Summary: Thomas Hickey was a lot of unsavory things, not that he ever gave a damn; a drunk, a thief, a smuggler, an opportunist, a murderer, a whoring lout, to say the least. His services sold to the highest bidder, there was little he remained loyal to. But there were a few lines he would not cross. Including when Charles "gifted" him with the exhausting little assassin during their stay in Bridewell.

Somehow, Hickey escaped Fem!Connor at the gallows and failed at killing Washington. Considering his extensive time in jail at Haytham's hands and Charles' increasingly unstable penchant for putting his personal vendettas first, Hickey started making himself scarce around his Templar brethren.

To add insult to injury, he swiftly found his path constantly crossing with the infernally stubborn assassin's. Their goals in alignment more often than not, they acknowledged there was little gain in initially killing each other. And as loath as he was to admit it, a begrudging respect for Fem!Connor started to send him questioning his own truths. Yet, how long until Thomas found himself at the end of the assassin's blade? Or until he ended her life the sake of his own personal gain?

Warning: Adult language, images, fisticuffs, threats of serious harm and non-con.

I can't see where you comin' from,
But I know just what you runnin' from:
And what matters ain't the "who's baddest," but
The ones who stop you fallin' from your ladder, baby.

-Short Change Hero, The Heavy

Mid-June, 1776

The last time someone held a blade to Thomas' family jewels, it was through no fault of his own. The tasty little poppet smiling up at him from where she lay naked in bed had failed to disclose that she was married. Or that her husband was back in town and on leave from the local militia. No matter, as cold-cocking said cuckhold in the face gave him ample time to go crashing through the window and tear off out of the backyard. If he had to grade himself on the execution of his getaway, he'd determine it was a solid seven on a scale of one to ten. Yeah, it didn't employ much in the way of finesse. Nevertheless, he had to give himself a couple of pats on the back for sheer style.

But that was few months ago. Just now, he tried the same trick with the Assassin. Because as far as he was concerned, it was pretty fucking rude to let the little git manhandle him up against the wall of the building they'd found themselves next to. Especially after such a bloody long chase through the streets of New York.

Apparently, me skills need a bit 'o polishin', he distantly mused, Or me age is catchin' up with me. Having 36 years to you didn't exactly make anyone a spring chicken. Not to mention, his pride had taken a bit of a bruising as well. The stupid blighter was wet behind the ears and likely still proverbially sucking on his mama's teats. Yet he still managed to tackle him to the ground in the middle of the god-damned street. All despite his best efforts to distract the crowds by tossing out counterfeit money in his wake.

For fuck's sake, didn't Haytham swear up and down that the boy's laughable ilk were all dead and gone?

"Be still. You will do no more harm."

Thomas froze at the feel of cold steel against his inner thigh as he reeled back for the punch. Well, that and the fact that the self-righteous little voice proved on the high side. Then there was also the rather glaring detail that he could feel the fetching curve of her tits beneath her clothes. Mostly due to her being pressed all up against him as she securely balled her other fist into his collar.

Peering closer and really paying attention now, he arched a surprised brow. Well fancy that, it was apparently a woman beneath the white hood. She was on the tall side, the top of her head reaching above his shoulder. Her layers of clothes also hid most of her curve. Combined with her bristling with a menagerie of weapons, it was no surprise that he'd initially mistaken her for a smaller man. Yet she proved quite the comely bit 'o fresh morsel. At least judging by the flash of her dark eyes and the charming spray of freckles across her button nose and chiseled cheeks. She bore a nice 'lil mouth on her too, in spite of its current sneer. Her deeply tanned skin strikingly unusual, it didn't detract from her lovely visage. Nope, not in the slightest.

Without warning, her countenance stirred some distant, uncanny recollection in him. As though he'd seen her before, though that had to be impossible. There's no way he'd forget a face like that…unless he was utterly shit-faced at the time? He was admittedly distracted by the way her blade kept shifting upwards and way too fucking close to his balls. So his biggest concerns at present boiled down to two key things:

1.) Her knife threatening to castrate him. Really, it wasn't fucking funny anymore, how close it was to his cock. Just, no.
2.) Getting her to shut the fuck up as she kept yammering on and on about that tosser, Washington. How could this little chit be so bloody naïve?

It certainly didn't help when he spotted over her shoulders an approaching patrol of soldiers sizing them up. To add insult to injury, they looked to be carrying his bag of counterfeit money. Great, now that could be pretty fucking incriminating.

Trying to shove her away only earned him her even tighter grip on his collar. She was damn near about to choke him out if she pulled it any harder…and now, here were the soldiers. Bloody fucking hell.

Of course, the silly nitwit tried to talk them out arresting her. Jesus Christ, she should've just shut the hell up and let him grease their palms a bit. No harm, no foul and they could both be on their merry way. She, back to whatever rock she crawled out from under. He, off to lay low for a bit and let Haytham know that there was likely going to be a change in plans when it came to sliding in Lee to command the Continentals.

They must have been just as fed up with her prattle as he was, for one of them knocked her out with the butt of their rifle. As loath as he was to admit it, Hickey couldn't bite back a wince as her eyes rolled to the back of her head and she collapsed to the cobblestones. That was certainly going to leave a mark. And one hell of a headache.

"Serves her right, yeah?" he attempted to garner the soldiers' camaraderie. "Bloody lil tosser should know 'er place, eh?"

Regrettably, that didn't go over as well as he hoped, judging by their sneers. "You want some more of where that came from?" one of them snarled, smacking him across the back of head as he led them away. Thankfully, it was with his hand rather than the same treatment he'd doled out to the assassin. "No?" he jeered, "Then I suggest you shut it!" Gritting his teeth, Hickey shot the soldier a murderous glare. Left with no room for escape at the moment, he found himself being marched to Bridewell Prison.

Lee had better have a solution for this little muck-up, that was for damn sure.

Hickey wasn't particularly surprised when the key jangled in the lock of his cell. Lying in bed (a real one, too. With an actual stuffed mattress, a couple of pillows and a heavily knit blanket. It was a fuck-ton better than the disgusting straw mattress that passed for one in the cell he they'd tossed him into before his little upgrade) and staring up at the boring array of stones in the ceiling for a moment, he leapt to his feet as the door creaked open.

However, the sight that met him caused his gleeful expression of victory to fall from his face.

"Good, you're awake," Charles sniffed, scurrying into the cell. "I've a gift for you, Hickey."

"Unless it's me walkin' papers, I ain't interested!" he snapped. "Wot's with all this funny business 'bout gettin' me out?! I been in 'ere for damn near a fortnight!"

"Patience!" Charles chastised, "Haytham is employing all options at his disposal to release you. In the meantime, this should serve you well." With little care, he tossed a blanket-covered, body-sized bundle onto the bed. "Do with the little bitch what you wish," he dismissively waved.

"Wot's this 'en?" Hickey shot Charles a suspicious look. Lee only shrugged before inspecting his nails for a bit.

In one, fluid motion, Hickey yanked the blanket from around his apparent sacrifice. It revealed the knocked out, dusky-skinned wildcat who led to his arrest. She was bound hand and foot, her hair loosened of its braid. In a thin, filthy tunic that did little to hide her bodice beneath it and torn trousers, she appeared every inch the prisoner. He black eye, swollen cheek and corner of her mouth, the mottle of bruises along her forearms and her thinner figure added to the effect.

For some reason that he had no desire to address aloud, Hickey's stomach lurched at the sight of her.

Sure, she was a bloody assassin who'd killed a shit-ton of his allies. And she was better off dead instead of constantly fucking up their plans. But this? This was bordering a bit on the side of ridiculous. Not to mention, a god-damned waste of time. Better for a clean kill then whatever revenge-driven madness Charles was plotting. Put the girl out of her misery once and for all is how he saw it. Then again, that'd always been Lee's shortcoming; his plans were way too damn complicated, so it was inevitable that he constantly allowed the most minor of setbacks to affect him far too personally. In all honesty, his sheer arrogance was getting to be a problem.

Thomas was glad he didn't have some knob-headed, blind allegiance to the Templars' ridiculous creed. A nice tidy little fortune for his efforts was plenty enough to keep him going. Well, at least for now.

"What in the hell would I want to do with that?" he pointed accusingly at her on the bed.

Walking towards the door, Charles was stopped by Hickey's heavy hand on his shoulder. Spinning about on his heel, he gave a dark chuckle at the other man's confused expression. "What?" he sing-songed, "I can't imagine how hard it is for you to think straight when you haven't had your cock properly serviced in the last fortnight or so, eh?"

Thomas had never liked Haytham's creepy little lap dog. Especially not with the way the other man's icy blue eyes lewdly trailed down to his crotch at the moment. Not that he wasn't the equal opportunity sort when it came to his own bedmates. Before he went and got himself killed, Johnson had certainly enjoyed his attentions, to say the least. But Charles' constant expressions of lustful adoration for the Grandmaster always left a nasty taste in his mouth. Perhaps like Kenway did in Charles'?

He snickered at that. His mind easily drummed up the image of the grandmaster sitting back in that big, comfy, leather chair of his in his office. Charles would gladly be on his knees, like one of his bloody Pomeranians, begging for it. Of course, Haytham would last for a while, dismissive and bored, as always. Maybe he liked tying up the little lapdog and having him watch in frustration as he jerked himself off. Or fucked one of the tavern wenches from the Green Dragon, her buxom body bent over his office desk. Oh, Charles would be so deliciously frustrated. Likely whining and crying for release like the little lickspittle he was.

Thomas didn't realize he was actually laughing out loud until Charles smacked him across the shoulder. "Shut-up, you imbecile!" he hissed, nodding towards the door. "I had to bribe the guards a hefty bit of coin to look the other way as I brought the savage to you. I shouldn't even be here in the first place!"

"Well 'en," Thomas gave him a mocking bow with a flourish of his hand, "By you leave, m'lord?"

Rolling his eyes and gritting his teeth, Charles stomped out of the cell. As he closed it, pulling on the door to ensure it was locked, he snapped out, "Frankly, it's a waste of perfectly good funds that we're getting you released."

"Apparently, the boss-man don't think that," Thomas smirked with a feral flash of his teeth.

"Ass!" Charles muttered, gesturing for the guard at the top of stairs to lead him out.

Hearing the retreating steps, Thomas crossed his cell and took a seat on his bed, next to his apparent target. She didn't stir. Not even when he slapped her cheek a couple of times to wake her up. Shrugging, he picked her up and unceremoniously dumped her on the floor, next to the bed. She was lucky that there were fresh rushes spread across it. No doubt, it was miles cleaner than the shit hole they had her locked up in. Pulling the blanket up over himself, he soon drifted off to sleep.

Seriously, why in the fuck did Charles have to be such a god-damned inconvenience?

She was still asleep when Hickey awoke the next morning. But she'd moved in the night, curling herself up against the wall. Her feet were still bound, as were her hands in front of her.

Judging by how the guard didn't say a word as he pushed in his breakfast through the steel grate in the middle of the door, Thomas figured Haytham's pockets must have run nice and deep for this level of bribery. From what he heard when they let him out for his daily hours in the prison yard (outside and away from the general, broke-ass prison population, of course), there had been no word of a prisoner escape. Meaning the guards knew that she wasn't in her cell.

How fucked up was that?

In fact, he was so focused on the fact that Charles expected him to use her for a bit of fun that he missed that she still wasn't on the floor when he returned that afternoon. It was his first mistake.

As soon as the door to his cell clicked closed behind him, his knee was kicked out from behind him. In the next split second, something wild and clawing then landed on his back, effectively knocking the air out of him. Within the blink of an eye, she boxed him twice the kidney. Nearly throwing up his supper at the blaze of agony that ricocheted up his side, he sluggishly crawled back to his knees, his fingers blindly clambering for purchase along the floor. Unfortunately for him, she briskly followed up her initial attack with a driving punch to the back of his neck.

As he once again hit the floor like a bag of bricks, a distant part of his mind had to give her some credit at her speed and efficiency. However, he was currently far more concerned with the rope that suddenly appeared in front his eyes. Instinctively throwing up a hand to protect his neck, he could do nothing else to stop her as she yanked it around his throat with vicious aplomb. Now, she was effectively strangling him.

Breath seizing and lungs on fire, his vision was already beginning to darken around the edges. If he didn't do something quick, he was going to be dead in the matter of a few minutes. Probably sooner, judging by how she suddenly clutched his torso between her thighs and settled all her weight on his lower back. As his head jerked backwards, he knew all she needed was a little more force to allow her to cleanly snap his neck.

What a clever fucking cunt.

Without warning, he suddenly went limp. While it didn't allow him to completely surprise her, it gave him the precious seconds he needed to slide his hand even further under her makeshift garrote. Ignoring the rope burn tearing into his hand, he rocked forward. At the same time, snapping his hips upwards threw her off balance. At least the rope was slightly looser now, allowing him to suck in a few desperately needed gulps of air. But her well-aimed hit to the back of his other knee sent him sprawling again. She must have connected with a nerve of some sort, as his thigh spasmed its own volition. His irate grunt echoing off the walls of his cell did nothing to slow how she wrapped both the edges of the rope around one of her hands.

At the same time, she bounced the side of his head off the floor with her other one. Light exploded in front of his eyes at the impact, making him roar out a curse of retort. Hands scrambling back, he viciously raked his nails down her arm. While he could feel himself drawing blood, she simply smacked his hand away while rocking back her weight again.

Holy shit, this bitch was serious.

Eyes desperately searching for anything to use to his advantage, he let out a gurgle of triumph as he spotted a loosened tile next to his nose. Grabbing at it, he yanked it from the floor. Reeling back, he smashed it into her thigh. While she groaned and seized when it shattered on impact, it didn't cause her to drop the rope. But it was enough to force her to loosen a bit of slack while giving him the leverage he needed to struggle to his knees. He expected her to release him, what, with her equilibrium finally thrown off. But all she did was firmly wrap her legs around his waist and lock her feet together. Great, now he had the crazed savage on his back yet again. And she still had the bloody rope secured around his god-damned neck.

Enough of this bullshit.

Eyes darting around to get his bearings as he stumbled to his feet, he flailed backwards and hit the wall. Her snarled grunt of pain rang in his hears as her back connected with the stone. An idea swiftly forming in his head and realizing he likely had around two to three stone of weight on her, he reared back and propelled her into the wall again. This time, with brutal intent and throwing his full weight into it. He was rewarded with her louder yowl and the feel of her feet loosening from around his waist. Pitching forward, he ran backwards yet again. The third time was the charm as the breath was knocked out of her with a bellow of frustration, her grip on the rope finally faltering. Snatching it from around his throat, he hurled it to ground and doubled over. Shaking and gasping for breath as she slid to the ground behind him, he was forced to focus on not passing out.

That was his second mistake.

Did that bloody savage just launch 'erself off the fuckin' wall?! his mind reeled as she inexplicably appeared in front of him, letting out an eerily wolfish growl and shoving her shoulder into his chest. It was made even worse when her punch connected with his mouth, effectively splitting his lip. A little higher and she would've solidly broken his nose. Only luck allowed him to reach out and snatch her by the hair. But yanking her head back did nothing stop her hands from popping up through his arms and aiming a punch or two at his throat. Hell, she didn't even shriek at the pain he know he was causing at almost tearing her hair out at the root.

Thank God he was a soldier, as a civilian would've contained laughably poor reflexes. Likely, he'd be currently choking to death in a vain attempt to get air through his newly crushed trachea. But he was used to attacks from his time in the field. So he jerked his head just to left, causing her first punch to land on his clavicle, the second on his cheek. Gritting out a litany of curses at he felt his face already beginning to swell up, he reached out and smacked her across the face.

She ducked roughly halfway of his reach, though her nose was bloodied, her teeth clattering at the impact so hard she bit down on her lip and drew blood. Yet it allowed him to snap his other arm around her neck and grind it down against her throat. Unfortunately, it still didn't stop her next attack. In fact, she reared back to head-butt him. Only his height saved him, as well as the way he yanked on her hair again, wrenching her neck backward and causing her to let out a hiss of agony.

She was still a whirling fury of spinning limbs. Changing tactics a third time, she kicked at the floor in an effort to get some momentum going. It wasn't hard to tell that she was attempting to use his superior weight against him. Likely, in order to smash him back into the floor and finish off the job of throttling him to death. Frankly, he was a bit stunned that she wasn't screaming and panicked. Outside of a swift babble of what he assumed were curses in her native language, she was silent. Doubtless, she wholly focused on killing him, the murderous little savage.

The chit had more balls than most men he knew, he had to begrudgingly give her that. But her game was getting old pretty damn fast. Thankfully, he was able kick a leg under hers and shove his legs further apart to better anchor himself. It prevented her from getting enough force to use him as a counterweight.

Somewhere in his brain, it clicked that he was pretty fucking lucky that she was probably not at her best due to increasingly lengthy time in prison. Or else he would've been dead in the matter of a few hits. A shame for her, though he'd never in a million years trade places with the little beast. It wasn't his fucking fault that her luck had run out.

Her body went stiff when he pressed his arm even harder to her windpipe in warning. "Good," he snarled, tongue licking at the blood trickling down his lip, the taste coppery and warm, "'Cause if ya move one more fuckin' time, I'll snap that pretty 'lil neck 'o yours, yeah?" She remained silent, so he took it for acceptance.

Gingerly letting go of her hair to ensure she didn't reel back for another blow, he still kept his arm solidly clutched around her neck. Swiftly reaching down, he retrieved the rope. Looping it around her hands, he double checked the knots. Looked like that blighter, Charles, was a solid fuck-up when it came to restraining prisoners. That had to be the only explanation of how she could've escaped her bonds.

"Now," he huffed, "I'm gonna to drop ya to the floor. And ya ain't gonna fuckin' move, got it?!" Her body went even more rigid at that, no doubt rearing up for another attack. His ears ringing from his head getting shoved into the floor, he was in no mood for another fight. Not at moment, at least. And fuck, his throat hurt. So he settled for threats.

"Look 'ere, ya 'lil shit! Ya try 'n kill me again, God as me witness, I'll give ya a sound beating ya won't ever fuckin' forget."

In spite of his words, she still didn't relax. Son of a bitch, what a stubborn little tosser. Well, time to step it up.

"And that'll be after I stick my cock right up yer tight 'lil rump for payment." She certainly let out a hiss at that. "Then, I'll hand ya over to the guards for their fun. And unlike most up in 'ere, you're a nice bit 'o tits 'n ass. So I wonder 'ow long they'll keep all their attentions focused on ya, eh?" His mother would've skinned him alive for such vileness. Then again, she never attempted to fucking choke him out. Besides, judging by the girl's subtle nod, she was taking his words seriously. Good.

Feeling her relax, he let her go. She hit to the floor with little more than a grunt. Bringing his hand to his mouth, he inspected the damage with his fingertips. It wasn't much. But his vision was swimming, the ringing in his ears hadn't let up and half of his face was swelling up. His lungs also still burned from a lack of air.

Frustrated, he growled and raised a hand to smack her across her insolent face. She didn't even bother to flinching at his action. Stock still and bracing for the impact, her eyes were narrowed to dangerous slits of black. Her split lip curled with derision and teeth bared, it lent her the look of a rabid dog ready to rip out his throat at the latest provocation.

He surprised himself when he paused mid swing. She barely reacted to it.

Letting out a hiss of retort, he settled for shoving her cheek into the wall with a rough hand while scuffing at her calf with the edge of his boot. Outside of a wince and "oomph!" of impact as she connected with the stone, she said not a word. Crouching to where she was haphazardly slumped on the floor, he snatched her by the chin, forcing her to meet his incensed gaze. "Now, stay put, ya daft 'lil mongrel," he growled, taking in the way her dark gaze was still narrowed at him, fierce and unbowed. Her swelling, bloody nose twitched, almost as though she was sniffing at him, the barbarous wench. "Daddy's gotta see how much damage ya bloody wrought so he can go thinkin' up the proper punishment, eh?" She still didn't reply, save a mutter of foreign words.

Cuffing her ear for her efforts, he leaned down and tied up her feet as well. Considering he was due to be released today, there was no need to worry about her nearly escaping again. At least that's what he had to tell himself as he doubled and tripled checked his knots. If only because he was dangerously close to getting killed just now. Way bloody close, in fact.

For the love of fucking God, why in the bloody hell had Charles dumped this feral little bitch on his doorstep?

"Why have you not…assaulted me?" It was not said with fear. Or anger. Or murderous intent. Rather, with an exhausted sort of acceptance.

"Wot, love?" Hickey snarled, flipping a page of the newspaper, "Don't tell me our little brawl got ya all wet and wantin'? Wot, ya bloodlust need a bit of a fix?" he let out a spiteful chuckle. Hopefully, the threat would shut her up.

After all, they were the first words she'd spoken in well over two hours. From her position securely trussed on the floor the cell and next to his bed, she'd made barely a scrape of noise. Yet he knew was awake the entire time. The feel of her eyes boring into his back where he sat at his desk, his feet propped up and reading the afternoon paper, was unmistakable. He could only chalk it up to her sheer frustration of not being able to strangle him when she had the chance. Now, he had a pounding headache, split lip and a half-swollen face for her troubles. Meanwhile, her bloodied nose, bruised ribs and the nail marks all up and down her arms were his malevolent gifts to her.

They would've made a comical sight, the pair of them now looking like old, battered, bare-knuckle boxers. Well, except for the fact that she'd fucking tried to kill him. Yet a distant part of his mind couldn't blame her; you could sure as shit bet that he would've fought just as dirty, had their roles been reversed. Admittedly, he'd always had a predilection for shit-stirring little scrappers.

Then again, she could've been a bit more civil and not tried to fucking kill him.

"Hardly," she quietly retorted after a long while. He let out a long, exasperated sigh at the fact that she couldn't take the hint and snap up her yap as she continued, "I simply expect it of you."

Who in the hell did she think he was?!

Oh, he'd lost what little honor he had long ago, of that there was no doubt. His life's blood was smuggling and espionage. He'd unapologetically lied and cheated his way to the top of the black market. Of course, he'd killed men. To the point where it'd become almost bothersome whenever he was called upon to do so for the sake of necessity. He was certainly a man of all sorts of lechery. Never too picky about the skirts he chased and bedded, a bit of coin and a draft of beer completed his usual trifecta of appetites. But there was a world of difference between taking a wanting lass and stealing what hadn't been freely given. And he sure as shit wasn't no thief of that sort of thing.

Then again, he had little desire to explore why exactly the dodgy little git's assumption of that sort of contemptible behavior from him pissed him off even more. He'd never bothered thinking too much on such complexities. Mostly because it'd never done damn a thing to either fatten his pockets or contribute to his various indulgences. So he settled for the usual insult and intimidation.

"Well, if ya don't shut ya yap," he jeered, still not bothering to look back at her, "I ain't makin' no promises that a piece of 'ole Hickey won't end up all up in ya!"

"Understood," she steadily said.

Thank whatever savage gods ya pray to that I ain't no right proper deviant, poppet. No matter what Lee and the lot 'o 'em be thinkin' of me supposed inclinations, he furiously mused. Which has gotta be the only bloody reason why that wanker dumped you in me lap.

Within a half hour, the sounds of her even breathing signaled that she was finally asleep. Glancing back at the setting sun through the bars of his window, he shook his head in irritated dismay. For fuck's sake, Lee was supposed to bail him out hours ago.

Ugh, what a bloody prat.

Thankfully, Lee finally decided to drag his sorry arse back up to Bridewell the next morning. Along with some longwinded plan to frame his temporary cellmate for their plot against Washington. Plus, the murder of the warden. Though Hickey personally didn't think was the best idea to inform her of entire fucking thing. Then again, what did he care? He was finally getting the fuck out of here.

He found himself rolling his eyes as Charles made his usual megalomaniacal threats at the little beast. Seriously, if he kept waving his flintlock about like that, the whiny bugger was bound to end up shooting him. Couldn't they just say their goodbyes and be on their way? Being in the clink for over a fortnight was plenty of time for him to decide he that he pretty much despised enclosed spaces. No matter a better cell and whatnot.

Alright, so he couldn't hold back a chuckle at the 'lil wolf's astonishment that their apparent order expected everyone to fall in line. Such was life. Either you swam with big fish, or got ripped to bits by the lot of them. Looked like she was about to get eaten. And not in the good way.

Oh well.

"What in the hell happened to your face, Thomas?" Charles snorted, his irksome voice snapping Hickey out of his thoughts as he slammed the woman's cell door closed. "Please don't tell me our guest," he nodded to where Connor appeared as though she was mentally calculating the slowest, bloodiest and most vicious way to flay them both, "Gave you much trouble?" he chuckled. "Because it would be a true pity if she has yet to learn the valuable lesson of obedience."

Gaze narrowing and taking in how Lee's hand lingered on the lock to her cell, Hickey suddenly found himself sneering, "Got inta a bit 'o fisticuffs in the yard. Not that it be any of ya fuckin' concern." Eyes snapping to his at his supposed explanation, she arched a brow of utter surprise. He could almost see the wheels of confusion spinning in her head at his unexpected lie.

Frankly, he didn't want to dwell on it either.

"Well, I certainly hope the other lout looks worse," Charles scoffed.

"Ya assumin' he lived through it," Hickey rolled his eyes. "Besides, it ain't like I've ever let ya down on that front, eh?" he snickered, ignoring the peculiar pull at his gut as she continued silently staring at him.

"Surprise, surprise, you still serve some use," Charles retorted with a dismissive wave, spinning on his heel and finally leading him out of this hellhole.

Shooting him a cross expression, Hickey growled, "Oh, go knock off 'o it, ya feckless pillock!"

Soon, the assassin's fate was the furthest thing from his mind. He had some tail to chase and copious of amounts of drinking to catch up on, after all.