Chapter Text
It sounds like the opening to a joke: what does a young Assassin do on his evenings off?
Maxwell finds the answer as he finds most answers — by keeping his ears open. His ears, and the ears of every man, woman, and child who answers to him. One can, by listening artfully, discover a great deal even about those as secretive as the Fryes.
He already knows far more about Jacob that he cares to let on. He is perfectly aware, for example, that the Frye twins occupy one of the trains which spends its time rattling around in a circuit of London. (How unique, Maxwell thinks, unexpected, charming). He knows that the twins are at odds in their methods and beliefs, and that even some of their underlings have heard them quarrel. He knows that the Fryes are intimately connected with his recent inability to get his hands on any of Ned Wynert's shipments. Most of this, Maxwell learned from a single Rook, who he had abducted from the street, whose loyalty and silence had not withstood the finer tortures at Maxwell's disposal.
That young man is dead now, of course, safely passed off as the victim of a brawl between gangs. And Jacob himself is Maxwell's primary source of information, though he doesn't yet realize it. Jacob thinks of himself as very clever, and would never guess at how easily Maxwell can read him, how much Maxwell has learned of him through their little conversations.
But Maxwell has an ever-growing need to know all he possibly can about Jacob Frye, and so his many ears become all the more attuned to rumors such as these: that when Jacob cannot be found stalking his targets and scrambling around on rooftops, he is often the star of one of Robert Topping's fight clubs.
And so, one evening, Maxwell goes in search of a show.
-
The noise of the fight club is tremendous: the roar of cheers and drunken betting, the snarls and grunts and battle cries of the contestants, the meaty sounds of fists meeting flesh and men howling in pain, and Robert Topping gamely yelling above it all. Maxwell lets himself in at the door, and stands in the pressing crowd, grinning at the reverie and the earnest bloodlust of the onlookers. This is a fine way to repurpose a warehouse — a place of constraint and toil turned over to the poor and angry as a place to beat out their frustrations on the bodies of others. It reeks of sweat and beer, a smell that Maxwell associates with many an interesting and not unpleasant occasion. The lights lead him to the center stage, the middle of the action, to the man currently facing down half a dozen opponents at once.
He takes Maxwell's breath away.
At first description, Maxwell expected most of the Assassins to be like Henry Green — evasive as knives in the dark, irritatingly difficult to sniff out and pin down, people who seem to exist as shadows on the wall. From all he has learned, Evie Frye is much like this. Jacob, on the other hand, is quite a different beast.
And how like a beast he is now, bare to the waist, hands in fists, knuckles bloody as he bludgeons one of his opponents into the ground.
Topping is squealing with delight as Jacob's knuckles collide with another man's jaw, sending him wheeling back into one of the other brawlers. Two more fighters try to flank Jacob; he knocks their heads together and kicks one of them into the side of the ring, grabbing the other by the wrist and twisting his arm behind him until the bone cracks. He combines the control and precision of a dancer with the brutality of a drunk attempting to batter someone to death with a broken bottle. Maxwell cannot help but smile when one of the men caught in Jacob's grip screams, and Jacob drops him indifferently to the floor.
Maxwell is so distracted watching Jacob that it takes him a few minutes to realize that he himself has been recognized and is attracting nervous stares from the crowd. It's only a matter of time before Jacob, as attuned as he is to his environment, notices the uncomfortable silence of the crowd on one side of the arena, the onlookers parting around Maxwell. Jacob tosses a man over his shoulder, slamming him into the floor, and then twists around to look. He meets Maxwell's eyes.
And if Maxwell didn't know any better, he'd say that Jacob is unbalanced by the sight of him. An electric current travels between them, warm and prickling. Maxwell can see by the look on Jacob’s face that he feels it just as keenly as Maxwell does. He is thinking of the things they have done together, the secrets kept safe by the walls of the Alhambra, and is simultaneously frightened and intrigued by having them brought into the light of the fight club.
As always, Jacob covers whatever alarm he feels with bravado. He smirks at Maxwell, straightening up to stand over the body of his fallen enemy, almost as if showing off.
Maxwell smiles and blames himself for the fact that Jacob doesn't see the next punch coming. A man lumbers up behind Jacob and swings at him while he’s distracted by Maxwell. Jacob snarls and whirls towards his opponent, and Maxwell laughs, withdrawing into the crowd and making his way back to the exit. As interesting as it would be to see if any of the Rooks are willing to pick a fight with him — he has an inkling that Jacob hasn't told the rest of his gang about their alliance — he doesn't want to cause a scene. Not now.
He is waiting outside when Jacob stalks through the door, his head swinging from side to side until he catches sight of Maxwell. He is, to Maxwell's disappointment, dressed. But his nose is still trickling blood and his skin gleams with sweat, so not all the effect is lost.
"What are you doing here?" Jacob asks, without suspicion.
Maxwell grins at him and notes that Jacob instinctually begins to grin back. "I have information, my boy, and I think you may find it very interesting. Come! I'll show you."
It astounds him how willingly Jacob follows him to his carriage and accepts the reins, never questioning the necessity of their return to Maxwell's townhouse. At first Maxwell was inclined to view that trust as stupidity, but as time has gone on and the relationship has deepened, he has come to see it in a more affectionate light. Jacob moves through the world with absolute confidence; Maxwell finds that alluring.
"You put on quite a show in the ring," Maxwell says, as they're driving. "Remarkable how they manage to find men still willing to fight you."
Jacob chuckles and bashfully ducks his head. "Impressed, are we?"
"Certainly, my dear. But I would expect no less from you." Maxwell reaches over and gives Jacob’s thigh a gentle slap; Jacob startles, his ears turning red. “Quite a show.”
(He has said this before, but at the time he was remarking on the appearance of Jacob splayed out underneath him, naked and disarmed, whining between his teeth as his hips bucked — )
There is color in Jacob's face, a healthy flush to match the blood that drips from his split lip when he grins. "What's this information you've found?" he asks.
"Changing the subject? Why, Jacob, you must learn to take a compliment." But Maxwell relents, because Jacob is flustered enough. "On to business, if you insist. Starrick let slip to me about a new smuggling operation he's running. He'll be making shipments across the Thames, but he's caught wind of the raids you keep making on his boats, so they'll be well-planned to avoid any obstruction by you and your associates. Or would be well-planned, except that you'll know exactly when his boats are sailing based on the plans I've acquired."
"Excellent," Jacob says, with all the relish and bloodlust Maxwell has come to expect of him. But then he hesitates. "My... associates. What does Mr. Starrick know about them?"
"Oh, they do their best to keep out of Starrick's way. And mine. But Starrick knows you don't work alone, my dear."
Jacob's hands are tense on the reins. "Are they in any danger?"
Maxwell laughs. "Is there someone in particular you're worried about?"
Jacob shakes his head stubbornly. "Just… tell me if you hear he has any plans to go after any of the people we work with."
"Of course," Maxwell assures him. He gives Jacob’s thigh a teasing squeeze. "Your associates may not know about our little partnership, but in a way, we're all partners, aren't we? Besides, when Starrick has you to contend with, he's far too busy to worry about anything else. Ah, here we are."
Maxwell rarely entertains guests at home. He keeps a single servant, who is paid well to scrupulously avoid knowing any of what goes on in Maxwell's house and in his life. He spends much of his time at the theater, even to sleep, so his townhouse lacks some of his personal touch. He sees Jacob studying it wonderingly, and guesses that a fine, well furnished home was not where he expected Maxwell to live.
“Impressed, are we?” he asks, mimicking Jacob’s tone.
“It hardly seems villainous enough for you.”
“Ah, well, we mustn’t judge by appearances.” Maxwell removes his coat, hanging it crookedly by the door, and then turns. Jacob, with a playful look in his eyes, spreads his arms out as if inviting Maxwell to play the valet. Maxwell chuckles, stepping behind him and catching Jacob's coat by its collar. “I give you my word that there is plenty of villainy to be had here,” he murmurs, and feels Jacob stiffen as he pulls the coat free of his arms.
Like so many innuendos, Jacob will let the remark slide. By now, Maxwell is confident of that particular branch of Jacob’s psychology. His confidence seems to depend on his pretending that he has never flirted with Maxwell, even as he flirts.
(And charms, and kisses, and fucks.)
Jacob's coat is quite heavy, and Maxwell wonders what it's doubtless many pockets contain. Weapons, in all likelihood, which Jacob is unwise to leave at the door when he enters Maxwell's home. But Jacob considers himself his greatest weapon, so of course it doesn’t frighten him to go unarmed.
Not that violence seems to frighten him at all. No, it is romance that makes him shy.
"What will you have to drink tonight, my dear?" Maxwell asks, making his way to the well-stocked liquor cabinet.
"Surprise me," Jacob drawls. Which is quite unsurprising of him. The boy makes it clear how much he enjoys Maxwell's whims, no matter what form they take. He is leaning against the window when Maxwell turns around, and oh, the look in his eyes is terribly inviting whether he means it to be or not. There is a faint smile on his mouth, teasing, and the cant of his hips suggests either overconfidence or overcompensation. But his eyes! His eyes are soft, curious, filled with hope and desire, restrained only by self-denial.
Maxwell pours him something very strong indeed. He pours himself the same drink, to be fair; let it never be said that he does not intend to swim in the same well of temptation that Jacob seems destined to drown in. He brings both glasses to the window instead of calling Jacob over, because when he walks toward Jacob, he can feel how the tension between them is like a wire being pulled tighter and tighter. He watches how Jacob presses himself back slightly against the wall, as if he expects to be pinned against it.
(After all, he has been.)
"I warn you," Maxwell says, as he gives Jacob his glass. "This has bite."
"I think I can handle it," Jacob says. He takes an overeager swig from the glass, and chokes on it. Maxwell watches with pleasure as color floods his cheeks — humiliation at his own reaction, or merely the warmth of the alcohol reaching his face? "You weren't kidding," Jacob manages, and dabs wincingly at his lip. "It... burns."
"I quite forgot about your injuries, my dear. How thoughtless of me. Sit down, and I'll tend to your wounds before we talk business."
"There's no need —"
"Sit," Maxwell commands, waving Jacob toward a seat on the sofa. Jacob's eyes flicker from Maxwell to the couch, but then he does as he's told.
Maxwell returns to him with a collection of tinctures and salves, which he arranges on the arm of the sofa. He draws up a chair close enough that Jacob needs to spread his legs apart to accommodate it. And spread them he does, so easily it seems almost subconscious. Maxwell grasps him by the chin, gently turning his face to one side so that he can rub an ointment into the spectacular bruise beginning to form on Jacob's cheek.
"Are you trying to take care of me?" Jacob asks, with a chuckle, as if the idea is absurd. But Maxwell detects a hint of contrary hopefulness in his eyes when they skitter across Maxwell's face.
The boy has no father. Has not, if what Maxwell's spies have learned about the Frye twins is true, ever had anyone to take care of him as a father should. It would be far too easy for Maxwell to indulge that streak of childish longing he sees in Jacob's face, to allow Jacob to feel he can depend on him.
And far more interesting to stoke the fires of Jacob's pride and bravado. Maxwell is so curious to see how far he can go. So he laughs too. "Take care of you? Why, my dear, what a ridiculous idea. As if you need anyone to take care of you."
He adores the way Jacob grins at him, as if he is not the least bit disappointed.
-
He takes Jacob upstairs after that, to the comfortable room which contains a large table and also, incidentally, Maxwell's bed. Maxwell ignores the way Jacob's eyes flick towards the bed.
(It does not resemble the bed in the Alhambra where Maxwell has taken him before, but still the association must be powerful in Jacob’s mind.)
From a hidden cabinet, he withdraws the plans he pinched and had copied from Starrick's office. He spreads the papers out across the table and beckons Jacob, who swallows the rest of his drink before joining him.
Jacob is getting antsy; there is a reason Maxwell usually takes him on more exciting errands than this. He suspects that the liquor has not so much relaxed Jacob as lit a fire in him, which he supports by resting a hand at the small of Jacob's back as he guides him over to inspect a particular point on the map. Jacob glances at him sharply, drawing a breath that seems at once apprehensive and eager. When Maxwell does not return his look, but merely draws his attention back to the table, Jacob's hands curl in frustration.
It is tempting to see how far he can go before Jacob snaps and engages him, but Maxwell has never once forced Jacob to initiate any of their little exchanges. It seems to reassure Jacob that he is not the one in control, that he is always receiving Maxwell's affections but not soliciting them, except by the look in his eyes. The boy might panic if he had to be the one to reach out, to put his hands on Maxwell first. Or they might be there all night, Maxwell inviting and Jacob dancing around the idea.
After Jacob has given the plans a cursory glance (which is, Maxwell knows, all he will probably ever give them) and appears to be getting bored, Maxwell reaches out and places a hand on his waist. "Satisfied, my dear?" he asks.
"This is good to know," Jacob agrees, glancing at the plans as if he is trying to understand them. "We'll see if it's reliable."
"Don't doubt me, darling." Maxwell grins sharply. He tightens his grip so that Jacob looks up, and then lunges forward to kiss him. Jacob fumbles to respond, clumsily struggling to kiss him back yet yielding when Maxwell wrests control from him. His mouth tastes like the liquor, strong enough to burn and shimmer on the tongue, and like blood.
Maxwell is not a nice man, and so he sees no reason to resist closing his teeth on Jacob's lip, tasting copper as the wound reopens. Jacob moans with what Maxwell imagines is horrified arousal, his hands closing on the back of Maxwell's shirt and dragging him closer.
From there on it is wonderfully violent. Maxwell digs his fingers into Jacob's arse, practically feeling the marks it will leave on him, the angry bruises in the shape of his hand; Jacob's breath shudders and pushes against his mouth, and his lips part eagerly, desperately, when Maxwell's tongue rakes over them.
They kiss, madly, and this is the part which truly keeps Maxwell entertained: this is far from the first time they have kissed, and yet Jacob has never acknowledged it.
(The boy currently clinging to him and clawing at him like a hungry animal will, afterward, pretend as if nothing has happened. This is how it goes every time; he will come back for more, but he will never admit why he is there in Maxwell's theater, in his carriage, in his home — Maxwell wonders if he even admits it to himself. The idea is fascinating. He knows he is the first man Jacob has ever allowed himself to touch like this, and he wonders how deep that well of self-denial runs.)
The things Maxwell would do to him if he were a more patient man. But even kissing him is a diversion which Maxwell can only tolerate for as long as it takes for Jacob's hips to begin jostling against his, Jacob's mouth falling open on an agonized gasp when Maxwell grinds firmly against his cock.
It's only the work of a moment to turn and push Jacob down on the table, sweeping the plans to the side and onto the floor. Jacob's hands fly up and for a moment Maxwell thinks he's acting in self-defense — then he seizes Maxwell by the shirt and pulls him forward, practically forcing Maxwell to climb onto the table above him.
"Lie back, my dear; I have something for you."
"Oh?" Jacob asks, breathlessly.
Maxwell unbuckles his trousers. Jacob flushes, staring up at him, his eyes jumping from Maxwell's face to his cock. Innocent, yet expectant. He'll take Maxwell's cock the same way he takes his compliments — blushing to his ears, eager without true acknowledgment, dishonestly aloof yet burning under the attention.
Maxwell grins at him.
Jacob's eyes are heavy with fascination and curiosity and fear, yet the only sound that escapes him is a hiss of pain when Maxwell reaches down to grip his face, palm pressing against the purpling bruise on Jacob's cheek. Maxwell moves up to straddle his face, listening to his labored breathing. He struggles to open his mouth wide enough to swallow Maxwell's cock with his split lip; his eyes squeeze shut with pain, or perhaps ecstasy, or both, and he grunts with effort when Maxwell pushes forward into his throat. He doesn't quite choke. He even struggles gamely to blink away tears without letting them fall, as if Maxwell won't see them. Maxwell strokes his face soothingly, fucking his mouth in steady but patient thrusts until last Jacob begins to adjust.
By then Jacob is whimpering around his cock, low and frantic sounds pitched from the back of his throat. A glance back proves Maxwell's theory that Jacob is straining at his trousers — enjoying himself thoroughly, or at least his cock is. Maxwell chuckles and pets Jacob's hair, cradling his face in his hands as he coaxes Jacob to take more. "Ahh, that's wonderful, darling. Yes —"
The blowjob itself is sloppy and unskilled, but the helpless look on Jacob's face gives him an entirely different and far more powerful kind of pleasure. Almost too soon, Maxwell finds himself overcome by the sensation. Barely a heartbeat longer, and then Maxwell is snarling and pulling back, pinning Jacob's mouth open with his thumb. His other hand he wraps around himself, jerking until his come splatters across Jacob's lips and chin.
Jacob gasps and twists his face away, spluttering.
This, Maxwell thinks, was almost too much — almost enough to get Jacob to recoil from him — but he has no intention of giving Jacob time to think it over. He climbs nimbly from the table and insinuates himself between Jacob's sprawled legs, yanking open Jacob's trousers and sinking his mouth down on his cock.
"Roth!" Jacob yelps, bucking toward Maxwell's mouth. Maxwell pins him to the table and Jacob sobs, one of his fumbling hands landing on the back of Maxwell's head and pulling at his hair. Maxwell laves at the underside of his cock with his tongue and Jacob twists in his hold. "Roth — oh God, Roth — please —"
He comes down Maxwell's throat with a hollow cry and goes limp, slumping onto the table. Maxwell swallows and draws back, surveying the spoils of his triumph. Jacob is panting, an arm draped across his face, covering his eyes as if he finds the room suddenly overwhelming. And perhaps he does. Maxwell laughs, delighted, and strokes the tips of his fingers along Jacob's thigh. He is absurdly pleased that the only words Jacob has uttered for the last quarter hour are obscenities and Maxwell's name.
He imagines Jacob is also intimately conscious of the fact. Perhaps it is now sinking in that he was just laid out on his enemy's table and came crying his name. He imagines that these memories have a tendency to haunt Jacob in the days thereafter.
"How about another drink, my dear?" he purrs.
Jacob gives a faint shudder and sits up, twisting himself away from Maxwell as he fixes his trousers. "I think that one was quite strong enough," he says.
"To bed, then. You look exhausted." Maxwell can hardly keep himself from laughing again at the spectacle in front of him. Jacob has the look of a man who drank seawater in a desperate attempt to slake his thirst. And now, coming up from under the water, he realizes his mistake.
"I should go," Jacob mumbles. He wipes his bloody lip on the back of his hand and leaves a red streak. He manages to stammer something about things he has to do, people to see, trains to catch — and then he's brushing past Maxwell, pushing open the window and disappearing through it.
Maxwell wonders if Jacob will ever stop coming back to make mistakes with him.
No, he thinks. Not least because the dear boy has forgotten his coat.