Archive of Our Own

𝐉𝐚𝐜𝐨𝐛 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐲 𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐡𝐢𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐧.

Dismissing any semblance of “assassin dogma” for his own personal tactics – a personal ideal, which has never pleased his idealistic sister.

Hide in plain sight?

Pfft. Even during a stealth mission, Jacob thought running out guns blazing was much more time efficient. Scary, but efficient. Fear takes hold of him only for a moment until adrenaline kicks in – forcing frozen joints to move, and rusty pistols to shoot.

Stealth was silent, and silence was indecisive. Silence came from fear, and Jacob Frye would never feel fear…

… well, that is until he sees her.

She doesn’t look much out of place to any other Londoner bustling down the worn streets of Southwark. And yet… she is different. Different in her hair, and skin, and face. Different in the colourful bangles which adorned her wrists, and the deep black kohl which lined her eyes.

He wants to barge down the street towards her. Maybe tip his hat and give a small wink and do all the things he’s sure a respectable gentleman would do – just do all the things he has done to potential lovers before.

But his feet don’t move – won’t move.

He stays firmly planted, leaning against the corner pub; half-drunk off last night’s pint, half sober off the rancid London air. Standing completely still as the entirety of Southwark walks past him… as she walks past him, paying him no mind.

To her, he is hidden, and silent – unknown.

Jacob, in that moment, is the ideal assassin - he thinks, he doesn’t like to be.

𝐉𝐚𝐜𝐨𝐛 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐤𝐨𝐡𝐥, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐨𝐧 𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐬 𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐯𝐚𝐬.

He wasn’t expecting to be in Southwark so late into the night, but one thing led to the next, and now here he was; scrubbing Blighter-red blood off his worn gauntlet and picking at the gaping wound near his ribs.

His head hurt, while his feet tripped over themselves in rushed adrenaline.

He winces and looks around the near-deserted street which he stumbled through, trying to find an open shop or familiar face.

And instead, he finds her.

He sees her standing idly behind a food-cart, peering into a large frying vat – the flickering yellow-light from the lamppost above, barely illuminating the young lady.

The smell of piss and soot was one which Jacob was accustomed to in Southwark, and yet as he made his way to her, he began to smell mint and turmeric and oily, fatty deliciousness.

He stays out of the lamppost’s light, not wanting to show his face – not wishing to show the blood.

She smiles at him, and Jacob swears she glows in the flickering light.

“How many fish pakoras would you like?”

Her voice has a rasp and a slight accent which seemed similar to that of Henry Green’s.

“Pakora?” he asks, slightly panicked. “What’s that?”

She cocks her head ever-so slightly, and he isn’t sure if she was frustrated or bemused. “It’s fried fish pieces, with spices. It’s served enthusiastically in India.”

“Well then, serve away!” He blurts, a bit louder then intended to, “I’ll take a dozen!”

She smiles quietly, and for a moment only the soft clinking of her bangles echoes between them, as she picks out a dozen fried pieces of fish from the large frying vat.

Carefully placing them on a piece of newspaper, she smothers them in a layer of mint chutney. The steam rises from the food, wafting into his face, and leaving him near-drooling.

She totals him to 10 pence, and he pays happily; dumping a warm lump of coins in her hand.

“Have a good evening!” she beams, as he walks off with his street-food.

Jacob can only manage a small wave, as his breathe hitches.

And as he staggers through Southwark, he feels his chest crease and breath hitch for air.

Suddenly, even the dark London smog smelled as sweet as her kohl.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐤𝐲 𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞.

Simmi.

She says it with a giggle and an extra dollop of mint chutney, one chilly February morning. He responds with a toothy smile, and an extra penny for her troubles.

But Simmi doesn’t take it – she never takes it.

Softly placing the extra coin back into his calloused palms, she offers him a warm smile instead. “Just tell your green-jacketed mates to buy from my stall!” she’ll simply respond, dark eyes beaming. “Give it to someone who needs it.”

“But you need it”, he wants to say, “Please, just take it. Please...”

But Assassins don’t plead – and so neither does he. Instead, he simply closes his hand, and puts the coin back in his pockets.

Sometimes he’ll let the coins jingle in his trouser pocket, other times he flicks them in the air – tossing them to back-alley orphans and sharing a fish pakora or two for good measure.

The Southwark smog smelling sweeter than it ever had before.

𝐒𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐉𝐚𝐜𝐨𝐛 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐦𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐡𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞.

Simmi.

 He’ll be sat on a rooftop or ledge, lounging above London, as he stretches and rolls the different syllables in his mouth - in attempt to sound out every possible phonetic iteration that the letters could produce.

Even then, her name rolled sweetly in his mouth. It tasted like chutney and her tandoor, and every spice he had yet to give a name to.

Sometimes he’ll doze off to these silent hums.

And even when his sister finally jolts him awake with a kick to the ribs, and a scathing scolding for falling asleep again on a mission…  his smile does not falter, nor does her name become any less beautiful.

It doesn’t take long for Jacob to convince his associates to bring her little food-stall some traffic.

Reminding the likes of Evie, Henry, Ned… even Abberline! He advertises her fish pakoras like a puppet on strings.

And she, his puppeteer.

𝐈𝐭’𝐬 𝐬𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐲 𝐉𝐮𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐨𝐨𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐚𝐲.

His Rooks are gathered around his stall, all enjoying their own pakoras and chutney, and for a fleeting moment a strange courage takes him and wishes to talk about more than idle recipes and neighbourhood politics.

“You’re really… nice, Simmi!” Jacob says, in between bites, mouth full of green chutney and fresh fried cod. The words come out awkward, and stumbled – but they manage to pry out of his throat nonetheless.

Simmi merely raises a brow, dark eyes losing their glint. “We don’t even know each other… not really, anyway.”

Her answer is one which he doesn’t expect – maybe because he was expecting to be swept up into a kiss, while saffron and rose petals fell down on them.

You know, only realistic things.

Jacob shifts from side to side, unsure how to respond, especially with his Rooks nearby.

“I know you make good fish pakoras, and you’re good to kids, and you just… give… and give happily.” He wants to say… but he doesn’t.

Because Assassins are silent and deadly, and don’t let silly food vendors turn them to puppets on a string.

He decides to simply concentrate on chewing his fish, and instead Jacob laughs, a hearty, carefree laugh – something that was “classic” Jacob. “Well, hopefully you don’t think I’m too bad?”

Simmi cocks her head, the same way she had done countless times before. There is fear (or was it disappointment?) in her eyes, as they glance momentarily to the pistol strapped around his belt.

“You’re as good as a ruffian can get.” She murmurs, smiling weakly.

Silence lulls between them, and though he can hear the chatter of his Rooks nearby, he feels a strange wave of loneliness.

A ruffian. A criminal. An… Assassin.

He chews harder.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐉𝐚𝐜𝐨𝐛 𝐦𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐫, 𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐡𝐬 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐡𝐞’𝐬 𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐤𝐨𝐡𝐥-𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐞𝐬.

Just as he rounds the street to her alleyway, yearning grows on his tongue for the strong flavours of turmeric, cumin, and mint.

The night had painted the sky dark with ash, barely illuminating the city-streets. Though it would’ve proven to be much safer to trek this journey on top of buildings, he could not risk breaking the delicate object in his hands.

He finds a row of shabby brick houses and knocks on the one with mustard oil stains by its door.

He waits patiently, quietly counting in his head.

The door is opened by a small elderly lady. She wore a beautiful orange garment in a manner unbeknownst to Jacob. Golden bangles made her wrinkled wrists their home, while a single red dot rested on her forehead.

She looks confused at Jacob’s presence and yelled out behind her.

“Simi!”

The elderly woman barks in a language that Jacob could not understand, but the name – Simi – was the only thing he could.

She yells a bit more until disappearing back into the house.

He waits for a moment, debating if he should’ve just left already – wondering how far away the nearest pub would be, and how long it would take him to get miserably drunk.

And yet, just when he figures to leave, she shows at the door.

Simi the Food Vendor. And yet… this Simi was different.

A worn dress was now replaced by a beautiful yellow garment, embroidered with delicate black design. Large yellow bangles replaced her dainty multi-colored ones, while large white earrings hung from her ears.

Everything was different… everything except for her dark eyes – which still adorned the black kohl.

In the face of her, Jacob felt his button-up to be plain – in the face of her, everything felt plain.

“I didn’t think you’d actually remember!” she exclaims, “It must’ve told you, what… months ago?”

Jacob merely nods, satisfied with himself. “I don’t forget easily.”

He then opens the palm of his hands, to reveal the object which was sheltered beneath them – a clay oil candle. It’s cotton wick stood strong, though it was empty – still needing to be filled with oil.

“Happy Diwali, Simmi.”

He holds it out for her to take, and she does gently. Carefully resting it in her hands, as if it would break with the slightest touch.

Her eyes travel from the oil lamp to his waist, presumably looking for the typical gun holster, but only finding a simple belt. She smiles softly. “Y’know, I didn’t think that you’d know anything about Diwali, Mr. Ruffian?”

Jacob grins from ear to ear, “Oh no, how will you ever make it up to me?”

Simi cocks her head, the very same way she had done all this time. And then carefully, with one hand, pulls the young assassin’s shirt collar towards her – closing the space with her lips.

She tastes like cardamom, and turmeric and morning tea and every sweet toffee Jacob had yet to discover.

She smiles into the kiss.

Jacob thinks he might not taste too bad either.