#hob's never beating the provider instinct

[cuubism]

Can I pressure you to work on the 'having a job sucks ass' math AU fic?

yeah 😂 i started working on it when i was annoyed with my job. which is always

here's a snippet from earlier in the fic, because i think the later part i'm working on won't make a ton of sense out of context

[ make me work on one of my fics if you want ]

-

Dream shuts his laptop as Hob approaches. Oh, yeah. He was definitely waiting for Hob, specifically. Hob is getting the sense that he’s in trouble. And he’s not stupid. It’s not hard to guess what has Dream upset.

“Look,” he starts, “don’t even—”

“Hob Gadling,” Dream interrupts. Yep, that’s the trouble tone, the one Hob used to get when he did shit like giving himself a concussion playing pick up football on the quad. “It is ten p.m.”

“I own a watch too, Dream,” Hob says tiredly. Does Dream think he wants to be working this late? He’s just trying to stay employed.

Dream’s lips press into a thin line. And Hob knows him well enough, can read him well enough to recognize that what’s underneath the annoyance is concern. But what exactly does Dream expect him to do about it?

Hob sits down—more like collapses—into the armchair diagonal to where Dream is on the couch. God, what he really wants is to just fucking face plant into bed, not deal with this.

Christ. When did he start thinking about talking to Dream as dealing with?

Then again, this is less talking to Dream and more arguing with Dream, and he fucking hates doing that.

He scrubs his hands over his face. “It’s far away, alright?” he argues, though it sounds more like a whine. “It’s not like I can teleport.”

“It is not acceptable that they keep you so late,” Dream says. Then his tone softens. “I worry over your level of exhaustion. That is not even mentioning the commute.”

“Honestly, the commute’s not the worst part,” Hob says. “Gives me more time to get stuff done. Or fall asleep.”

Dream gives him a flat look. “Precisely.”

“I don’t want to hear judgment about work ethic from you of all people,” Hob snaps. God, he hates arguing with Dream, he hates it. It’s not like when they bicker. And it’s not like arguing with anyone else. The thought that Dream is upset with him is genuinely distressing.

“I think I of all people am uniquely qualified to give it,” Dream says.

He’s not wrong. Dream is a workaholic if ever there was one. It’s something Hob’s had to talk to him about in the past. Frequently, in the past, Hob was the one who was better about it.

It’s just that having this job is a level of relentless he couldn’t possibly have anticipated.

Hob can’t just quit though, even if he is overworked. It’s a good job, career-wise, and it pays really well, and he wants Dream to be able to keep his post-doc position without worrying about the salary because Dream is just quite frankly not cut out for anything where he isn’t able to work independently at least ninety percent of the time and Hob doesn’t want to see him suffer, and he wants them to be able to buy a house someday—

“Look,” he says, before Dream can suggest that he actually quit or something, “Dream, we’re making fucking bank, okay?”

Dream raises an eyebrow. “We are?”

“Yeah, we’re married, or did you forget?”

“It’s your money.”

“The joint bank account says otherwise. Half of it is yours.”

Dream frowns, then gets a wicked look in his eye. Oh no. “Does that entitle me to half of your suffering as well? Do I get half a say in whether it continues?”

“That’s not the point—”

“Are you going to watch me suffer half your exhaustion and do nothing about it?” Dream challenges, steamrolling right over him. He’s impossible to argue with when he really gets going. And great, now he’s employing that look. That pleading look that he knows Hob can’t say no to, eyes wide and helpless. “Will you leave me to my agonies?”

“Alright,” Hob says, pressing his hands to his eyes. “Enough. Stop joking around.”

“I’m quite serious. I don’t wish to see you suffer.” He crosses the room, kneels in front of Hob’s chair, and takes Hob’s hands, bringing them down from his face. “Your unintended comparison was more apt than you realize. When you prosper, I prosper. When you suffer, so equally do I.”

“Should have been a fucking poet instead of a mathematician, Dream,” Hob says. It shouldn’t come out as bitter as it does.

Except— “Maths is poetry,” he says, echoing it just as Dream says it, too. Hob had known he would.

It makes him smile, that he can predict Dream like that.

[moonlitmeeks]

mulled wine - cedric diggory

summary; you let cedric in on one of your holiday traditions, and he discovers a new found favourite treat

words; 704

warnings; alcohol use, swearing

a/n; welcome to day four loves! i, too, have perfected my mulled wine recipe over the years. it's the superior festive drink, i'm sorry hot chocolate. anyways, hope you enjoy!!

the faint tune of ‘have yourself a merry little christmas’ provided a soundtrack to the charming tones of cedric’s laugh. the diggory’s kitchen was alight with joy thanks to the two smitten teenagers inhabiting it.

humming along to the melody, cedric’s eyebrows furrowed as he leaned over to scrutinise the pot he was currently stirring. he eyed it cautiously, as though it were a grotesque-looking polyjuice potion rather than an appetising festive drink.

“so, what is this again?” he asked.

“mulled wine. it’s the epitome of the holidays, ced!” you responded, hopping up onto the countertop next to him.

“right.” he replied, slightly unsure. “and that is..?”

“basically just red wine with some orange, cinnamon, other spices. hence why it’s perfect in winter.”

his nose crinkled at the mention of red wine, never having been one for it’s bitter taste. he much preferred the sweeter notes of butterbeer, or the welcome burn of firewhisky as it trickled down his throat.

you laughed at this, burying your face in his shoulder. he relaxed at the feeling, head tilting a little to rest lightly against your own. this embrace was met by a brief comfortable silence as he worked, content with the feeling of you against him.

“don’t worry, ced.” you spoke, after a beat. “we can put a ton of sugar in and you’ll love it, promise you. i know what you’re like for sweet things.”

“i’m trusting you y/n.” he spoke, tone laced with faux severity. “if it’s disgusting, i’m blaming you.”

you gasped and swatted his shoulder as you lowered yourself from the counter, padding over to the chopping board where you had laid out the appropriate spices and orange slices. double checking you had everything, you brought them over to the hob carefully.

“i’ll have you know i’ve perfected this over the years,” you joked, nudging him aside with your hip. “it’s bloody delicious, you’ll see.”

once the cinnamon sticks hit the warming wine, a sweet, woody scent began to curl around the kitchen, further enhanced as you added the cloves and star anise. you looked pointedly at cedric as you added some generous spoonfuls of brown sugar, before giving him the honour of adding the orange slices. with gentle movements, he dropped each slice in, hissing slightly when the hot liquid splashed onto his finger. he allowed you to fuss over him, assuring you it was fine before moving so you could take over once more.

cedric watched in awe as you confidently added the ingredients to the pot, admiring your effortless beauty that came from making something so familiar to you. it was special, he thought, being let in to one of your family traditions, especially in a time as cosy as winter. it allowed him to see another part of you, another tradition to add to the collection in his brain. another thing to love about you.

he ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead as a grin slowly spread across his face.

“what are you smiling at over there?” you asked, unable to prevent a smile of your own from appearing - your boyfriend’s dazzling grin had always been contagious, and you weren’t immune to its power.

his answer was instantaneous, instinctive. it rolled from his tongue like honey. he probably couldn’t have stopped it if he wanted to.

“you.”

“oh.” came your reply, paired with a dumbfounded grin at the unexpected sincerity of his answer. “well, carry on.”

“gladly.”

after another minute or so, you clapped your hands triumphantly.

“i think we’re done, love.”

“i’ll get some mugs.” he smiled, heading towards the cupboard and pulling out two patterned mugs; one patterned with small bees, the other a plain, pale blue.

you poured a decent portion of mulled wine into each, sliding one mug over to cedric with a teasing wiggle of your eyebrows. the deep red liquid swirled in the cup as cedric surveyed the mug, meeting your eyes before taking a hesitant sip. his eyes closed in delight as he took another eager sip, relishing in the flavour.

“well?” you prompted, masking your amusement by holding your mug up to your lips.

“this is fucking brilliant love.”

“told you so.”

mulled wine is possibly the best christmas delicacy, argue with the wall /j anyways, hope you liked this,, reblogs + feedback are much appreciated angels <333

cedric diggory taglist; @transias @adoreachilles @wlfstxr @matte-moony @d22malfoys @teen-years-suck @akisslikemarble

december drabbles taglist; @just-cass @wrathspoet

lightning era masterlist!

december drabbles masterlist!

[mistleto-3]

Crying for the Moon: Part 9

MikoTotsu Werewolf AU

Pairing: Mikoto/Tatara

1,873 words. For MikoTotsu Week 2016.

Previous part | All parts | Next part

AO3

For the rest of the weekend, Tatara hadn’t been able to get the things that Izumo had said about Mikoto’s past out of his head. Now he’d gotten a brief taste of what his childhood had been like, he’d only begun to crave the rest of the story; the conversation with Izumo had raised more questions than it had answered, and now he found himself filled with curiosity about what Mikoto’s life had been like before they’d met- about his grandfather, about his parents, about how things had been before he was bitten…

Admittedly, he did think it was a little odd that, for all the time they’d known each other now, Tatara barely knew any more about Mikoto’s life than he did when they were strangers, but Mikoto was a very private person, so he brushed it off as something that was to be expected, resolving that he’d use the next full moon as an opportunity to gain a little more insight.

Thankfully, he only had to wait until Sunday, though it wasn’t like there wasn’t much he could ask about during the evening when Mikoto couldn’t speak, but they’d have plenty of time in the morning, and he completely forgot his curiosity the moment he saw Mikoto anyway. It was impossible to worry about trivial things like that when his friend was curled up on his mattress in the foetal position, trembling. Tatara hurried to his side, instinctively burrowing himself into Mikoto’s arms, and he felt his friend’s hands fist in his shirt, gripping the fabric tightly. The tendons in his neck strained beneath the skin as he struggled to bite back a groan of agony.

Tatara no longer felt afraid as Mikoto transformed; he was utterly confident that Mikoto remembering who he was hadn’t been a freak event, and surely enough, the first thing Mikoto did when his body settled into its other form was nuzzle Tatara’s cheek briefly.

“You’re much more affectionate as a wolf, you know that? It’s refreshing.”

Mikoto merely huffed and shifted on the mattress to make himself more comfortable.

Even though this was only the third full moon Tatara had spent with him, it already felt almost… normal. Routine. Though, as he chattered away, updating Mikoto on what had gone on at school while he’d been suspended, he did still get the occasional moment of bemusement.

My best friend is a werewolf.

He wasn’t sure how long it would take him to completely get used to that idea, but he made a mental note to ask Izumo if it was ever something he truly got accustomed to.

Once again, he was lulled to sleep that night by the rhythmic sound of Mikoto’s breathing, though as he hovered on the edge of consciousness, he vaguely remembered deciding that even if he did get used to this one day, he’d never ever take it for granted.

When Tatara woke up the next morning, he was alone in Mikoto’s bed. The first thing he felt was disappointment- he’d been looking forward to their lazy morning cuddles…

Cold fear jolted him awake like a bucket of ice water as he realised what Mikoto being missing could mean.

Where is he? Surely he couldn’t have…

He shot bolt upright, scolding himself for thinking so selfishly about something like cuddling when his friend could be anywhere. “Mikoto?” he called, desperately trying to quash the fears that Mikoto had forgotten who he was after all, and had snuck out in the night.

“In the kitchen,” came the reply, and Tatara let out a gasp of relief; he hadn’t realised he’d been holding his breath. Feeling embarrassed for worrying, he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and shook his head to clear the negative thoughts before glancing over at the clock.

Seriously? It’s almost eleven? Crap.

Tatara had always been something of an early bird, so waking up so late came as a shock. Even when he had the day off, it was rare he was out of bed after nine. He half-leapt out of the bed, scurrying through to the kitchen to find Mikoto standing by the stove, pushing scrambled eggs around in the pan on the hob.

“Sorry, I don’t usually wake up so late… I feel like I’ve wasted half the day.”

“I only woke up fifteen minutes ago,” Mikoto replied with a shrug. “You seemed tired.”

“Yeah, I guess I must have been. I picked up a couple of extra shifts at work this week…”

“Along with the one at the Kusanagis’ bar?”

“You know about that?”

“Was it supposed to be a secret?”

“Not particularly, I guess.”

“Why’re you working there anyway?”

“My bike got stolen, and Izumo offered to spot me the cash to replace it because I didn’t have a rainy-day fund. I said there was no way I’d be able to pay him back, and he offered to let me work off the debt and call it even.”

“Stolen? By who?”

“I don’t know; there aren’t any security cameras.”

Mikoto nodded slowly, tipping the eggs out of the pan and onto the slices of toast on a pair of plates on the counter. He carried them over to the table, and gestured to Tatara to sit down. “It was supposed to be an omelette.”

“You didn’t have to cook for me…” he protested weakly as he took a seat.

“You’ve done enough for me. Least I can do is feed you.”

“Thank you,” Tatara replied with a smile. “I didn’t know you could cook.”

“I can’t, really. It’s just hard to fuck up egg on toast.”

“I suppose,” he chuckled, then dug into the plateful in front of him.

“You don’t think the bike getting stolen has anything to do with the bullying?” Mikoto asked after a moment.

“It’s possible, I suppose, but the teasing and stuff has died right down now that the word got around that you beat someone up to protect me.”

“Good.”

“Good? You’ve got yourself a reputation as a thug, that’s hardly good… People already used to whisper about you being a member of a gang or something.”

Mikoto merely shrugged. “Don’t care. Why didn’t you tell me your bike got stolen? I could’ve got you a new one.”

“I couldn’t have paid you back for it.”

“’S no worries. Money’s not an issue.”

“It’s not like it’s just a meal or something, it was over twenty thousand yen…”

“I’m not short of cash.”

Tatara tilted his head. “I didn’t think you even had a job…?”

“My grandfather made sure I was set up.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was his only relative, so when he died all his stuff went to me. He had a lot of savings, and he left some money in stocks and stuff, to make sure I had enough to get by on until I left school.”

“Izumo mentioned you lived with your grandfather...” Tatara said quietly, trying to give him a gentle prompt to keep talking. He was painfully aware of how little he knew about Mikoto’s past; he savoured any glimpse he could get.

“Yeah, until he died when I was 12.”

“What about your parents? Were they in the picture?

“Never knew ‘em; didn’t even know their names. My grandfather wouldn’t tell me.”

“Why not?”

“He disowned my mother when I was a baby, said I was better off not knowing her,” he said with a shrug.

“So you were on your own from just 12 years old?”

“Mizuomi’s my godfather, so he kept an eye on me, made sure bills got paid and the fridge was full and stuff, but I wanted to stay in this house.”

“Mizuomi?”

“Kusanagi Mizuomi. Izumo’s uncle.”

Tatara nodded slowly. “Well, that’s good at least.”

“He was a bit distant though. His brother died a few years before, and he never got over it.”

“Yeah… Izumo told me his parents were attacked by the werewolf that bit you.”

Mikoto didn’t respond, and it seemed to Tatara that he’d hit a nerve, so he promptly changed the subject, deciding it was only fair if he offered up some information about his own past in exchange.

“I was adopted. My mother was a teenager when she got pregnant, and she put me up for adoption. The couple that took me in couldn’t have kids of their own. I never met my birth mother, but she sends me a birthday card every year, and my adoptive parents showed me pictures of her and told me stories about her. They said she was lovely, but she wanted to go to medical school so she didn’t have the time to raise me while she was studying.

“My adoptive parents were really nice too, and even though we didn’t have a lot of money we were happy, and they were really encouraging and loving, but when I was about six, my dad got into gambling to try and make some extra money, and it got out of hand… My mother divorced him after about a year; no matter what she did, she couldn’t get him to stop, and we were going bankrupt, so she left. I can’t blame her really, but I haven’t seen her since.”

If Tatara felt any sadness talking about it, it didn’t show on his face. Indeed, his voice had been inappropriately cheerful the whole time he’d been talking. Whether that was because it didn’t bother him, or because he didn’t want Mikoto to know it bothered him, it wasn’t entirely clear.

“My dad never did end up getting help for his gambling addiction, so he’s out of the house a lot, and we don’t normally have a lot of spare cash, but we manage.”

“Sounds like you’re making the situation seem better than it is.”

“We’re alright,” Tatara said reassuringly, but with little conviction.

“If you’re ever going hungry, let me know.” There was a tone of authority to Mikoto’s voice- it was clear he wouldn’t take no for an answer. “I dunno why you didn’t just ask for help with the bike in the first place.”

“I didn’t want to be a bother, and you had enough to worry about as it was. Besides, I was raised to be self-sufficient, you know?”

“Sounds like you weren’t really raised at all,” Mikoto pointed out.

“I guess, but you know what I mean.”

“Well, at least you didn’t turn out too messed up, considering.”

“Careful, that almost sounded like a compliment,” Tatara teased, grinning.

Mikoto rolled his eyes as he cleared away Tatara’s empty plate, and Tatara watched him with a pensive look on his face as he stood with his back turned, rinsing the plates in the sink. The mystery surrounding Mikoto’s parents had his interest piqued- it went some way to explain his closed-off personality- but really, the conversation had only provided one more little morsel of information, substantial enough to raise a dozen more questions whilst only really answering one. Tatara resigned himself to the knowledge that cracking open the rest of Mikoto’s story was likely to take some time, but if he was honest with himself, he didn’t really mind. Mikoto was the sort of person who was worth waiting for, after all.

[carrioncrows-readers]

You've never murdered anyone before -- but when your father dies and your assets are seized by a competitor, you consider getting your hands dirty. You hoped that the local gang leader could provide the means to your salvation, but the thing about Jacob Frye is that he is full of unfortunate surprises.

Content Warnings: terminal illness (cancer), parental death, attempted coerced marriage

You’ve never murdered anyone before. But there are some lines in life that demand crossing — and you are going to cross this one.

It’s not murder if you get someone else to do it for you. Right?

Those are the thoughts in your mind as you walk into the shoddy pub, sagging into the cobblestones with creaking pine beams, gray shingles slowly decaying under the constant, torrential abuse of London’s rain. The bruisers outside eye you up and down, taking note of every sterling silver bauble and high-end scrap of fabric; wolves watching the lamb that willingly wandered into the den. You ignore them, chin tilted up. You walk like Father taught you — glide, don’t step. Shoulders back.

Father. Knowing he’d be ashamed of what you’re planning hurts more than remembering that he’s dead.

The pub is smokey and dark, London’s shadows creeping in to press down what precious little light survives in the alley with hard hands. They belch coal sludge into the ground floor and smearing the walls in long streaks. The gas lamps flicker, spilling amber across the places where the shadows don’t reach, piggybacking off the haze of cigar and pipe smoke — smothering the floor in shades of rusted brown and gold. The ceiling is so low — pockmarked with bullet holes and bloodstains that just wouldn’t come out with the fourth attempt at scrubbing them off. It smells acrid — the unwashed bodies of the working class co-mingling with tobacco and lager — the floor creaks. You’re to a corner table with two chairs as the walls close in on you — one for you, one for your prospective business partner.

Jacob Frye is an intimidating man — while not particularly tall, he’s undoubtedly broad, and his personality takes up a room. Everyone retreats to the edges of the doorframe while he props his boots up onto his dented table, smiling with all his teeth. You think, distantly, about how strikingly bird-like his face is. Not in an unhandsome way, but there’s something about the hook and curve of his chin that reminds you of a laughing crow. You notice that his vest is bespoke a little too tight against his chest (on purpose, most likely) as he reaches his arms up and folds them behind his head. The fabric hugs the soft curvature of his muscles and belly in a way that most of your fellow upper-class hob noses would consider vulgar. You notice that he’s bereft of knives and firearms. It is not a show of faith. His underlings are armed to the teeth beneath their quilted tweed jackets.

You had expected someone older; but, then again, only someone young and brash could topple the Blighters and build an empire out of their red-slick bones in less than a year. When you contacted Frye with the promise of payment, he had said he’d  humor  you. The grin he keeps on his face is evidence that he finds this whole meeting very funny indeed. Seeing you squirm, out of your element among the rotting underbelly of London’s silk pelt, being drooled over by people who would gut you for their next paycheck.

You pull out a briefcase full of money and open it with little flourish, pushing it Mr. Frye’s way and watching his face light up. You suppose that’s humorous enough to warrant some respect.

It’s all the savings you have left; doctors, funeral expenses, solicitors, and Morvell have seen to take the rest. You are carrying the broken scraps of your life and giving them away to a man who could care less about them outside of their face value.

When your father first fell ill, your family was already deep in debt. The doctors told you that the initial diagnosis was tuberculosis. You spent all your reserves on medicine and physicians, hospice care. You increased the wages for the staff as you ordered them to stay in the makeshift barracks you set up in one of the dining rooms to quarantine. Every day you wasted your hours at his bedside, hoping that perhaps his aging body could beat out the infection. As the months dragged themselves across your eyes, you spent more and more. You sold your jewelry, your heirlooms, your silvered candlesticks. At the same time, your family business floundered and strangled itself right under your nose despite your desperate attempts to keep it alive. Still, you tried.

He died in his sleep after you had bid him goodnight and exhaustedly shuffled yourself to bed. The same doctors told you later that there was nothing you could have done. When they opened him up, his marrow had putrefied. Leukemia.

Thomas Morvell had, of course, swooped in to gnaw at the scraps. Barely a week after Father’s death, he had come to collect. You had nothing to give him, besides the business — already bled dry thanks to  him,  picking at it like a vulture while your father was on his deathbed — and your name. He told you in no uncertain terms that he was going to take everything from you. But you could save yourself, the last member of your family line, by marrying into the Morvells. Perhaps you could even inherit your company back.

You have never thought about killing anyone before. But that night, after you’d screamed Morvell out into the street with a tirade that didn’t do you any favors, you lay awake thinking of all the ways you could do it. Your hands were clean. You would make them red before the month was over if you had your way.

“I hear you are in the business of murder for hire, Mr. Frye.” You watch as Frye’s face droops so fast you fear a stroke — confusion, and then a hard sort of blankness that reminds you too much of steel. He snaps the briefcase shut, nearly on your fingers, and leans across it.

“Where did you hear that I wonder?” It’s a question and a demand at once. You can’t help but feel like the shuffling behind you is guards moving to block the exit. You cannot tell what he’s thinking behind that face, and it scares you. It’s practiced, and that scares you more. Instinct kicks in, and you mirror his expression perfectly. Just like Father taught you, your hands folded in your lap, your gloves feeling too heavy against your sweaty hands. It shouldn’t come as a surprise to him — you overheard his lackeys more than once talking about what a great killer he was, how deftly he split throats, and how beautifully he cracked skulls. Anyone with ears walking past a pair of his green-clad street clowns could overhear their glowing reviews of his leadership and murderous hands.

“I was under the impression that this was public knowledge,” you say, as calm as you can. You’re proud that your voice doesn’t waver; you’re slowly building immunity to negotiation after these past few months. “I have heard rumors from members of your Rooks, you know. Stories of your,” you pause, “legendary prowess, let us say, with a — what was it? Wrist shank? Quite riveting to hear, you can imagine.” Frye makes the fatal mistake of breaking his composure to glance behind you, and you don’t have to imagine the wincing; you’ve won.

There’s a self-satisfied smile that cracks through the mirror as a hairline fracture.

Mr. Frye turns his attention back to you.

“I’m afraid you’ve misheard,” he says. “I will have some of my associates escort you back to a carriage.” Your stomach turns to lead and sinks into the floor.

You’ve lost.

“I don’t believe you’ve seen what’s in that briefcase, sir-” You reach for it, and Jacob Frye covers it with a palm. It’s a dangerous display from someone who’s won a game they didn’t even know they were playing.

“I have seen,” he says, “and I’m very sorry, but I am not interested.”

You can’t help it — your face scrunches up, rage and anguish and humiliation all at once as you snatch your briefcase back. “If you won’t do it then — then I’ll do it myself!”

You hate that he doesn’t laugh at you. You hate —  hate —  that his face softens into something that disgusts you, tears you open, and makes you want to scream. Pity. Amusement would have been better. Being beaten, robbed, and thrown into the street while Frye and his underdogs laughed in your stupid, clean, unbloodied face would have been preferable treatment.

“Don’t do that to yourself. I promise you: you’re not the type.”

You get up and leave with your briefcase in tow. You don’t even bother to wait for a carriage — you walk, enraged, until you get somewhere you can hail a driver to take you home. When you get to your empty house, you feel like the weight of it will swallow you whole. You betrayed it, and now you’re going to lose it. The darkened foyer is the throat to the dog you can’t afford to feed.

You collapse against the front door and wail until your heartstrings are frayed. You cry your voice ragged. You cry until you’ve cried all the tears you have left in you. Then you sit, sniffling and still, with your temple pressed to the wall until you can gather the energy to fall into bed with all of your clothes.

The following week, you sit in your near-empty study and stare blankly at the papers in front of you. Morvell goes on and on about marriages, apologies, and half-veiled threats. You don’t register anything. You can only stare at the words on the pages and try to wish them away; you want it all to be a nightmare.

Nightmares would be better.

Your assets, liquid and non-liquid, are to be seized — including your home, stocks, bonds, and inheritance — pending signatures until further notice or otherwise from Mister Thomas Gleeson Morvell. Should you sell any assets before that time, you are to turn over your profits to Mister Morvell to pay off your substantial debt by order of Her Majesty’s Justice of the Peace, so help him, God. Your other debtors have decided to consolidate their owes under Morvell, who will take great care in making sure that any loans are repaid in full.

You curl your fingers into the fabric at your legs. Morvell’s made it very clear — the only snowball’s chance in hell you have of getting your birthright back is to marry into the Morvell line. You imagine what it would feel like to take your letter opener and sink it into his eye. You’ve read that there’s a bone behind the socket; would it be soft and yielding before you hit bedrock, or would it pop like a grape? How easily would the knife twist in your hand?

You are so, so full of hate that when Morvell leaves, you consider following him until you find a dark enough alley that you can — what? Beat him with your soft, unburdened hands? Laugh him to death?

No. You need someone else for this, or you need to teach yourself to shoot at something that’s not a fox. To cut something that’s not gentle, scented paper and wax. You need Frye.

The next day you find a tell-tale flash of green on the hat of a street boy, and you offer him more money than he’s earned in two months to tell you exactly  where Jacob Frye hides out. You don’t expect him to tell you about a train. You suppose it fits. He tells you which station the behemoth will dock next, and you take a carriage there to wait, wait, and wait. At first, you sit on one of the benches, watching the tracks obsessively. You get up to pace as people give you a wide berth while you wear a hole in the floor, circle the tracks like a shark, and make yourself a nuisance.

It takes hours — but eventually, you see the train. It’s a hulking beast of dented cold iron belching smoke into the sky. Your only clue that this is Frye’s train is the steady trickle of green-coated Rooks hopping on and off from the platforms. You don’t even bother to sneak in — you walk up to the head car, the spot where first-class passengers would usually make their homes. It’s almost muscle memory for you.

Jacob Frye doesn’t greet you warmly — in fact, he grabs you rather roughly by the arm and all but drags you further into the train, looking at you like you’re a bad omen. His other hand is stuffed with money; you almost want to laugh at it, the irony.

“How the hell did you get here,” he hisses.

“A train full of Rooks is not very subtle,” you say, yanking your arm away from him and rubbing the spot that he touched, hoping it doesn’t bruise.

“Bullshit. I rotate the patrols — there’s no more of my gang coming and going off this duke than there are any other in London. Someone told you.” He searches your face, but you’re very good at what you do — London high society has trained you to keep your informants close to your chest.

“There were no other passengers. You might want to start taking fare if your best defense is ‘there are some Rooks on other trains sometimes.’” He scoffs, and the floor starts to rumble under your feet. In a fit of pique, he slams the doors to the car shut, locking you away from the rest of the train and escape. You realize then just how bad of an idea this was. Your heart starts to play rat-a-tat against its cage.

“Why did you even come here?”

“I was hoping you would reconsider my proposal.” He stares and then laughs in that disbelieving, half-scoff way you only hear when a conversation partner thinks the other is an idiot. You tilt your chin up.

“No,” he says; he gently scoots you aside to open his safe — strangely bold of him, to let you see the combination, but you realize a moment later that you don’t. His arm is oh-so-subtly blocking the lock, and for the first time, you see what they mean by wrist shank. His bracer is a beast of gold, red, and leather. He could hide the crown jewels in there if he wanted — you’re not surprised that’s where he keeps his knives, too. You wonder if the insignia stamped on the back of his palm is a family crest or just code.

The safe swings open.

“Then teach me! I’ll pay you for that too — but I am not leaving this train until you agree to either one.” You glance to the inside of the safe out of curiosity and nearly fall over. You’ve never seen so much money in person — and not just money, papers too; envelopes, letters, a theater mask, for some reason. Stacks on stacks of pounds, and he pulls out a smaller bundle and adds to the pile before tying it off with twine and shoving it back in. Your stomach does flips doing the calculations. He won't take your money. He doesn't need it. You have to offer him something else, something more precious, but you have nothing. You are nothing, you think, wanting to curl in on yourself and die as Frye slings an arm over the top of the safe and plants his other hand on his hip. He taps his foot, hangs his head. A bit overdramatic, but you appreciate the posture of a man thinking. Eventually, he cranes his neck to look at you.

“Fine,” he says. “Fine. Who do you want dead?” You’ve never felt so happy. You can’t keep the grin from your face — whether this means he’s going to kill the bastard himself or teach you to get your hands bloody, it doesn’t matter. You’re going to get revenge on the person that ruined your life by the end of the month.

“Thomas Gleeson Morvell.”

Jacob Frye stares at you with widened eyes and a hard line for a mouth. Then he shuts the safe, locks it, and directs you to sit. And sit you do, for the next hour. You wonder, briefly, what it means; but you're drowning in the kind of giddy nervousness that only goes hand-in-hand with conspiracy to care. When the train pulls into the next station, Frye grabs you by the arm again and this time doesn’t let you shrug him off, all but dragging you to a carriage. Your elation dies in the cradle. You scream when he shoves you in, hoping someone hears or sees — anything.

No one does.