, to the way Freddy takes his face in his hands and kisses him, to the way it still leaves him breathless, melting into the touch. Freddy holds him like he’s something precious, tells him that he matters, looks at him and smiles, eyes going soft with—with love.
Just thinking about it still makes Jacob’s heart flutter. He’s not scared of it, not anymore, but it does overwhelm him; every time Freddy whispers I love you against the back of his neck and trails kisses down his shoulder, every time they meet out in the city which won’t even let them hold hands but can’t deny them the knowing smiles or the lingering touches, every time they pull the curtains in Freddy’s—their—flat and do what they can to make up for the lost time.
At night they fit together in their small bed like pieces of a puzzle, like all they've ever been made for is this, Freddy pressed close to Jacob's back murmuring a content goodnight into his ear, or climbing over him, fingers closing around his wrists and holding him down, gentle mouth smiling promises into the crook of his neck.
Some nights they just face each other and hold hands, and it's enough, too.
Jacob slips back into the warmth of their bed, settles on his side comfortably, reaches out and brushes his fingers over Freddy’s cheek again. He grounds himself in that gentle touch, in Freddy’s presence, in the trust they share, in the safety and peace of their soft little flat, full of warm blankets, good tea, and enough love to last them a lifetime.
“Jacob?” Freddy asks, sleepy voice still tinted with worry. Jacob feels a fond smile tugging at his lips.
“I’m fine, don’t worry about it,” he whispers.
Freddy huffs. “I’m going to worry about you however much I want, Jacob Frye.”
“I mean it. I’m fine.”
He reaches under the blankets and finds Freddy’s hand waiting there, lying on the mattress between them palm up, open, always waiting for Jacob, always there for him. He laces his fingers with Freddy’s, familiar, fitting together perfectly as they always do; and even though Freddy’s barely awake, he gently squeezes Jacob’s hand back, as if on instinct. Jacob smiles.
He’s more than fine. He’s home.