fiddles' home for cringefail x reader fics

You are not entirely sure what becoming an Assassin entailed. You didn’t think it was a train to Welsh country, your eye following the rolling hills beaten to a pleasant flush by the recent rain. Even with the coal stacks belching the sky gray, nothing could tarnish the natural beauty of the Rhondda Valley, carved into a gorgeous tableau by the river’s long wind towards the sea. You keep your head glued to the window of the train. Jacob seems – far off, one arm slung over the back of his train seat and dangerously close to invading the privacy of the elderly man sitting behind him. His expression is the most neutral it’s been since you’ve met him.

“Been a tick since I’ve been down here,” he says and pulls out his cigar from his pocket, the butt wrinkled and prune-like, the end burnt into charcoal. He doesn’t light it – just chews in thought. You assume he’s being enigmatic on purpose.

“I didn’t realize you visited Wales on occasion.”

“You could say that.”

Since when did Jacob Frye, master of incessant chatter, become so cagey? You resolve to let his sullen silence roll off your shoulder, fascinated by Wales’ comparatively fresh air. There’s a certain simplicity to the houses and farms, even the factories and railways. The train station is barely a wooden shack shored up with gray stone and a few windows. Still, the quiet shuffle of feet on and off the iron behemoths purring quietly on the tracks carries a strange, foreign sort of peace. You never realized how choked and claustrophobic London was until now.

You and Jacob both step out into the sunlight and carry your luggage down a steep hill paved with pebbles. An inn and cart shed sit daintily just under the train tracks. Renting one is an affair of Jacob talking animatedly in what you assume to be Welsh before walking you out to a dated car headed by a handsome black mare.

(A not-insignificant part of you wonders about his frequent use of such a home-spoken language. Jacob has the rough, syllable-busting accent common among the English working class. Evie has the Queen’s court’s carefully curated, perfumed elocution. Perfectly, assumedly British. Neither of them seems the type to learn Welsh to any degree of fluency. Perhaps it’s a valuable skill, given the amount of Welsh and Irishmen that make up the rank and file of the English blue-collar, and thus the Rooks.)

The innkeeper himself climbs into the driver’s seat with his old bones (do they not have a driver?) with Jacob muscling in beside him. He damn near rocks the carriage onto its side. You press your arm to the door to keep steady, afraid of touching anything for fear of it falling apart under your hands. Jacob and the innkeeper are still talking. The horse drives the three of you on, past the coal mines into the hills turning jade, unscarred by the encroachment of industrialization. You’d be lulled to sleep by the drive and the pleasant scent of spring grass if you weren’t busy holding down nausea. The carriage rocks in unsteady ways, flinging you against the door and the back of the seat.

At least Jacob seems to be enjoying himself.

The innkeeper lets you out at a dainty little cottage hugging the foot of a tree-laden hill, the stone fences marking the boundary of the well-cut front lawn and the wilder dirt path leading to the timber door. The roof is shingled with wood, Tudor windows set in brick and painted the same vibrant blue as the door. Jacob’s boots hit the dirt and kick up dust. You hear him strain from inside the carriage as he forces the old rusted gate open enough to squeeze through, guiding the horse by the reins rather than haul his bulk back into the driver’s seat and risk toppling it. When the innkeeper opens your door, you step out on wobbly feet, the earth swimming under your legs until you press the heels of your hands into your eyes.

You sit on a trunk as Jacob moves each piece of luggage from the carriage, insistently waving the innkeeper off at the old man’s every attempt at help. In the end, he’s content to sit up in the driver’s seat and smoke a comically long pipe. When everything is moved from ricketty lacquer wood to much more stable, safe dirt and earth, Jacob waves the innkeeper off and tries to pry the gate open a little bit wider. You sit and watch the back end of the car trundle away before a thought strikes you. You stand up far too fast, nausea and vertigo punching you in the temple to keep you from sprinting down the road.

“We didn’t pay him.” You are  horrified.  Jacob only raises an eyebrow marred with scar tissue.

“It was a favor.” He shrugs. “Wouldn’t take a shilling.” You must look exceptionally confused because he brushes his thumb against his nose and pointedly stares at the ground. “He’s an old family friend.” He leaves it at that, in a way that begs you not to pry.

The luggage is moved in bits and pieces, dragged into the foyer, and a distant part of you wonders if any servants are left on this estate to help you move. A country house of this size would at least have a maid and a gardener, maybe even a groom. The lack of cobwebs and the thin film of dust that settles over unloved spaces tell you that someone has been caring for the place for some kind of wage; you swivel your head around, looking for whoever it could be.

You only just barely notice Jacob wandering like a ghost towards the mantle. When you follow, you catch the frame he’s staring at, brick still. A daguerreotype of an older woman, her sharp bun struck through white in the faded shades of gray. Something seems familiar about the hook of her nose, the bow of her lip, but you don’t recognize her. You  do  recognize something about the two children sitting at her knees. Neither of them can be more than two (and well-behaved, if they had to sit through the photography process), but you know the pattern of freckles on their cheeks and noses. Fraternal twins.

“It’s a beautiful photo,” you say neutrally, hoping he’ll see the worm and not the hook. Perhaps you hope a little too loudly because Jacob only shrugs. “A relative of yours?” You’re almost sure that the two children in the picture are Jacob and Evie – but the woman looks too old to be their mother, and from what you recall, she died young. An aunt? A particularly beloved nanny?

“My nan,” he says, a fond smile tucking the corner of his lip up just enough the dimple at his cheek digs the barest furrow. “She raised us here for a bit, ’til our father finally took an interest in rearing his own kids.” You nearly kick yourself in the calf.  Of course.

You realize now that you were a bit too biased to see the forest for the trees.

You try and set aside your very English, very  perfumed,  tinted glasses to fumble a response. What can you say? ‘I didn’t think you are Welsh,’ as though it’s a disease? You whip your mouth into what you hope is a clinical smile.

“She keeps a lovely home.” You turn your head to look at the charmingly dated furniture and the spotless floors, wondering if his grandmother has gone into town at her age.

“Kept.” Your heart sinks into your knees when he won’t look at you, reaching out to touch the picture frame as if it’ll crumple to ash under his hand before gently laying it face-down on the mantle. “She died some years ago.”

You are an idiot.

“I’m sorry.”

Jacob only shrugs, and you feel as though a mutual consensus has been reached to end the conversation there, even if you’re tortured by thoughts. Who could possibly be caring for the home if the matriarch has been in the ground for years? Perhaps one of them (most likely Evie, though within ten minutes everything you thought you knew about Jacob has been thrown into a cotton spinner) has been paying some of the townsfolk to sweep through. Or perhaps the cleanliness of the estate is a recent development. You stop wondering for now, following Jacob as he helps you carry your bags into the master bedroom. A grim voice in the back of your mind convinces you that this is the room his grandmother died in.

At least the sheets look freshly laundered.

“You should get settled,” Jacob throws his thumb over his shoulder towards the front door, “I’m going down to the shops to pick up some supplies. We’ll start training tomorrow.” You feel your eyebrows knit together.

“You’re walking?”

“Town’s not that far. Besides, keeps the old bones from rusting.” He throws you a grin, but you can see the struggle of it – he shuffles his feet as though they keep trying to make a run for it, and he keeps dragging them back into place. Antsier than usual. “I’ll be back before sundown.”

He doesn’t give you a word in – Jacob all but runs out of the house. You watch out the window as he hops over the gate, the line of his shoulders hunching beyond the fenceline.

You think that this house haunts him more than he’d like to admit. You wonder as you unpack your things if this house feels like an old, hungry dog to him.

Jacob returns with a wicker basket and ceramic pot that both smell heavenly. They both make you realize you haven’t eaten since the train. You keep glancing a little too obviously at them as you sit at the table, eagerly hoping Jacob cracks them open and spills their guts to your eyes. Or maybe offer you some, if he’s feeling generous.

“Did you purchase those?” You ask. Jacob snorts.

“Gifts willingly given – and yes, you can have some,” he points at you, “so quit being Fancypants Polite Bookie, you can’t get anything out of me if I give it up freely.” You lay a hand over your heart, smiling through the sting he leaves under your ribcage. Perhaps you’ve been too cold if he mistakes polite conversation for manipulation. Or maybe he’s right. You’re too hungry to dwell on it.

“You wound me. Hand me the basket, Frye, before I start gnawing at the table.” Inside the basket are loaves of warm bread, summer cherries, hard cheese, and more vegetables and herbs than you can reasonably count. The ceramic pot holds a truly, gluttonously giant rabbit pudding, which, for your hungry stomach, is just about as appealing as Greek ambrosia. The parts of you that suffered inside a hauntingly empty mansion for years curl up in disgust at the thought of eating  peasant fare.  The rest of you happily grabs a spoon and carves a bite for yourself. It’s still warm and pleasantly spiced with thyme and summer spices. You let out an obscene groan and shovel another barbarously large heap into your gob, holding your hand under your spoon to keep the gravy from dripping onto the tablecloth. Your schoolmistress is rolling in her grave.

“Jesus, Bookie, save a bite for me.” Jacob holds his spoon like a shovel as he follows in your footsteps and hauls his dinner into his mouth. By the time you both chase away your famine, you’re play-fighting over scraps with your spoons as swords. Jacob trounces you soundly, and you’re content with carving off hunks of bread and covering them with hard cheese.

There’s something special – and warm – about passing him a piece, about sharing a meal. You can almost forget the war constantly brewing outside, just under the skin of the world, one that you’re about to make yourself a willing part of come tomorrow. Here, you’re sharing the sunset and dinner with a man you could see somewhat affectionately if you didn’t distrust him.

You push it out of your mind. All of it. The here and now involves fresh baked bread and cheese and Jacob hauling his boots onto the table and making it rattle. You laugh and poke at him with your spoon to try and get him to budge. He pretends you’ve shot him, cracking as many jokes as he can fit in a single breath of air. He pulls cider out of a nearby larder and shares bottles with you, touching them together with a friendly clink. You try and chug yours, but you end up spitting most of it up over the washbasin. You make him laugh. Here and now, you can pretend that you’re friends.