Miss Peregrine's Peculiar Children: One-Shots

Arson (Jack 'Caul' Bentham X Percival Murnau)

Spoilers:

1. Hollow City

2. Library of Souls

3. The Conference of the Birds

Warning(s):

1. Arson

2. Caul Being Caul

I have this head-canon that, when Murnau first decided to work with Caul, they burnt down the Department of Obfuscation together. 

Credits to blackandwhitewater for Murnau's nickname, and a few other references to his head-canons or theories!

Jack and Percival stood facing each other, the only thing between them a lit match, which the latter held up. Orange flames licked at its tip, flowing peculiarly in every which way, sparking and strengthening, resisting the wind's calm, rational pull.

Chaos wasn't one to be trifled with, and an embodiment of its wild awakening was the flame.

That said, Percival realized that his eyes might've landed on chaos itself right then. Jack stood before him, grinning manically, his long, dark coat rippling in the wind, a box of matches clutched in one pale hand, fingers wrapping around it, securing it as one would hold a precious possession.

His eyes were shining strangely, as if he had set his sights on the depths of his consciousness. His sinister grin was directed toward him, the moonlight illuminating his features. The night's gentle breeze ruffled his hair lightly, so that locks of it fell into his eyes, softly framing them.

The receding shadows of the towering, plain building faded away completely. It seemed to be the last time it, and all that it housed, would stand tall.

He could see himself in Jack's barely illuminated eyes. The 'founder of a very important department', a 'loyal, hardworking peculiar', and yet, he wasn't any of those.

He'd been lying to himself for far too long.

He contemplated the shifting flames of the match he held before him. If he'd set the structure on fire, he'd be taken in to work alongside Jack, and he'd be working toward the greatness of Peculiardom.

He pictured all his hard work, stacked in rows and rows of shelves, going up in flames.

Wouldn't it be worth it, if he'd get to finally be himself?

He'd be an arsonist, a criminal, and yet... The thought was strangely exhilarating.

Before he knew it, the last of the flames sputtered and faltered, its fuel exhausted, plunging the pair into darkness. Jack clicked his tongue, shaking his head. 'You'll have to get closer to the building, and strike a new flame.'

Jack plucked another match from his seemingly inexhaustible pile, and with a practiced nimbleness, quickly struck another flame. It flickered to life, pulsing and radiating heat.

He held it out expectantly, waiting for him to take it. Percival fumbled for it, his hand brushing Jack's as he got his fingers around the now lit match, its tip flaring with vicious heat.

He held it up, hesitating.

'Burn it.' Jack breathed, his voice deadly quiet. His patience was wearing thin.

Percival tried to bring the match to the construction, but he couldn't seem to be able to let the match fall upon it. His fingers wouldn't part enough, and so, he found, the match wouldn't- and couldn't- leave his hand.

'My first time was hard, as well.' Jack tutted, clicking his tongue, his voice now embroidered with a mask of sympathy. 'Let me help you with it.'

Before he could protest- not that he would've- Jack moved to stand behind him, and slipped his arms over his so that they were level, and, with the graceful, practiced ease of a pianist, he guided his hand- the one holding the lit match- until it hovered mere inches away from the closest wall.

A slight prod would've been the very cause of arson, that night.

After a full second's pause, Jack, working Percival's fingers with a certain artistic finesse, dragged the matchstick's flaming tip against the wall, leaving a ravaging trail of angry flame in its wake. The flames licked at every inch of the wall, spreading with great quickness, and reducing everything caught in its rampageous path to charred rubble and cinders.

Jack tossed the match into a nearby mound of ash, and snuffed out the last of its light by stepping on it. He then turned, and, gesturing for him to follow, sauntered into the night.

Percival hesitated, glancing at the now-broken match half-buried in ash. He bent down, plucking it from its grave. It was almost split evenly in two, the only thing holding the two parts affix a splintered strand of wood.

He slowly pocketed it- making sure that he wouldn't further damage it- with great care.

Turning nervously, he followed Jack's receding footsteps.

***

Jack stood a short distance away, head slightly tilted back, eyes on the stars, the soft, orange glow of firelight falling across his figure. His arms were casually crossed behind him as his eyes- illuminated by moonlight- searched the stars, his pupils seemingly brighter under their glorious light.

He caught sight of Percival walking toward him, and smiled.

'Now, that wasn't so hard, was it?' He cooed, raising a hand to rest on his companion's shoulder.

Percival shook his head quietly, the words unable to leave his throat. He slightly turned his head to eye the burning building. He watched sparks fly as thick, black smoke billowed from the receding flames- that roamed what remained of its crumbling ruins- until he could stand to look at the sight no more.

'Feed the past to your flames,' Jack muttered, further elevating his hand to the side of Percival's face, to gently turn his head to face him, 'and use the ashes that remain to construct the foundations of the future.'

'What might the future be, then?' He hummed, leaning into his touch.

'Ours, Percy. Though only if we achieve our goal.'

'The Library of Souls?'

'The very same.' Jack smiled. 'I promise you- in confidence, of course- that this could bring us both unimaginable power, and much quicker than anticipated, too, if you'd participate. With us... with me.'

'I can work with that.' Percival blurted out before he could stop himself; the words as impressionable as signing a contract.

Jack is very much like arson, he thought vacantly, as the thought crossed the back of his mind. The longer you get into its façade, all the harder it gets to resist, and by the time you realize it, it would be far too late to back out.

His every instinct screamed at him to pull away, to run while he still could, and yet, with Jack's brilliantly illuminated eyes on him, his pale hand brushing the side of his face, he found that he could not, and he wasn't sure if he even wanted to.