I don't even know with this one, guys. It ran away from me. Applogies for the wait, it's been a busy week, but hope you enjoy this Angst fest all the same. Also guys, please, if you have any ideas or wants for a shot in this series, please please please let me know! I love writing these two but my muse is burning out. DON'T LET THE MUSE DIE! ;D

There was a irresistible, gravitational pull towards Maxwell Roth. He was a man who pulled all the right strings, struck all the right chords. He groomed pride and ego, built confidence from ashes. His aura was as intoxicating as it was insane, a constant fire that never seemed to burn out, never dampened nor dispirited.

Jacob loved every moment of it, revelled in the sudden shower of approval and encouragement he found himself thrust under. It hurt, in a way, that it had been a so-called enemy to come to his side, to understand how his mind worked, rather than his sister, his twin. The pain was little more than a tickle, now, though. They had drifted further and further, and he had become accustomed to the constant disapproval, the anger and resentment always seeming to be sent his way.

Didn't she understand that he only wanted to help? To free London from the Templars stranglehold, to free the people! At every turn, she scolded him, spat on his efforts and shot down his ideas, his every proposition a target to be mutilated. And yet, what was she doing? Hunting down worthless relics of ancient history. One would think she might have been put off by the results of her last meeting with a Piece of Eden, but alas. Evie was stubborn; no matter how many magic lumps of hyperbolic metal exploded in her face, she wouldn't see reason.

So, he acted alone, fought alone. The Rooks stood at his side, ever loyal and steadfast, growing by the day. They were thriving, now, Henry had said as much, and he would not deny he had exhalted in that admission. They had both thought he couldn't do it, Evie and Greenie, but he had proved them wrong this time.

But yet, the Rooks would never be quite the same as a partner, a single person to rely on to have his back. Oh, he knew the Rooks would come to his aid if he asked, would watch his back and cover him, but there would always be something distant about it, always a gap between them. That was how it had to be; gang and leader, two seperate entities.

But with Roth, it was so very different. By rights, they should have been at each others' throats, fighting over control of the gangs, tearing each other apart whenever they got half the chance. But Roth had proved himself a different man, a man that Jacob had found himself trusting, placing in the spot Evie had once claimed. It stung, but in a good way.

Scrambling up the side of the building Roth had chosen as his nest, he laughed breathlessly, basking in the euphoria of his accomplished mission, the slight pinch in his fingers where splinters from the dynamite crates had scraped his fingers numbed by the adrenaline in his system.

Hauling himself onto the roof, he grinned and nodded once to Roth, bouncing in place as he ran one last check over his handiwork from a distance, ensuring nothing was out of place.

"It's ready." He reported, needlessly, he realised, but Roth took no mind, only cracking a smile that made his face twist peculiarly and shifting to the edge of the roof.

"Light 'em up, boys!"

Jacob couldn't see the Blighters below, but he could feel the exalted sense of purpose in the air, the sensation of electricity in the air. It was filling and exciting and new, and he would have happily drowned in it.

He leaned forwards eagerly, watching the workhouse in ready anticipation.

In a matter of moments, everything changed.

He caught sight of the eldest boy first, several inches taller than the young ones who trailed silently in his wake. The lad couldn't have been more than fourteen, but even from that distance, Jacob could see the weariness about him, could feel the sadness in him. The rest were mere babes, bodies too thin and unwashed to be healthy, clothes torn and grimey.

They were moving in a dead line for the workhouse, and in a split-second, Roth's spell was broken.

"Wait!" Jacob screamed, lunging back and catching Roth's arm. He could see the Blighters below pause, unsure of this sudden order. Roth seemed confused, a glint of something Jacob couldn't quite name flashing in his eyes.

"Whatever for?" He demanded, and Jacob could feel the weight of what they had almost done crushing him like a vice. If he had noticed several seconds later, if he hadn't noticed at all...

He shook his head violently, releasing Roth's arm to jab a finger towards the workhouse, feeling his voice crack as he visualised those poor children caught in the destructive stage he had so masterfully set. The dynamite would reduce the building to ashes in minutes.

"There are children in there!" He explained, and felt something shift, like a scale tipping that fraction too far. It ws unnerving, the sudden, poking feeling of unease, like a voice in his head whispering quiet truths he didn't want to hear.

Roth spread his hands, a disgruntled expression on his features but a strange light in his eyes, "Why, Jacob, my darling. Starrick uses child labour to fuel his factories and workhouses! Sorrowful as it may be, we must wipe them out if we wish to cripple him."

In one fell swoop, Maxwell shattered Jacob's illusions. The Frye physically recoiled, disgust and horror both twisting his features as he stared at the man before him with suddenly opened eyes.

"They're just children!" He protested, furiously ignoring the twist in his gut, the stabbing blade of betrayal that buried itself deep inside his chest. Roth waved him aside, turning to lean over the lip of the roof, shouting a command to his Blighters that the sudden rush of blood in Jacob's ears blocked out.

Anger and resentment bubbled in his veins, narrowing his vision to a field of red, and with a strangled cry of denial he flung himself forwards, his kukri sliding free of its sheath with an ease it never had before.

The blade buried itself in solid flesh and bone, the full weight of him crashing into his target, and he barely even felt the concussion in his legs as he lunged back to his feet and threw the blade with enough force to bury it to the hilt in the second Blighter's back.

He turned then, lifting his gaze to the scarred face staring at him from above, the disbelieving cry from Roth only serving to fuel the fire in his chest.

"What are you doing?!"

He glanced quickly to the side, only too aware of time and what losing it would mean. There were at least a dozen of Roth's men stationed around the workhouse, intent on ensuring none survived the explosion, and any one of them could feasibly ignite the dynamite.

Even so, he tried one last effort, some part of him desperate not to lose this one thing he had mananged to find, to gravitate himself to and not have to fear an arguement, a betrayal, at every turn.

"We're not playing games anymore, Roth!" He shouted up, feeling a sickening knot through his insides as Roth's face set into an expression of bitterness and vitriol.

"No. We're not."

Roth disappeared from his sight, moving to the other side of the roof, and every muscle in Jacob's body burned at the speed with which he spun and bolted towards the workhouse. Dimly, some part of him realised he would be too late, another, even smaller part urging him to flee for his own safety.

The explosion ws deafening, cutting through the London noise in a great big boom. Jacob was flung off his feet by the force of it, flattened to the ground breathlessly, mere meters away from the building. His ears rung, a sharp, shrill sound that pierced through his head and brought tears to his eyes.

Despite the sharp needles digging into his scalp, he forced himself to his feet, blinking his vision back to focus, and surged into the burning wreck of the workhouse, ignorant of the flames licking at his coat as he kicked the door in and entered the roaring inferno he had created.

The children were huddled together in small groups, those who had not been caught in the explosion, and they burst for the light the second the door was flung wide. Mentally, he praised them for their quick wit, but he was too occupied trying not to choke on the acrid smoke and the heat that seared his lungs as he tossed aside a fallen rafter to pull the limp form of a young boy free. He emerged back into the air with a great gasp, his chest burning with a tight, bruised sensation.

He forced himself to ignore it as he gently set the unconscious boy down a safe distance from the fire, near the other children, and lunged back into the crumbling building. A quick sweep of his vision revealed three more youngsters trapped inside the burning pit, and he shouldered his way through the rapidly decintergrating workhouse with fervor.

The first was a young girl, little more than eight years old, and amidst the bitter anger he felt that she was even here, he lifted her into his arms and instructed her to hold on. The youngster did, hands fisting in his coat for dear life as she pressed her face against his shoulder and shook in his one-armed hold.

Smart girl, he thought. The coat would prevent her from breathing in the smoke, at least a little.

The second lad was dead to the world, his slight frame trapped underneath a thick beam, and Jacob felt his muscles burn as he lifted the heavy wood with only one arm at his disposal. He coughed briefly, inhaling a great big mouthful of smoke as he unwittingly gasped. The beam was aside, though, and he quickly scooped the feather-light boy into his hold and bolted from the inferno.

The girl refused to release his jacket, even when he had knelt on the grass outside, and he gently tried to pry her away, while the sense of urgency in his chest only deepened. Desperation was rising when one of the other lasses disentangled herself from the group of uninjured children and trotted over, murmuring a quiet whisper into the youngster's ear that had her immediately releasing her grip.

Jacob didn't have time to be grateful, pivoting on his heel and sprinting back into the crumbling building. Half the roof had collapsed in the time he was gone, and he shirked around the smouldering tiles with a hand to his face. The smoke was unbearable now, a thick smog that covered everything and stung his eyes even more than the heat. He prayed the last lad wasn't trapped beneath the fallen roof, a quick sweep of the rubble confirming that he was not, but was rather stuck between the wall and a sizzling piece of machinery.

Jacob felt the metal burning at his side as he forced himself into the small space, stifling a grunt of pain as he pulled the boy up by his arm and draped the thin frame over his shoulder. Finally, he made for the exit one last time, emerging in the daylight with a great gasp of relief. The boy stirred in his arms, coughing harshly, and Jacob felt it safe to set him down on his feet several meters away from the burning workhouse. The lad leapt to reunite with his friends, and Jacob doubled over on himself, hands braced on his knees, and coughed.

His lungs felt blistered by the heat, burning in agony every time he drew breath. Sweat pooled on his face, his hair wet against his dry skin, and soot clung to every item of clothing, and every patch of bare skin.

Turning, he watched what was left of the workhouse crumble in on itself with a great roar of hungry flames engulfing the rotten wood. He straightened painfully, aware of the burns littering his skin, and coughed once more into his hand. The foul stench of smoke clung to him and burned his tongue with its filthy taste, making him wish for nothing more than a cold bucket to pour over himself.

He shook his head, running a hand through his tangled and dirty hair with a heavy sigh that stuck in his chest for a moment. He was exhusted, physically and emotionally spent, and he turned to beat a sorry retreat, conflicted and beaten down, when the crack of a gunshot rang through the air like unexpected lightning.

The youngster fell before he could even process the shot, his brain shortcurcuiting as he watched the small boy topple, thin legs giving out as a burst of red bloomed across his dirty, patched shirt. He felt distanced, disconnected, like a helpless bystander, for a full, numbing moment, before time rushed back into place and he let go an ungodly roar, turning on the Blighter with vision tainted red.

The gangster fell from a single stroke, the hidden blade sinking into the soft flesh of the neck with little resistance. Jacob took a moment to breath, feeling the fire burning through his veins, the hot fury deep in his gut, but in a matter of seconds the red haze faded and he was brought crashing back into reality, the cries of the children deafening to his ears as they shook and shouted at their fallen friend. Half of them were too young to understand, the rest too shocked to even respond, most still choking on smoke and fire, and Jacob felt centuries older as he gently crouched beside the boy.

A moment of sorrow passed over him, grief, anger, resentment, all filling his heart as he carefully, reverently, passed a hand over the boy's sightless eyes, the red stain wet, warm and sickening. Gently, like handling a newborn babe, he lifted the youngster up, cradling him silently as his dirty and scared friends watched on hesitantly, unsure.

Jacob tried to smile, felt it was more of a grimace, and spoke, "He deserves a proper burial."

The words tasted like ash on his tongue.

Night had fallen by the time he clambered back onto the train, his body weary and his mind numb. The stench of smoke and soot mingled with the beer and blood on his shirtfront, creating a pungent aroma he hadn't the energy to give two shites about. He winced as the bright lights hit his eyes, raising a hand groggily to block them, swaying unsteadily on his feet. The train rocked its way along the tracks, his aching body and unsettled stomach both protesting the uneven, bumpy floor beneath his feet.

"Good God, Jacob! Where have you been now?"

Evie's voice shook him out of his stupor, his hand dropping enough that he could see her, standing stonily in the middle of the carriage, meters away, but at the same time an million miles apart.

He took a deep breath, felt it burn in his lungs, and let it out heavily, not caring that he shook where he stood, that his legs were trembling with the simple task of holding him up.

"Roth is dead." He managed to say, the words sticking in his throat, choking him as they clawed past the smoke and beer that had lodged in the way.

Evie frowned, closing the distance between them and staring at him, judging him. She reached a hand for his arm, to steady him, and despite his best efforts, he flinched. She froze, only for a moment, before he heard her sigh, a great gush of air that was followed by her arms wrapping around him and drawing him in close.

She was warm, comfortably, comfortingly, warm. A stark contrast to the icy front he was always subject to. He melted against her, letting his eyes fall shut as his forehead rested on her shoulder, his body shaking against her, every muscle in his abused, weary frame aching.

"I'm sorry." He whispered into the leather of her coat. He had never been very good at apologies, neither of them had, but this time he felt he had to try. Had to make the attempt to let her know how truly sorry he was, how foolish he had been.

Evie frowned, placing a hand on the back of his head, seeming not to mind the stench wafting off him.

"Jacob..." She didn't seem to know how to continue, and honestly he couldn't blame her. Finally, she sighed, taking his arm and leading him gently to the couch in the corner.

Jacob clung to her like a child to his mother's skirt, knowing he was being selfish, but not capable of making himself care. She sat down beside him and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, guiding his head to rest on her shoulder once more.

"What happened?" She asked gently, rubbing her hand up and down his shoulder.

He took a breath, felt it stick in his throat, and let it out shakily. Before he could second-guess himself, he spoke, the words tumbling from his lips like a waterfall. Evie didn't speak, only held him as he fell to pieces, never pushing when he paused to draw breath or summon the courage to continue.

"I buried the boy next to his mother." He told her quietly, his eyes open but unseeing. All he could see was that innocent little boy's pale face as Jacob set him down in the shallow hole beside his mother's fresh grave.

Evie let out a quiet breath, but said nothing. They sat in the silence, Jacob's mind numb and silent as he leaned against his sister, cold despite the warmth he knew he should be feeling. It was a hard realisation, that of what he had been doing.

"I should have listened to you from the start," he murmured, closing his eyes tightly, as if he could shut out all the wrong he had done, "I just made a mess of things."

Evie squeezed his shoulder tightly, her cheek resting on his damp hair, and he felt her shake her head, "It wasn't your fault, Jacob."

He said nothing, but he knew she was wrong. Everything bad that had happened to London in the last few months was becuase of him. He had been too reckless, too impatient. He had nearly caused an econominal collapse for Christ's sake.

The silence stretched again, nothing but the heavy air settled between them. The weight of Jacob's mistakes out in the open.

Eventually, Evie spoke, her voice little more than a whisper, as if she were afraid to breach the silence.

"Starrick is moving for the Shroud. In two days time, he plans to steal it from a hidden vault under Buckingham Palace and eliminate all the heads of Church and State."

Vaguely, Jacob remembered her saying something about the Queen hosting a ball in a few days time. He said nothing, though, simply waited for her to continue, to condem him, to tell him she wanted to stop Starrick alone.

"I'll need your help to stop him."

He shifted, then, twisting his head to look at her. She was looking back, a thin smile twisting her lips, a strange fondness in her eyes. He stared at her for a moment, felt a little warmth in his chest that he had feared dead long ago.

"Together?" She asked, and despite it all, he couldn't help but feel the hint of a smile, weary and broken, but true, pull at his lips.

"Together."

"We seem to have made an unscheduled stop."