“There’s that little comfort, I suppose,” Jacob murmurs, relieved. There are people he’s left behind back in London, work that still needs to be done there, and while he trusts Evie and Greenie to be able to manage the Rooks in his absence, it’s still good to know everything will be fine back there if he stays here for a time. “It would be rather inconvenient to come here right in the middle of something urgent, otherwise.”
Not the case for Jacob. With Starrick’s death the Templars have been dealt a grievous blow, and it’ll be a long, long time before they can recover. No better time for the Assassins to move back in.
But he doesn’t say that. Instead he huffs a soft laugh, receptive enough to the flirting. “Pretty, am I?” he asks, playfully. “Careful there, if you keep flattering me like that I may just swell up like a hot air balloon. And then where would we be?” This feels nice, though—sweet, a little bit refreshing, so long as he doesn’t think too much about Roth calling him brave. “Hm. How about a train station?”
The station in Whitechapel, to be precise, where he and Evie first set foot in the teeming city of London. If he closes his eyes he can trace every detail in his mind’s eye as fresh as if he’d been there yesterday.
“But I would so love to see that shooting range of yours,” he adds. “I like a little gunplay, myself.”
A little.
“From all the stories I’ve heard about such artifacts, destroying them usually tends to end in rather catastrophic explosions.” As he’s sure Evie can attest to. He might’ve gotten a train derailed but Evie got a whole building blown up. “Though I imagine it was a hell of a dilemma at the time.” He waves a hand, with a snort of laughter, and says, “Oh, believe me, I will. I’m not one for politics myself.”
no subject
Not the case for Jacob. With Starrick’s death the Templars have been dealt a grievous blow, and it’ll be a long, long time before they can recover. No better time for the Assassins to move back in.
But he doesn’t say that. Instead he huffs a soft laugh, receptive enough to the flirting. “Pretty, am I?” he asks, playfully. “Careful there, if you keep flattering me like that I may just swell up like a hot air balloon. And then where would we be?” This feels nice, though—sweet, a little bit refreshing, so long as he doesn’t think too much about Roth calling him brave. “Hm. How about a train station?”
The station in Whitechapel, to be precise, where he and Evie first set foot in the teeming city of London. If he closes his eyes he can trace every detail in his mind’s eye as fresh as if he’d been there yesterday.
“But I would so love to see that shooting range of yours,” he adds. “I like a little gunplay, myself.”
A little.
“From all the stories I’ve heard about such artifacts, destroying them usually tends to end in rather catastrophic explosions.” As he’s sure Evie can attest to. He might’ve gotten a train derailed but Evie got a whole building blown up. “Though I imagine it was a hell of a dilemma at the time.” He waves a hand, with a snort of laughter, and says, “Oh, believe me, I will. I’m not one for politics myself.”
He’s more of a direct action sort of guy.