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They're drunk, now.
Unsurprisingly, it was Ned who was the first to stumble from the couch, shirt slightly unbuttoned and a trail of laughter following him as he tried to keep his balance, facing Jacob who was still giggling from his end of the sofa.
"Okay, okay, so," the American slurs out, and Jacob can barely understand him. "There's this guy, okay? And he enters my office all cocky and shit and slams down these papers in front of me."
"Wha' were they?" the assassin grinned, waggling his eyebrows. "Evid'nce of s'mthin' naughty wi' s'me pretty bloke?"
"Yes!" Ned laughed, taking another swig from the almost empty bottle of gin. He stumbles so his hands are bracing Jacob and the brunet can barely breathe with him right there, in front of him, so close and yet so bloody far, Christ. He wondered what it'd be like to kiss him right there, to push him to the floor and shove his tongue between those lips and - "So he slaps the papers down on my desk and he says, the fucking idiot, 'I want a thousand pounds!' Can you believe him?!"
"Wha' di'you do?" he almost fell from the sofa, but recovered quickly with a little disoriented frown. "Di'ya punch 'im 'n the face, Neddy-boy?"
"I did," the man started to giggle, slowly lowering until his knees touched the carpet. "And then I shot him in the knee!"
Jacob could barely breathe through his laughter, banging his fist against the plush couch as Ned cried tears of mirth, forehead (now bandaged and disinfected) against his own arm. They laughed and laughed, then stopped, looked at each other and began again. They'd been doing this for quite a while, and the clock seemed about to strike eleven soon enough. Jacob suddenly questioned where in the world was his crew, but when he opened his mouth to voice his worry he was met with a devilish smile belonging to the subject of his late night fantasies.
He really could do it. Kiss him. Ned had told him he fancied men, too. Would it be so forward, so bold to just wrap his hand around the nape of his neck and pull him over his body? They coud neck on the couch. Jacob liked the thought, began to imagine it vividly until the thief suddenly stood, startling him.
"Wher'you goin'?" he asked, and he would forever deny that he had been pouting.
"I," his drinking buddy help up a finger, burped loudly (Jacob giggled more than a man his age should) and straightened his clothing. "I need to go back."
"But you're drunk," Jacob grinned.
"I'm not," he replied.
"'re too," the assassin poked him on the ribs, fascinated by how the businessman did not cringe at all.
"I really do have to go back," he looked defeated, hand deep into the roots of his hair and Jacob couldn't help the little strangled noise he let out, watching Ned looking, for the very first time... messy. He looked messy.
He had a slightly unbuttoned shirt, his hair in disarray, no jacket and no glasses and no stupid hat to hide him and Jacob felt his cock stir as he traced the outline of his ass, almost feeling it around his fingers as he squeezed. Then he realized Ned was looking a bit too worried for such a wonderful night.
"Wha's wron'?" the assassin frowned, sitting up in the sofa by his wobbly arm. "Ned?"
"I really don't want to see my parents," he sighed, shaking his head. "Ah, shit."
"You don' 'ave to, y'know?" the British mumbled. Ned threw him a scolding look.
"I do," he replied. "I can't let them roam around the city, ratting me out to any possible clients. Or worse, the goddamn police. I have no idea how on Earth I'm going to convince them to leave London. Without me, that is."
"Di'you get along?" Jacob asked, curious. "I mean, b'fore you ran away 'nd all."
"N - yes - uh, no?" Ned seemed frustrated, slightly confused, too, and he was quick to go back to the other end of the couch and sit. Jacob removed his feet, also kicking out his boots. The enterpreteur mimicked him and rested his feet close to Jacob's thigh, tiny and bloody hell, wouldn't they look nice against his back as he fucked deep into h - "We used to. Get along, I mean. Once. As much as I didn't like those girly things my mother brought me, I did love the music boxes."
"M'sic boxes?" Jacob let his temple rest against his fist, eyes trained on the small man. Because never before had he seen him be so small as he was now. Jacob thought of cradling him against his chest, of letting his hands roam free to touch his shoulders, his back, his impossibly soft hair again and the bridge of his nose. He was a bloody sap, damn him.
"Yeah," Ned smiled slightly and the assassin did his best not to swoon, because the American's eyes were very far away where he couldn't follow and the mood was getting more and more nostalgic the longer Ned explained. "My mother used to bring me all these music boxes from little markets, places where she travelled, and my father did that, too. Melodies from all around the world, and I could never get enough."
"'s tha' why you 'ave so many?" Jacob had to smile at the melancholic nod Ned gave. "Are they the ones she gave you?"
"Some," Ned, surprisingly, took another swig and finally finished the bottle, glaring at the empty glass before he tossed it carelessly to the carpet. "Most of those are under lock and key, but the cherry wood one? The one that's in the drawing room?"
"I rem'mber, yes," he nodded.
"That one was my mother's. It was the last one she gave to me. My father gifted it to her when he asked for her hand in marriage, necause she loves music more than anything in the world. She's an opera singer, you know? Pretty famous in New York, actually."
"'s she?" Jacob grinned. "D'you sing, then?"
"No," Ned's slightly happy smile turned awfully sad, and Jacob felt a pit in the bottom of his stomach. "No, not anymore."
There was a terrible silence, one the youngest Frye did not dare break, for he knew something would follow it. Ned was exposing himself, letting out his very entrails to Jacob and asking him to, please, not rip them to shreds. So he waited, watched the little man, and hoped this all wouldn't spirall down into something worse than it already as.
"I miss it sometimes, you know?" Ned chuckled a little, and Jacob realized, horrified, that tears were building in his bright brown eyes. "The... simplicity of it all, when I was just a kid and I was still unaware of myself. I question my choices more often than I should and - and I look at myself in the mirror and I ask myself if everything I lost, everything I risked, every little bump on the road that's my life, if... if it was all worth it."
"I 'lways though'," Jacob spoke up, almost startling Ned. "tha' I'd rather regret the th'ngs I 'ave done than the th'ngs I 'aven't done."
"That's very wise," he brushed away a stray tear, trying to be discreet. Jacob wanted to kiss him desperately, to hold him and make it all so much better but he was a fool and Ned was smarter than that. "Who taught you that?"
"M'self," Jacob shrugged. "Y'know tha' 'appens t'me, too?"
"What?" the American turned to him, and he nudged his feet against his, making him scowl at him. Jacob laughed. "You mean the doubts and all?"
"Yes," Jacob glared at his knees. "B'lieve it or not, I'm not a good assass'n."
"Oh?" he seemed amused, and Jacob thought of keeping it light, of forgetting about unwinding himself. Then he blurted out the following:
"I think my father hated me," terribly sobering, his words. He longed for a stronger drink. "I think he was ashamed in every way of me and my actions. I know I'm not the stealthiest or the smartest - tha's Evie's job, Ned. What I do best is clean up a mess and make an even bigger one. My father hated that. He resented everything I did, never approved. And I tried to change, I really did, y'know? I proper did..."
But he could never change. He didn't say it out loud, but it seemed like Ned had understood. Jacob had told this to Evie before, but not the terrifying thought that maybe his father truly had hated him. That he had wished he wasn't there, that - well, after all, it was his fault his mother didn't survive, wasn't it? He was the last to be born, and if Evie had been alone, then maybe -
"Wha'?" Jacob's eyes widened as he felt a light touch upon his face.
"You're crying, Jacob," Ned told him softly.
But that wasn't the most stunning thing of all, no. It was that Ned had leaned over him, on top of him, one of his arms caging his wide body so that he could wipe away his tears. Jacob felt his chest tightening, the urge to pull him down, to feel him close, to see that this was all real and not some fantasy made of an unfortunate experiment of Aleck's with his hallucinogenic darts too strong.
"Sorry," he whispered, unable to look away from him.
Ned was mesmerizing. He was - he was an ocean within another ocean. Jacob had never dived inside such darkness, such vast waters, and he feared he could drown in those chocolate browns for a moment. His chest swelled, his throat clogged, his pulse roared on his ears and he felt close to throwing up. Was this how love felt? Was this how his father had felt when he'd been so close to his mother?
"Jacob, what's wrong?"
A lot of things, like how much his feelings spooked him.
"Nothing," he sat up, and Ned quickly moved away from him. "You really do need to leave, right?"
"Yeah," Ned was still frowning at him. "I just hope I don't run into them..."
"Why don't you leave that to me?" Jacob offered.
He expected to hear the man immediately scream at him about how he could hold damn fine on his fucking own, but to his delighted surprise, Ned sighed.
"Don't kill them," he seemed... exhausted. "Scare them a bit. Tell them I'm dead. I - I kind of am dead to them, after all. Not... their daughter."
"You'll be safe going back alone?" the assassin asked worriedly.
"Done it a thousand times, Frye," the other replied dryly, but a hint of a smile could be seen. Today had been the day Jacob had truly seen Ned, and if the real Ned smiled is often then he'd be sure to deepen the conversation more often. "I will see you around, I suppose. I..."
He stood close to the door, hesitating, a painful expression taking over his features. Jacob stood, worried for a moment before he felt the pressure of Ned's hand against his shoulder, squeezing in a friendly matter.
"Thank you," it was strange, hearing it from him. But Jacob grinned. "Again, do not expect me to say any of this again. Or do this. Or tell you anything else about myself. God knows I've had enough of you for the rest of my life."
"You're a liar, but alright," Jacob chuckled, his hand slapping his small back. Ned glared, but there was no hatred or annoyance to it. "Good night, Wynert."
"Good night, Frye," he chuckled back, shook his head, and exited the wagon.
That night, two Americans in London were robbed. Nobody knew who it had been, or how they'd done it, but the couple flew the country pretty quickly. If Ned had heard about it, he did not thank Jacob again.
Yet the following day the assassin's train had two more furnished wagons.