#or I could just do the jake in mk fanfics which is

[asimplearchivist]

‘ 𝓪 𝓶𝓪𝓽𝓽𝓮𝓻 𝓸𝓯 𝓽𝓲𝓶𝓮 . ’

𝐂𝐇. 𝐈𝐈𝐈 𝐨𝐟 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒.

[𝓪𝓼𝓲𝓶𝓹𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓬𝓱𝓲𝓿𝓲𝓼𝓽'𝓼 𝓶𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽] [ 𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐍 𝐊𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐓 ] AO3 | SPOTIFY | PINTEREST summary ☾ ⤏ jake struggled to decide whether you were a blessing or a curse to the system—his personal feelings about you didn’t matter. they never had. ⤏ until they suddenly did, that is.⤏ now he had to fix the mess he caused before he ruined everything for the two he’s trying to protect most as well as you. pairing(s) ☽ steven grant/reader | marc spector/reader | jake lockley/reader word count ☾ 15.6k a/n ☽ ⤏ this chapter was certainly a challenge to write! I have such a particular interpretation of jake in my head influenced by such lovely headcanons and fanfics in the mk community that I had a bit of stage-fright trying to portray him with justice to my vision of him. having very little on-screen material from which to go off of certainly doesn’t help—steven and marc’s voices are so clear to me, but jake’s is a little more subtle and stepping out to develop it on my own was a little nerve-wracking because I wanted so badly to do him justice!⤏ I also apologize that this chapter came late—I had a busy weekend on top of homework and I was wrestling with jake’s characterization. but here he is, now! let me know if y’all like how I wrote him! :) ☽ MASTERPOST ☾   ☾ PREVIOUS CHAPTER ⤎ ☥ ⤏ NEXT CHAPTER ☽

The first time Steven had met you, it had been strictly by happenstance.

The first time Marc had met you, officially, it had been an accident.

The first time Jake met you, it was an inevitability.

Steven and Marc were wrapped around each of your pinky fingers. Completely enamored with you. Nearly worshiped the ground that you walked on. You had lodged yourself inextricably into their gravitational pull, orbiting them as though you’d always been fixed to their collective side—present almost as often as Jake was.

Jake found it inconvenient at best. Dangerous at worst.

Because despite his near slip-up, fumbling just a bit at the suddenness of stepping in that fateful night Marc had decided to swoop in and rescue you (not that you’d really needed rescuing—you were owed credit for holding your own better than most women with whom they’d ever interacted in such scenarios), the two had not been particularly watchful for him.

Sure, they discussed it more—never around you, of course, worried that you would worry about their unease, being unable to properly identify the source of their combined blackouts. The outlier. But they were doing little else than that, and Jake had almost been concerned about them trying to draw him out by force. Biding their time, maybe. But that was fine��Jake was patient. He waited them out every other time he slipped to the front while they were unaware, save during emergencies, and this would be no different—eventually they’d drop their guard, start to doubt their suspicions, and put the idea to the back of their mind where he dwelt and he could comfortably resume his work.

…That was, provided you were removed from the equation altogether.

London loomed in the height of winter, several months later. They had gotten over themselves long enough to enter full and individual romantic relationships with you, and Jake had to admit that he had never felt either of them as happy as they were around you. Marc had loved Layla dearly, still did, and Jake knew she had been integral to keeping him steady and for some of his healing—but you were different. You were an unknown variable, and yet Marc was putting in his every effort to make it work, not looking to repeat his past mistakes in order to ensure your mutual and assured trust: you knowing the brutal nature of Marc’s past and Marc entrusting you with the intimate knowledge of it.

It had taken time, of course (an excruciatingly long period of it, in fact), but you hadn’t flinched once even when he’d told you of the blood staining his hands, both innocent and villainous, during his time as a soldier and mercenary. You had stayed, hadn’t run, hadn’t treated him like the killer he’d always convinced himself that he was. Marc had been relieved.

Jake had only grown frustrated. The situation was rapidly getting out of hand.

Because Steven’s infatuation with you was one thing. He’d had a few crushes here and there, had been laboring in the dating scene for weeks by the time Marc had inadvertently revealed himself to his alter, and Jake had even tried to help the pobrecito* catch a break once. (Jake couldn’t lie—he’d almost hoped that he could’ve caught a break, too, since Marc had left Layla high and dry and Jake had been pent up with all the mounting stress Marc had only been internalizing instead of dealing with in a somewhat healthy manner—but Steven had deserved to be doted on by a pretty woman at least once in his oblivious, lonely life, and Dylan the tour guide was a very pretty woman.) Steven was a romantic at heart, had sought a meaningful relationship more than anything for the longest, so it was to be expected that he’d eventually fall in with some unwitting little thing ignorant to the myriad problems riddling the inner depths of his psyche—that, Jake could have dealt with, hypothetically, if things had escalated to that point. A quick misunderstanding carefully orchestrated leading to a break-up would have been a simple solution, and while it would have hurt Steven greatly for a while, it would have been ultimately necessary for both the long-term safety of the system and for the security of Jake’s continued, secretive role as Khonshu’s fantoche*.

But Marc getting involved threw an entirely new wrench into the gears of Jake’s plans. Because Marc Spector operated in black or white. All or nothing. Always had and always would. Either he didn’t trust you as far as he could throw you or he’d carry you through the depths of hell barefooted on red-hot coals and have the nerve to apologize to you for stumbling on his bleeding blisters.

Marc’s trust came two-fold, also, now that he was in full cohesion with Steven—he still didn’t readily trust anyone, but if Steven did? He was sold soon after just on the principle of the matter. Steven’s judgment of character was, admittedly, as keen as any telepath’s, despite his naïveté and optimism—and Marc trusted Steven more than he trusted anyone else in the world. Even Layla. Even you.

Even Jake, though it had been entirely subconscious up until very recently.

Because he’d fought Jake the last time he’d forced himself to the front to save his life (and yours, by extension, loathe as Jake was to admit it), whereas before Jake had always managed to blindside him. It was a close call—one that Jake could not afford to make again.

And it would be so much fucking easier if you weren’t around so damn often.

Any bit of spare time the boys had that happened to coincide with yours, they were trying to see you: from snack breaks between your classes or on your shared lunch breaks to movie nights featuring home cooked meals and set tables and lit candles because you were just as much of a romantic as Steven was (God help them). You dried one bloom from every bouquet of flowers they ever brought you, keeping them all in a pitcher you used as a centerpiece more than once. You had even started packing them lunches, for Christ’s sake, with plentiful options that either Steven or Marc would enjoy depending on who ended up fronting. Even when either (or both) of you were too tired to go out on the town for a date (which happened so often Jake wondered how Marc hadn’t depleted his bank account already), the long evenings you weren’t obligated to work or study were spent cuddled up on the couch in your apartment or theirs, oblivious to the outside world as you indulged in each other’s company.

The winter brought worsening weather with it, which meant that you were spending more time at home with them. You’d even started spending the night, which was treading on Jake’s very last nerve—his one assured bastion of being able to take the body surreptitiously without Marc or Steven realizing it was put into jeopardy because while you were a heavy sleeper (almost like a fucking corpse, really—he’d had to check to make sure you were even breathing, once), you hadn’t yet gotten used to sharing a bed with someone, which resulted in you rousing slightly any time the body so much as shifted. Marc still had night terrors occasionally, and you’d never fail to comfort him back to sleep, even at the cost of your own rest.

Jake should be thankful, really, if he thought about it for too long. Marc had managed to keep sober long before he met you, but his cravings had dissipated almost entirely since you’d gently steered him towards sodas instead of beer—meaning no more black-out drunk episodes from which Jake had to nurse the body back from the brink. The body rested better with you there to anchor their unsteady mind at the times it decided to bring back the bad memories. You were feeding them better than they’d eaten since living with Layla, hearty and savory dishes that had packed a few pounds onto their lean frame, helping to negate Marc and Steven’s combined forgetfulness towards even the most basic practices of self-care. You had even started buying them groceries in thanks for the dinners they bought you, keeping their fridge and cabinets full and their personal products stocked up throughout the apartment.

You were doing the brunt of his job for him—making sure the body was taken care of and that neither of them spiraled nor regressed. He should be happy that he didn’t have to pull so much weight anymore, that he got to kick back and relax.

So why did it all piss him off so damn much?

You were pretty, he supposed. Not the most stunning bird he’d ever seen, but you were a decent pull on Steven’s part. You got along with the little nerd, and you got along with Marc—which was a feat in and of itself. You had an incredibly dry sense of humor on top of a quick tongue that drew inadvertent chuckles from even the surliest of Marc’s moods. You kept up with Steven’s intellect effortlessly, and the pair of you could talk hours upon hours on the most mundane of topics—oftentimes earning a scolding from Marc whenever the conversation would carry on past midnight (which would only make you both giggle and apologize sheepishly and rarely actually curbed your shared enthusiasm). You mediated their occasional disagreements with utmost diplomacy, always playing devil’s advocate even on their most childish of squabbles, never played favorites even when they’d playfully compete for your affections—you stood resolute in your stance of loving them equally in their own unique relationships with you.

You made them completely, perfectly, incandescently happy. That should have been enough.

It wasn’t.

Because Jake was getting…distracted.

He’d always been strictly about business—the sole reason he existed. He protected the body, no matter the cost. Now he had Khonshu to answer to, and that was difficult enough, trying to balance enough time at night to do the old bird’s bidding while Marc and Steven slept—blissfully unaware thanks to Jake’s skill in repressing them both to the work he’d been doing the last several months trying to cull out the vestiges of Harrow’s cult. 

Because of course that bastard hadn’t taken all his people with him to Cairo to hunt for Ammit’s tomb. Of course he’d left pockets of his followers scattered all over London—assured by his own success, he’d planted them there in order to divide and conquer the city once he’d freed Ammit. And of course they had to be skilled enough at hiding to require him to painstakingly construct an elaborate underground network of people keeping their ears to the ground for any signs. That’s what was taking so long to eradicate them all, and it irritated Khonshu to no end, having to sit and wait when he constantly hounded Jake to ‘execute his justice’. Jake was patient. The god of the moon was most certainly not.

Now add the stress of keeping you unaware of his goings-on? With your infuriatingly saccharine smile and fawn-like fluttering lashes and easy affection that haunted the back of his mind when he did find precious little time to front? He could hardly concentrate on prowling the streets anymore when your detergent of choice had wormed its way into the clothes he kept packed away in the back of Marc’s closet, well away from view (because you even did their laundry for them sometimes when Steven ended up working late on inventory—like a little housewife or something), the scent trapped under Khonshu’s armor nearly smothering him.

Jake knew, deep down though he’d done his best to ignore it, that his ruse would come to a head eventually—Marc was keen on his interiority now that he was no longer in denial of his issues; and Steven was, too, since Marc had let him in on all of it. Jake just didn’t anticipate having to deal with you and your unnervingly observant perception on top of it.

Ultimately it was of little surprise that the scouts for the rest of Harrow’s carroñeros* had put a flag on you, since Jake’s alters spent so much time with you in plain public view. At the very least, it had allowed for that one slippery bastard to finally be put away after somehow surviving Jake’s wrath with him ever having realized it, even if it had put you in danger. The hijo de puta* had played a calculated risk to come after you, trying to cover it up as a robbery rather than a hit to get back at the spectre picking them all off one by one—one that hadn’t paid off in the slightest. He was lucky that Jake hadn’t had the time nor privacy to do exactly what he’d wanted to—a fractured temple via blunt force trauma, hopefully with an added concussion, would have to suffice for the time being. He’d better pray that he wasn’t released anytime soon.

Especially since he’d had the audacity and the gall (and the balls) to target you. Jake wasn’t cruel enough to wish you any harm, don’t get him wrong. You hadn’t done anything wrong, necessarily, just…frustrated him to no end. They were lucky that you’d had the foresight to text them, or else that would’ve been the last that Marc or Steven would’ve ever seen of you.

Jake knew that would only have resulted in disaster.

You had crossed over the threshold of being a danger to the system to being a necessity for their safety and sanity—because if something happened to you now, Jake doubted sincerely that he would ever be able to pick up the pieces of Marc or Steven’s hearts and minds. And so Jake was forced to resolve himself to add one more individual to his list. For the betterment of the system.

Joder, pues claro.*

…It wasn’t as if he didn’t like you. He had to admit that much to himself, at least. You were pleasant enough to be around. You did tell good jokes, well thought out ones that made Jake have to think about them a little while before he got them. He appreciated how rational you were about things, rarely letting your emotions impact otherwise simple miscommunications or misunderstandings over which most women would have a conniption, choosing to talk out your problems while also being honest about how you felt rather than giving them the silent treatment or some shit—it was a necessary balance to Marc’s precarious internalizations of his own complicated feelings and his ever-present struggles to express them in a concise and healthy manner. Jake didn’t mind listening in on your tangents all that much, even if the topics didn’t interest him in the slightest—your passion and thought process kept him hooked enough, as did the dimples bordering your smile and the creases crinkling the corners of your glittering eyes. You were a damn good cook, to boot—Jake had snuck your leftovers on those late nights more often than he’d ever readily admit out loud. Neither still were you hard on the eyes.

So…yeah. If Jake found himself co-fronting, lingering in the back of the headspace well away from Marc and Steven’s reach, as Marc watched you gape at the street performer juggling flaming swords while balancing on a unicycle…that was between him and the soft smile tugging at the corners of their host’s mouth that Jake would likely have reflected despite himself.

The early evening had plunged the city into a nose-numbing one—but you’d been itching to revel in the cold, misty air and to venture out into London’s brimming nightlife with the bolstering safety you’d confessed to feeling while in their presence. The entire plaza was thrumming with music and noise and laughter, light and fire mixing to highlight the angles, curves, and planes of your disbelieving face. You were bundled up to the nines to fight the cold, still unaccustomed to the weather in contrast to the south US’ comparatively mild winters, but you refused to tuck one hand into your pocket in favor of clasping Marc’s firmly. Seated on a bench wedged so closely together that even Jake could feel the tremors in your limbs, you remained glued to his side as though to sap the warmth from the body—evidently, it wasn’t working, because you let out a shuddering breath as your teeth chattered when the performer paused to take a break. Another stepped up to take his place, and the loosely gathered crowd clapped to welcome him.

“You’re going to freeze if you don’t let me take you home,” Marc rumbled into your ear, covered by the toboggan he’d insisted you wear to spare yourself from frostbite.

“Just a little longer, honey?” you pleaded, turning your head to gaze up at him with those infuriatingly fawn-like eyes. “It’s supposed to ice over tonight and I just know I’m going to get cabin fever tomorrow.”

Marc huffed out a wry chuckle, unthreading your fingers to coil his arm around your shoulders and to tug you closer, keeping his mouth tucked close to your ear. “You’re a homebody, baby. I don’t think you’ll have any more trouble staying inside cuddled up with us for the weekend than you normally do.”

You pouted at him playfully, jutting out your bottom lip, and Marc’s gaze was fixed on it until you smoothed your expression. “All right,” you bemoaned, tilting your head away in faux dejection, “I suppose I’ll allow you to coop me up for the next couple of days…” You fluttered your lashes at him. “...as long as you promise to keep me warm, that is. Won’t you, honey?”

“As if you even had to ask.” Marc dipped his head to skim his brow against yours, peering directly into your eyes. “But that’ll require thawing you out first. It’s not getting any warmer.”

“I can think of a few ways to solve that,” you murmured, half-lidded, and slanted your mouth over his—the breath’s breadth between your lips and his was quickly stolen by Marc with a low, knowing chuckle.

Jake rolled his eyes. Metaphorically, of course. He’d even facepalm if he could. You two were hopeless—and he’d thought Steven had it bad.

Can it, Casanova, remarked the Brit as though summoned by Jake’s internal musing, she’s still shakin’.

“I know, I know,” Marc mumbled, pulling away and shaking his head at your amused expression. It had taken a while for both of them to get comfortable enough to vocalize their seemingly one-sided conversations around you, but you treated it as normally as if you could hear the third party, too. Marc patted your hip and stood, grumbling under his breath at the stiffness of his muscles, courtesy of Jake’s last bloody brawl a few nights prior—unbeknownst to either of his alters, of course. “Come on, I bought hot chocolate. We’ll start with that, and then a hot shower.”

You gasped in delight, lurching up to your feet and latching onto his hand once more. “Why didn’t you say that earlier?” you demanded, tugging eagerly at his arm toward the direction of the bus stop. “You could’ve gotten me home hours ago!”

“I wasn’t going to stop you from enjoying all this,” Marc returned, allowing you to guide him in the wrong direction only to see the excited sway of your hips. His eyes cut over the plaza on reflex, but locked onto a couple of guys lingering near the fountain that started to move in the same direction at the same time. His brow furrowed. “Let’s take a shortcut—don’t want to miss the bus.”

He folded your hand over the crook of his arm instead, winding his way through the crowd in an attempt to lose his tail. Jake could feel Marc’s mind crowding with alarm—who they could be, what they would be doing, which group he had once pissed off that now had decided to try to ruin his night—and he edged just a touch closer to the front to peer through Marc’s periphery.

Ah, yes. The bastard with the scar that had come after you had a handful of lackeys, and these cabrónes* were two of them. Twins, big and ginger and mean as hell. Marc was none the wiser to the reason why they were after the body, however—no recognition passed through his racing thoughts—and Jake inwardly cursed.

Steven noticed Marc’s growing apprehension, likewise. What’s wrong, Marc?

“Nothing,” he muttered, causing you to glance up at him questioningly.

“Everything okay?” you asked quietly, glancing around the thinning people as Marc herded you towards the end of the plaza where it was quiet and dark. He ushered you into a narrow alleyway that broke out onto the main street, and while your brow was furrowed, you followed him without resistance. “We haven’t gone this way before.”

“We’re being followed,” he muttered to you, glancing over his shoulder towards the retreating lights. “Remember what I’ve told you?”

Your expression morphed from shock to grave in an instant. It was a discussion Marc had reiterated multiple times—being in a relationship with a wanted man always entailed a certain amount of danger, and Marc had hammered emergency protocol into your head in the event that something like this ever happened. He had hoped that it wouldn’t, for your sake, and the fact that you were schooling any signs of fear in all but your eyes only reinforced the reason why Jake hadn’t wanted you involved at all in the first place.

Jake pressed in closer. Marc’s ears were straining in lieu of ample light, eyes trained on the end of the alleyway—which became shadowed as another pair of silhouettes hemmed the both of you in.

Marc, Steven breathed, tone tight with worry, what now?

“Fuck,” Marc hissed, jerking you against his chest. He whipped around to dart back out from whence you’d come, but the twins had caught up. Heart pounding, he cupped a hand around your head and whispered urgently, “I’m going to take these guys down first so you can run back to the plaza where it’s lit and there’s other people. Call the cops and stick with a group and do not go anywhere by yourself, all right? Not until I come get you.”

Your hands were vices around the collar of his jacket, eyes shining in the dim. Your voice quivered. “Marc, I am not leaving you here alone.”

His fingers tightened around your shoulders. Their footsteps were picking up in speed from both directions, echoing off the dampened brick. “We talked about this—you promised you’d listen to me,” he growled. “I’ll be fine, don’t worry about me. Us. We’ve faced worse odds.”

“What if—” you started, but didn’t have enough time to finish.

Marc shoved you behind him as the first giant reached out with mitts for hands towards you. Marc latched onto the bulky limb, twisting his wrist and pinning him onto the concrete in seconds. He pressed and jerked and the unfortunate soul’s arm popped out of place—a wet, skin-crawling pop that resonated far more loudly off the narrow walls than it should have. The man cried out in pain.

“Marc!” you gasped.

Jake leaned in as Marc took a blow to the side of the head—the other twin’s paw clapped against his ear and sent him careening into the wall, discombobulated as his hearing rang like a siren. His shaken equilibrium buckled his knees, but he pushed himself upright to land a series of resounding punches along the brute’s side and back, targeting the sensitive places sure to bruise at the very least. The ribs gave under the combination of Marc’s strength and expertise, and like a tree the second twin was felled with a well-timed hook to the chin.

“Go!” Marc snapped over the ringing in his ears, hooking a hand around your waist and shoving you in the direction of the exit between the two groaning gingers. “Get out of here!”

You turned back to look at him, utterly terrified. “But—!”

“Damn it, baby, please just—”

The latter pair of cultists didn’t give him as ample a warning as the former—and they were smart enough to pull the guns from their holsters rather than rely on their hands. The shot flashed like lightning, muffled by its silencer.

Marc staggered back, the burning in his side stealing the breath from his lungs. The tinnitus increased twofold, to the point that your startled shout was drowned out entirely. The pounding of their pulse roared in their ears, and Jake thought he heard Steven hollering over the din trapped in their head.

Marc’s control slipped in his shock and pain. Steven grappled for it in terror wholly driven to protect you. Jake seized the opportunity and yanked them both back into the headspace to block them off as he lunged forward—so suddenly that the body folded in half  from the strain. His knees buckled and his shoulder struck the brick, jarring him.

“This is the guy that’s been giving us so much trouble?” gloated one of them. “All it takes is one bullet?”

“We’ve shot this one more than a dozen times and it’s never stopped him before,” the other said warily. “Where’s all that get-up?”

Jake muttered under his breath, gritting his teeth as he closed his eyes and concentrated.

“What’s that?” crooned the fool, gesturing lackadaisically towards him with the smoldering muzzle. “Have something to say before we rid the world of your chaos, asshole?”

“Sí.” The avatar raised his head, glowing eyes casting his assailants' suddenly wan, fallen countenances in a spectral hue. “Dije,” he growled as the familiar ragged bandages coiled around his limbs while he straightened to his full height, “te vas a arrepentir, pendejos.*”

The bullet clinked against the damp asphalt as he was fully enveloped in the armor.

“Ah, shit,” they said in unison.

The shock on their faces precluded the terror that followed his swift movement. The crescents whistled as he slung them in their direction—the cocky one caught it in the throat, plunging through his jugular. Blood splattered in a wide arc against the ground as he fell. The cautious one managed to tumble to the side to avoid it, however—just barely.

A heavy hand grabbed his padded shoulder and whirled Jake around—only to be struck across the temple with an errant piece of pipe. Mierda. The twins were back up on their feet, tag-teaming to make up for their missing mobility.

Jake jerked his head back to avoid another swing, summoning a truncheon from the small of his back and shattered the first’s wrist with a well-timed parry. Two more strikes upon the man’s solar plexus and skull sent him crumpling to the ground, totally unconscious at the very least. Two to go.

He didn’t have time to pause. The gunman fired thrice at his back, but the slugs passed right through him. Jake exchanged blows with the twin for a moment, finally propelling himself off the brick wall and swinging over the expanse of his mountainous shoulders to lock and twist his neck between his knees and bring the behemoth crashing down face-first. He didn’t move again even as Jake leapt back to his feet and pitched another array of darts at the gunman’s retreating back. Sliced flesh, a gurgled curse, and the clatter of metal preceded the heavy tumble of his body.

Jake stalked further into the shadows, tucking the truncheon back into its holster and flexing his fists. He grabbed the collar of the gunman’s jacket and hoisted him upright, pinning him to the wall with his forearm against his throat. Blood dribbled from the corners of the man’s mouth onto the woven gauntlet.

“Tell me where the rest of your amigos* are and I’ll consider letting you go,” he growled.

“Funny,” the man spat viciously onto Jake’s mask near his shielded eyes, “how you think I’ll talk after you murdered them!”

“Just like you attacked a bunch of innocent kids, yeah?” Jake snarled. “Said their scales wouldn’t balance just ‘cause they were picking on someone else? Even though your fucking goddess is dead and you don’t even have the power to read a single palm? Child murder isn’t going to get you where you’re wanting to end up, pendejo, and a little bullying isn’t enough to condone ritual execution!”

The gunman roared and tried to grapple with him, but Jake only pinned his wrists into the mortar with a dart over his head before jabbing him in the ribs. He only noticed the panic button clasped between his fingers once the indicator began to blink a rapid crimson.

“Mierda,” Jake hissed, clocking his elbow across the bastard’s face and snatching the device once he slumped over. He dropped and smashed it with his heel, grinding it into bits.

“...Baby?”

Jake stiffened, head whipping towards the sound of your small voice. You had cowered against the wall, plunged mostly in shadow, but your hunched shoulders and quick breaths fogging against the shafts of light that the street lamp at his back cast tipped off your apprehension. He didn’t have time to react, save to open his mouth, before the distant squeal of brakes, the heavy slam of vehicle doors, shouting, and rapid footsteps at the far end of the alley interrupted him. 

He marched over to you, the armor receding with every step. He glimpsed your eyes in the dark, round and anxious, even as he gripped your arm and tugged you in the opposite direction. “Come on,” he muttered gruffly. “Better scram.”

“What’s wrong?” you breathed instead, resisting him. You were sturdy, he had to give you that, even as the heels of your boots skidded against the rain-slickened pavement.

“Other than having a bunch of madmen with guns on our tails? Nothing at all.” He pulled a bit more forcefully this time. “Let’s go.”

Your protesting noise was drowned out by an ear-ringing report of a gun, and the air near Jake’s ear whistled with the near miss of a bullet. It ricocheted off the brick and had mortar showering the ground.

“Por el amor de Dios,” Jake hissed. “Corres, chaparrita!*”

He pulled you along behind him into a full sprint. The pair of you broke out of the alley towards the crowded plaza once more. You stumbled a couple of times on the uneven concrete due to the awkward mobility afforded by Jake’s unforgiving grip on your wrist, but he was not going to let you go for fear of you falling behind and getting snatched or worse. His scowl and speed drew bemused glances from the bystanders, but their expressions morphed into shock when their eyes passed over his shoulders.

So the bastards were pissed (or desperate) enough to give chase in broad moonlight. They had balls, he had to give them that—and while it made them stupid, it didn’t make them any less dangerous.

He headed towards the far side where the plaza merged onto the main road littered with vendors on the broad sidewalks. People buzzed along the blocked off street—for the entire event would last all weekend and force all the normal goers to circumnavigate the grounds—in tight throngs, along which he had no doubt he could lose the zealots. The tactic has served him well countless times before—and not just in London, or while under Khonshu’s directive. Merging and camouflaging with oblivious civilians and letting one’s hunters pass one by altogether often worked better than trying to outrun them or to hide outright.

The gateway was narrow, and Jake shoved a man twice his size out of his way to hook a sharp left. The man’s curses were drowned out by your profuse, breathless apologies, and Jake growled out a tense, “Callate!*” before narrowly dodging a street lamp since he’d cast a glare over his shoulder at you.

People’s attention only grew as the street funneled into a narrow crosswalk connecting to a broader street. Jake hooked a right that time, darting past families and couples as he went. You were keeping up with him surprisingly well, but your panting was getting too loud—your stamina would give out soon. He had to figure out a way to blend the both of you in without drawing attention so the zealots would go on and he could double back to lose them completely.

Another right at the end of the block revealed another market street, though the middle was undulating with dancing couples as a busking band was playing a lively, energetic tune.

“Mierda,” he growled, “las cosas que hago por vosotros, hermanos.*”

Jake hauled you to a brisk walk instead, melting into the ring of onlookers clapping along with raucous chatter and laughter. They would provide good enough cover, but Jake knew he could show neither of your faces or else the ruse would be for naught. That necessitated unbearably close proximity with the bane of his existence for the last few months—and you had clocked him instantly. It wouldn’t fly for long.

Jake broke through the wall of people nearest the booths, thankful for the partial shadow that would aid to your obscurement. He hastily tugged the collar of Marc’s jacket up, ruffled his fingers through their hair to conceal the majority of their upper features, and hooked an arm around the middle of your back to tug you against his chest. You scarcely caught yourself on his shoulders to keep your nose from bashing into his sternum. With his free hand he pulled the toboggan from your head and stuffed it into your pocket before tugging the back of your scarf up the back of your head and over your forehead, overlapping the tails to cover your chin and mouth—which opened as your brows furrowed in protest.

Jake ducked his head, pressing his lips against your covered ear. “If you want to live long enough to see the end of the night,” he hissed, hands slipping to your waist and beginning to sway you in time with the music, “you’ll do exactly as I do. Me entiendes?*”

You pursed your lips, but the indignant flare behind your eyes didn’t flicker once—even as exclamations of shock caught his attention. Jake pulled you further back into the shadows, but to his luck a couple of other dancers swung between the pair of you and the zealots squinting down the street for any sign. 

Jake began to match the others’ movements to appear more natural, the quick tempo dictating the shuffle of his feet—forward, scuffle, back, ad nauseam, faster than he could breathe. He could hardly concentrate on that as well at the moment, unfortunately, given he hadn’t danced in years.

You were hot under your clothes from the running spree, seeping through yours and his shared layers where the weight of your torso was pressed tightly against his. He kept his face tucked close to the sweep of your neck and shoulder, angling his broad shoulders towards them, winding carefully behind more and more couples while keeping careful rhythm. Your panting came harsh and high next to his ear, your breath warming his chilled shell and lobe. Your hands slipped from his shoulders to rest more convincingly on his chest, a firm press to keep your balance. 

Although you didn’t seem to know all the specific steps to this dance, you were obviously familiar with the form and rhythm of it. You were a natural, the shimmy of your hips almost smoother than his own—you didn’t stumble once, light on your feet as you (reluctantly) allowed him to guide you without a single glance behind you to confirm he wasn’t about to walk you into a wall or another person. No, your eyes stayed fixed on what you could see of his face the entire time, forehead perspiring and cheeks darkened from exertion, mouth slightly agape to pull in much-needed air. You were studying him, it seemed like, scanning his features as though dissecting every crease and stretch. 

Jake didn’t like it, not one bit. You already knew too much—the last thing he needed was you committing any of him to memory.

Instead of stopping, the band shifted into an entirely new song with a different beat altogether, but when Jake adapted to it, you did so, too—seamlessly, in fact, perfectly in tune to the body’s movements. (Ew. He didn’t need to think about that shit.) The two of you were so close that your knees would have knocked together if your feet weren’t offset. You were used to it, to him, even though you’d only learned the body while the others were using it. You knew him, even though he was a stranger.

Shit, shit, shit. He was so fucked.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of Marc’s sweatshirt over his thrumming heart, anchoring yourself as the tension finally drained from your form—he felt it before he saw it, watching your shoulders loosen as you lost yourself to the music. You almost seemed to be enjoying it, and Jake almost lamented the fact that you were only able to indulge in it under these very dire circumstances. 

Almost.

“Are they gone?” you ventured breathlessly, chin brushing against his clavicle as you tilted your head forward so he’d hear your low tone that caused each hair on the nape of his neck to stand on end.

Jake blinked, then looked back up to the street corner with a deep-set frown. “Me distraiste jodidamente,*” he growled under his breath, shoving the visceral image of your chapped lips to the very back of his mind. “Yes, they’re gone.”

Your expression relaxed, then, into one of relief. The song tapered into an end, allowing both the dancers and the musicians a breather, and Jake finally peeled himself away from you as though your warmth had scorched him. He grasped your elbow again, tugging you through a narrow passage between booths to the mouth of a quiet side street with outdoor diners clustered around tables set out despite the weather.

He expected questions. He expected you to demand answers, like any other person in your situation would. ‘Who were they? Why were they trying to hurt me? Who the hell are you and why are you not Marc or Steven?’

He did not expect, however, for you to drop your gaze to his abdomen and to fish your hand under Marc’s jacket. He flinched back, but you’d already hooked a finger into the hole torn into the sticky, blood-soaked material of Marc’s shirt, fingertip grazing the smooth, whole flesh underneath and searing your fingerprint there in the process. He pushed your hand away, taking a half step back to distance himself from the mix of concern and confusion in your eyes.

“Are you hurt?” you asked him quietly, not venturing further into his personal space (to his relief).

Jake clamped his jaw shut and shook his head.

You hesitated. “What’s…what’s your name?”

Fuck his lack of luck, honestly. He half-turned away so he wouldn’t have to look at you.

“...Thank you for saving me.”

He scoffed under his breath. “If you’d kept your promise to Marc in the first place, I wouldn’t have had to.”

It was the wrong thing to say. Your tone instantly sharpened with indignation. “I know what I promised him, but he—you got fucking shot! I wasn’t about to leave you to die!”

“Wouldn’t have died. Just a scratch,” he groused, contorting and tugging the hem of the shirt up to show you the unblemished skin there, smeared with tacky blood against his knuckles. “See? Missed.”

“They did not miss,” you told him matter-of-factly. “I saw Marc fall. There’s fucking blood all over you—I’m not stupid. Do not lie to me.” You stepped closer, then, pointing that same bloodied finger at him and poking him in the sternum. He bared his teeth at you, cornered with the alley wall at his back. “All that back there was something that you’ve got going on, wasn’t it? Marc hasn’t told me about anything like this.”

You were too goddamn smart for your own fucking good. “There’s a lot that Marc hasn’t told you,” he growled, “and for good reason.”

Your eyes flashed. “And I bet you’re the authority on all of that, aren’t you?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he snapped.

“I’ve noticed them being vigilant lately, but they won’t tell me what’s bothering them. Lots of private conversations—and no, don’t look at me like that, I didn’t listen in on them—and they get anxious when they’re tired or spacey. It doesn’t take rocket science to figure out why they’ve been walking on eggshells ever since you popped up in the coffee shop that night—”

Jake’s jaw dropped open. Things were rapidly escalating out of hand, faster than he could hold them together. “How on earth do you—?”

“Marc is many things,” you said lowly, “but he is not a man who glorifies in violence. It bothers him still to touch me on his bad days, much less brushing up against a stranger. He wouldn’t smirk when he knocks someone out cold—with the pommel of a knife, no less. Neither would Steven, for that matter.”

Jake squared his shoulders and folded his arms over his chest to brush your hand away, glowering down at you. “Why haven’t you said anything to them?”

“Because they haven’t brought it up. I don’t push them for answers that they don’t want to give me. I know it’s already hard enough for them to be open to communicating their thoughts and feelings between themselves—I don’t want to pressure them any more by adding myself to the mix.” You jutted your chin. “But if you’re going to keep putting them in danger, you need to let them know what’s going on so they don’t get caught off-guard again.”

“You need to keep your nose out of my business and let me do my goddamn job,” he ground out.

“It becomes my business when both of our lives get put on the line!” you returned. “And what exactly is your job, huh? Circus performer with a specialty in knives?” You tugged on the hem of the jacket, ignoring how he went rigid. “Where do you keep that costume so they don’t realize they’re wearing it, too, by the way? Because I know for a fact that Steven would’ve mentioned cosplaying as the fucking Mummy if he knew about—”

He gritted his teeth. “It’s not a costume.”

“No shit, Sherlock.” You raised a haughty brow. “Do they know you’re running around like an albino version of London’s Daredevil?”

He was not about to explain all of Khonshu’s business to you. You knew too much already, and if Marc and/or Steven even caught wind of the old bird still hanging around, Jake was done for. “They don’t know about me for a reason, chaparrita, and I’d like to keep it that way. They can’t know about me—it’s better for all of us in the long run—so if you’d very kindly just keep your trap shut—”

“You have to tell them about you,” you told him firmly, eyes blazing, “and about whatever vigilante shit you’ve got going on. It’s not fair to them—they think they’re free from Marc’s old merc work, and here you are using the body against their consent to do whatever it is that you please. Do you realize how much danger you’re putting them in carrying on with shit like this?”

“I am protecting them,” he bit back, a snarl building in the back of his throat.

“By getting them ambushed in a fucking alley?” you snapped. “Your involvement in this could’ve gotten all three of you killed!”

“That costume is the only thing that can keep them alive through anything!” Jake returned sharply. “They would’ve been fine!”

“And what about me?” you demanded. “What about my safety? I know I chose my lot once Marc told me about his past, but this is adding a whole new level to all this that I wasn’t prepared for! What if you hadn’t been there, lingering in the background, or—or however you knew to step in? Do I need to live my life looking over my shoulder just in case there’s someone tailing me, waiting to catch me off-guard long enough to hurt me to get to them thinking they’re you? How do you think they’d react if something happened to me out of the blue, just by my being around them and whoever it is you’re fighting, thinking you’re the same person because you share the same face? Even then, they’d try to get to the bottom of it, and they could get shot, or stabbed, or—or whatever, just by trying to clean up your fucking mess!”

“If you weren’t around being seen with our face in the first place, you wouldn’t be involved to start with,” he growled, “and I wouldn’t have to concern myself with keeping you out of harm’s way all the time! You’re a liability to them—if something happened to you, they’d lose their shit, and I can’t have that happen. You’re as much of a danger to their wellbeing as these fucking cabrónes are!”

You retreated then, hurt flashing across your features so fast he almost missed it, before you schooled your expression into something frigid enough that it sent a chill down Jake’s spine. You floundered for words, lips moving without a sound, and Jake’s fuse shortened by the second. You swallowed, then, and roughly tipped your chin up—in defiance, certainly, but Jake didn’t miss the shine of moisture welling along your lash line. “…Do they feel that way, since you do?” you finally ventured. “Somewhere deep down? That I’m just a burden to them?”

“No,” he sighed, tucking his head and scrubbing his hand down his face. “There’s not a thing in this fucking world that they wouldn’t do for you, chaparrita, or kill themselves by trying. That’s the problem. That’s what makes you so dangerous. They care about you far too much.”

“And you don’t, I take it?” you supposed tightly. “Is that your job? Not to care?”

Jake ground his jaw so tightly his temples throbbed. “Don’t put words in my fucking mouth.”

“Then tell me why, exactly, you’re so hellbent on hiding yourself from them when they’re already trying so goddamn hard to heal and work together? What gives you the right to opt out and do whatever you damn well please, spilling more blood on their hands at the same time they’re trying to wash them clean?”

“There’s nothing special about me,” he bit out, “and they don’t need me—because if they knew what I’ve had to do to keep them alive they’d never forgive themselves!” Your brows twitched up, and Jake snarled under his breath. “Mierda. Just stay out of my fucking business, will you? The less you know, the better. And do not tell them about this, or about me, me entiendes?”

“I am not going to lie to Marc or Steven, and it’s stupid of you to think that I would,” you told him resolutely. “Either you tell them, or I will.”

“Did you miss all of what I just fucking said?” he spat. “If they know about me, it’ll do far more harm than good. They have a hard enough time reconciling what they’ve gone through, I don’t need to add all my shit to it!”

“You’ve helped them survive what they’ve gone through,” you pointed out, and Jake’s breath stopped short. “I’m not stupid, despite what you may think. I can tell even now that your primary concern is their well-being. But don’t you think telling them that you’re here, and that you’re a—a what, a superhero?—wouldn’t that be better than keeping them in the dark?”

“I am not a hero, chaparrita,” he told you darkly.

“Well, you’re certainly not a villain,” you responded evenly—as if you were stating fact.

Jake scowled. “Did they tell you what happened in Egypt? What really happened?”

Your eyes flashed. “They don’t have to, it’s not really any of my business. I know it was hard on them and they don’t like to talk about—”

“We got shot. Twice. We died! And it was only that armor that brought us back!” Jake flashed his teeth. “Marc let the bastard that did it go, but I killed him. That’s the difference between Marc or Steven and I, chaparrita: I hurt those who deserve it and feel no remorse for it.”

You blinked, then, eyes rounded. Realization dawned behind your gaze, and when you looked sharply off to the side, a stray tear slipped over the curve of your cheek. Your expression tightened, and Jake could imagine that you were finally putting together all the fragments of what Steven and Marc had mentioned offhandedly about their time in Egypt.

Jake squeezed his eyes shut, sinking against the wall and dropping his head back against the brick. He dragged a hand down his face with a harsh sigh. He’d completely fumbled this entire situation. “...Mira.* If something were to happen to you, mis hermanos* won’t take it well.” He looked down at you, eyes half-lidded—meeting fire with fire obviously didn’t work with you. Even when Marc was being surly, you only listened when he stopped and lowered his voice. It didn’t take rocket science to figure out that you shut down when you were shouted at, based on the way you’d stared at him like a doe caught in headlights. “...Do you really care about them?”

Your head recoiled to stare at him critically. The vessels in your sclera were an agitated crimson. “Of course I do!”

“Then you’ll listen to me, all right?” He straightened and stepped closer, fingers flexing at his side while he repressed the urge to reach out to you. Seeing you upset was doing funny shit to him. (He didn’t like it. Not one bit.) “After what happened tonight, I can’t afford to wait any longer. I need to finish up my business as soon as possible—I spent too long investigating and biding my time to see when those guys would crawl out of their nest. They are dangerous, and I’m going to do my damnedest to tie up all those loose ends. All right? That means I can’t have you caught in the crossfire. And once I get done with that…” He shook his head, casting his eyes upwards briefly. “...then we’ll talk—you know, about…everything else. Do you understand?”

You glared at him for a long moment, lips pursed as you considered him. Finally, you nodded curtly, once.

He raised a brow. “Can you say it for me?”

Your temples flexed. “Yeah. I understand.”

“Buena nena.*” He peered around the corner just to ensure that the zealots hadn’t doubled back, then moved to the edge of the street and flagged down a cab. When they stopped, he gestured you over. You watched him warily all the while, glancing both ways. He reached for the door and grasped the handle, but you laid your hand over his. He froze.

“Please,” you murmured, pleading him with your gaze, “be careful. Keep taking care of them. Let me know if…if you need any help. If there’s anything I can do...” You squeezed his hand, then let it go. “I’d prefer you three to come back in one piece, you know.”

He swallowed roughly, then nodded. He opened the door, and as you stooped to climb inside, his hand curved around the back of your head. You glanced up at him in surprise, but once you were seated, he abruptly retracted his touch.

“I’m trusting you,” you told him. “I don’t want this to be the last time we meet.”

Jake gave you a rueful, wooden smile. “If you’re lucky, cariño*, you won’t ever have to see me again.”

He shut the door, waved off the driver, and shoved his hands into the pockets of Marc’s jacket. He watched the cab round the corner out of sight, closing his eyes briefly, and turned to start walking in the opposite direction.

Jake only had a limited amount of time to get his shit together before the other two became aware of the lapsed time or strayed too close to the front. Jake prided himself on his control, his ability to have kept Marc and Steven completely unaware of his goings-on for years at that point, but he had always operated in short bursts of time—never longer than a handful of hours unless both of his alters completely checked out, which happened so rarely that he could count each instance on one hand.

He prowled the city throughout that entire night, his armor shielding him from the cold that only worsened with every passing hour. He checked Steven’s phone and saw that you sent a text to notify him that you’d made it back to your apartment.

‘Let me know when you get home, too.’

Jake had pocketed it, too distracted by his internal debate on how to handle the shitshow that had escalated from an unfortunate bit of timing to respond to you, even when he did let himself back into the flat and showered off the sweat and blood caking their skin in the wee hours of the morning. He didn’t dare to sleep, just in case he oscillated back into the headspace, but there hadn’t been enough time before dawn had broken out to do so anyway.

He set back out shortly thereafter, deciding to hit up his usual haunts to gather any new information at all on the cult skulking around the gutters of London. 

Nothing. Not a damn thing.

The coffee at his favorite diner did nothing to alleviate the heaviness of his eyelids—the body had started to wear down from how frequently Jake’d had to take it out while Marc and Steven slept, just like it had months prior while Marc tried to maintain the facade for Steven. It was getting more and more difficult to manage. He wouldn’t be able to keep up for much longer.

…You were right, honestly. He couldn’t keep his presence a secret anymore—the boys were too hypervigilant, too aware of the lost time they both couldn’t recall. They’d pieced all the clues together now that they were in sync, and his anonymity was compromised. It was only a matter of time.

It didn’t make the idea any easier.

Even as he patrolled the streets in the heavy wool overcoat he kept folded in the passenger seat of his limo, his cap tugged down low over his forehead with a beady eye peeled for any sign of being pursued, the thought of their inevitable nuclear meltdown made him clench his teeth. If they knew about him, they’d never let him front again if they could help it—they wanted nothing to do with violence, and Jake was the epitome of it, its very last resort. They would do their damnedest to repress him, even though they still faced danger from Marc’s past—they would never truly be safe so long as those skeletons continued to linger in their collective and proverbial closet—and he’d lose what little autonomy he’d clung to by the skin of his teeth for decades.

So Jake made it his goal to at least clean out one of those skeletons before he was locked away into the recesses of the headspace—never again to experience those late night glimpses of freedom; to drive around in his own damned vehicle that he’d bought with his own damned money; to dress how he wanted in tailored and flattering garb that he knew made the body look as fine as hell; to indulge in the occasional drink, either his favorite merlot or a good old fashioned, since Marc didn’t keep alcohol in the flat anymore save to cook on special occasions…usually with you dictating the recipe and menu.

You, with your chirpy enthusiasm and unfettered smile and glittering eyes. You, with your impossibly soft hair that left the cloying scent of your products lingering on the pillow that you’d claimed as yours long after you left. You, with your unfathomable warmth and gentleness and kindness. You, tending to his brothers like a servant would her king with all the love of the wife you weren’t, your acts of service ceaseless and selfless and never asking for anything in return. You, who had interwoven yourself inextricably into their life without a clue as to the turmoil it would cause, all to make them feel less alone and lonely.

You, who, within minutes of meeting him, had not only called him out on the sole reason for his existence, but had also wanted to know his name, whether he was okay, and for him to be fair to his alters.

You did care about them—that much was obvious. Jake recognized it in your every single action and word and expression. You loved them, endlessly and without condition nor exception. You gave them your all, always. It was something Jake had doubted that they’d ever be able to find after Layla—unquestionable and unflinching devotion and loyalty. The fact that you had refused to lie to his alters, as frustrating as it had been for him to accept that lack of control slipping further from his fingers with one more loose, unpredictable end, only cemented that. They needed you—as an anchor, as a scale, as a haven—without him adding chaos back into the mix.

He spent the rest of the day stalking the lower ends and outskirts of the city, keeping his ear to the ground in effort of catching any signs of where the zealots had reclused themselves. By the time the sun descended behind the lines of skyscrapers, he could scarcely keep his eyes open. In a last ditch effort, he visited the underground bar on the docks where he used to frequent more often to gather intel—and luck finally found him.

“Yeah, had a few skulky bastards come through a couple days ago,” rasped the grisled barkeep, three knuckles deep into a bear stein with a rag too stained to do much good in the realm of cleaning. “They thought they were being quiet, but I don’t think they realized the walls are designed to be reflective. Kept messing with their tats, talking about their ‘lady’—they’re lucky I didn’t toss them out of here for scaring off a few of my customers.” He raised a wiry silver brow. “Ought to be on some freaky shit to get their bluff in with all these blokes.”

The clientele of that particular establishment were indeed among the roughest bunch whom Jake had ever orbited—London was a central point for all sorts of illegal shit to take place, and under-the-radar dives like The Silver Scale brought them flocking in like flies to roadkill. Jake had known about it, but Khonshu had become particularly fond of the bounteous amounts of information that could be gleaned there—though the old bird never did help lessen the dents to Jake’s wallet.

“They mention where they went?” Jake inquired quietly, rolling the rounded ice in the crystalline tumbler through the cognac winking in the watery amber lighting framing the mirror mounted behind the bar. The myriad bottles of liquors and spirits cast stained glass streaks across the polished mahogany under his folded arms. The place was virtually empty at so comparatively early an hour, save the janitor sweeping off the stage further inside, but one could never be too careful when it came to Jake’s line of work.

“Suburbs, east side,” rumbled the older man. “Abandoned factory across the river. They were complaining about the rail being bumpy on the way here.”

“Gracias, Grizz,” smiled Jake, drawing his wallet to slap an impressive note upon the countertop. “I owe you one.”

“You owe me more than one, coming in wanting whiskey this early,” griped the barkeep, but his eyes glittered as he pocketed the bill. “Watch yourself, amigo. Those bastards didn’t look the friendly type.”

“It’s not often I run into lawful citizens doing what I do,” the younger man returned. He finished the glass before heading for the door, sending him a two-fingered salute, and ascending back into the grimy alleyway above the place.

The air had grown colder in the scant ten minutes he’d spent inside, so Jake flipped up his collar against the salty wind racing past him and nipping at his ears. He turned to make his way back to the bus stop, whistling to himself. The day hadn’t been for naught, after all. Small mercies.

His stomach rumbled as he boarded the bus and retreated to the rear well away from the curious eyes of his fellow passengers. He sat, crossed his ankles, and folded his hands over his stomach while tipping his head against the chair. He closed his eyes briefly, biting down the yawn that tugged at his jaw.

Grabbing something to eat wouldn’t hurt before he scoped out the location—he’d need a plan of attack, so determining the zealots’ schedule would take first priority. There was a decent Thai place on the way, if the directions held true, and he could undoubtedly find a secluded rooftop to observe without issue.

So he did just that. He spent the majority of that night eating takeout, sprawled under a shadowed eave watching the fools with guns go about their business. They were disorganized, to say the least—putting their ringleader behind bars had obviously thrown them for a loop. It would play to his advantage, springing a surprise attack on them during their patrol change. If he played his cards right, he might even be able to infiltrate and take them down one-by-one without even notifying the whole lot.

Khonshu was pleased, nearly puffing his nonexistent feathers when he dropped by to check on Jake’s progress—the satisfaction in his tone only belied by his impatience.

“Why not strike now?” Khonshu growled, pointing the end of his staff towards the complex. “They’re clueless.”

“Because I’m half-asleep,” Jake responded mildly, “and you always get pissy when I have to use the armor longer than necessary. Don’t complain that I’m trying not to get riddled with bullets, pájaro viejo. Give me a nice long nap and I’ll have this all taken care of before you can click your heels three times.”

The god of the moon scoffed. “You’d best be thankful I possess the patience to allow you such creature comforts, Jake Lockley. I don’t always grant such privileges to you puny humans.”

Jake shrugged a shoulder and stuffed the empty carton into the sack at his side. “Don’t make me remind you just why you have to rely on us ‘puny humans’,” he responded dryly. He made a shooing motion. “Go on, I’ll see you back here later.”

The deity bristled at his insolence, but popped back into non-existence nevertheless, leaving a shower of dust to descend in his wake.

Jake roof-hopped all the way back to Steven’s apartment, opted to climb in through the fire escape rather than wait on the elevator, and took a five minute shower before collapsing face-first into the unmade bed without bothering to put on any clothes. He scoped the headspace as his eyelids drifted shut, relieved to find that Steven and Marc were both still secured and blissfully unaware.

He slept, hard and deep, unperturbed for hours. He awoke only when the orange sunset spilled across his eyelids.

He roused, groggy and disoriented, but still in the same position in which he’d drifted off. He scratched his temple and rose with a yawn, shuffling over to the closet to dig out the clothes buried in the very back that Marc or Steven had forgotten ‘they’ even owned. The scent of your detergent hit him like a wall, causing him to wrinkle his nose as he rubbed the pad of his thumb over the softened material. With a scoff he dressed, cleaned up, and gathered his things piled onto the rim of the sink—Steven’s phone included.

He picked it up with half a mind to place it on the charger, but his brow inclined when he spotted the condensed stack of notifications glaring up at him in the dim of the apartment’s shadows.

“Ah, por el amor de Dios,*” he muttered, tapping on it to expand them. He had intended to respond to your first message, truly—but once he zoned into his work, he often forgot about anything else going on around him. ( Nevermind the fact that he didn’t have anyone with whom he had to check in on his whereabouts. ) “Chatty thing, aren’t you, chaparrita ?”

‘Let me know when you get home, too.

‘Just checking on you.

‘Made it home okay?’

All within the same couple of hours the night before last. He figured you fell asleep, because the timestamps skipped to the previous morning.

‘I’m guessing you fell asleep, too.

‘Good morning.

‘Make sure to eat something.

‘Do you need anything?’

No wonder Steven’s phone plan cost so much, if you talked to him this often. Jake scrolled down, lips thinning as his eyes skimmed through your sweet, if misplaced, little prods into his well being. As the hours progressed, the more urgent in tone they grew, and he supposed he ought to have felt guilty about worrying you.

With a blustering sigh through his nose, he swiped the device open and opened the app to return a message of his own, directly after your obviously distressed, ‘Please tell me you’re not dead!’ sent during your lunch break.

‘Not dead yet. Long day.’

He watched the bubble ascend, then waited for the ‘delivered’ tag to appear before shutting it off and plugging it in to charge.

He rummaged around the fridge for some grub, stomach rumbling all the while, and discovered a pair of containers for meals you’d labeled as ‘vegan’ for Steven and as ‘beef’ for Marc. You’d gotten into the habit of, while cooking, making the majority of the dishes compatible with both their vegan and kosher preferences, cooking suitable animal products separately so Marc could get his choice of protein and so Steven didn’t have to worry his conscience. Jake could only imagine how much of a hassle it was, thinking about you having to research foods that could be altered in such a tedious, if thoughtful, way.

He ate half of both portions cold and arranged the leftovers to appear mostly untouched.

Clothed to combat the chill with suitable mobility and fed well enough that he’d be able to concentrate for the time being, Jake locked up the apartment and picked his way down through the complex onto the ground floor. The vendors had all packed up and headed home already due to the rapidly darkening evening, so he thankfully didn’t have to deal with them hawking their wares at him.

Jake wandered onto the street that would lead him to the train station, whistling as he stuck his hands into his pockets, and realized that he’d left Steven’s phone.

He didn’t need it. He didn’t use one at all—even the old burner Marc still kept ‘for emergencies’. But…he didn’t know if you had responded to his text.

He wasn’t about to make a round trip back, already several blocks away, but…he could afford to take a quick detour—even if it was the last thing he wanted to do.

He made his way onto the next bus instead, meeting the skeptical glances of the other passengers with a level, challenging gaze of his own. It was enough to deter their scrutiny, and he thought he heard several sighs of relief as he stepped out of the vehicle at the entrance of the museum district.

While he hadn’t fronted but very briefly in the spot, Steven—and, more recently, Marc—had frequented the address enough that it may as well be imprinted into their brain. He knew you usually worked evenings, so he figured he should at least pop in so you wouldn’t attempt to file a missing person’s report (again) in the event that you hadn’t seen the message.

The coffee shop was virtually empty, not really a surprise given it was the start of the week and most people were eager to return home after work. The music muffled the low chatter of the loose clusters conversing scattered around the floor, and only one barista stood behind the counter cleaning some of the equipment. She glanced up from her work as the doorbell jangled to signal the arrival of a newcomer and smiled when she spotted him.

“Hey, Marc!” she beamed, setting down the pitcher and waving him over. “You just missed her—the boss sent her home early since it’s slow. She’s been antsy all day and we figured she was stressed out about uni.” She gave him a once-over, grinning. “Dapper ‘fit you got there. Trying out something new, are we? I’m sure she’ll love that.”

“Oh, it’s just something I had lying around,” he returned smoothly, slipping into the Chicagoan drawl as easily as the fitted gloves on his hands. “How long ago did she leave?”

The girl glanced at her watch. “Oh, about half an hour ago. She mentioned something about seeing you this evening.” She waggled her brows. “Is that why you’re all dressed up?”

“Something like that,” he responded, although his first reaction was to sigh. What part of ‘once I get done’ did you not understand? “Thanks for letting me know.”

“No problem!” she chirped, waving as he departed.

Jake should really head out towards the location Grizz had given him, given the sun was almost gone. If he didn’t get there soon, Khonshu was liable to hunt him down and nag him until he did. But he’d already gone this far, and your apartment was actually on the way, so…

He was fortunate that he’d had the foresight to at least memorize the way to your residence—only on the off-chance that he’d have to go there. For emergencies. (Of course.)

He didn’t run into any of your neighbors on the way up. The hallway was empty, dim, and silent due to the late hour. He whistled to himself as he wandered down to your door, mentally girding himself for the onslaught that were certain to follow—you would interrogate him for his lack of updates, no doubt, if you weren’t expecting Marc or Steven to be the ones showing up. He’d have to break the news that he still had to borrow the body for a while longer. You would wonder why he had even bothered to come.

Why had he bothered to come?

The boys would have wanted to check on you, regardless of the situation, and that would serve as a suitable enough excuse—to make sure you weren’t falling apart without clinging to their arm for several hours a day to the likes of which you were accustomed.

…Yeah, who was he kidding? Who was he even trying to deceive anymore? What was even the point, and what was he trying to prove? You’d seen through him within minutes of meeting him—the decades, now, of building up such a careful veneer…fractured in moments.

You really were too good for them.

Jake lifted his gaze from the atrociously patterned carpet (because who in their right mind would pair navy and chartreuse?) and lifted a hand to press the bell mounted next to your door, but his eyes caught on the sliver of light snaking over the curve of his polished, leather shoe. His eyes rose higher, higher, taking in the narrow gap in the doorway until they settled on the door knob.

Or what used to be the door knob.

The jamb was fractured, the lock broken, and Jake’s hand flew to the holster beneath his coat resting against the small of his back.

The door groaned its grievances as he pressed it in, eyes trained on the interior as it was slowly revealed to him. Vague, secondhand recollection of the layout informed him that things were most certainly not set to rights. The couch was askew, partly dragged away from the wall. The vase you always kept the flowers the boys gave you on the coffee table lay in shattered shards scattered across the rug beneath the sitting arrangement. The television still flickered with whatever you’d been watching, casting flashes of blue and white across every surface.

Jake’s teeth twinged and he forced the clamp of his jaw to release as he investigated the rest of the apartment with methodical sweeps, the barrel of pistol trained directly ahead of his every slow, silent step. The bedroom and bathroom were untouched and empty. The kitchen was the source of the light, and he had to turn off the burner beneath a boiling pot of water—ingredients for some variation of pasta littered the counter, abandoned without warning.

Jake had managed to remain calm until he rounded back into the main room for a second look and spotted a smear of blood on the opposite end of the coffee table that he had missed the first time—on the corner, having dripped onto the rug, already congealing and oxidizing.

“Esos hijos de puta se van a arrepentir de haber hecho esto,” he hissed, stalking out again.

He was lucky—so fucking lucky—that he’d gotten the location for the zealots’ compound before he’d relented to see you.

He couldn’t recall a time that he had hopped rooftops so quickly (usually preferring to travel on his own terms, much to Khonshu’s perpetual frustration, despite the traffic that always slowed things down), using the tattered cloak to glide over the longer distances and across the river. Most of the city had settled in for the night, but he couldn’t care less if he was spotted tonight. The moon was a cold presence at his back, wordlessly observing the seething predator rapidly closing in on his prey.

It was one thing to attack you under the guise of petty theft. It was another to ambush you with Marc there—he couldn’t blame them for that, trying to kill two birds with one stone was far more efficient. But to track you down all the way to your home and to kidnap you when you weren’t even involved, just as a cheap shot in an attempt to get under his skin? That was another fucking thing entirely. (He couldn’t say that it hadn’t worked.)

He spent just enough time on the same balcony as before, observing the front of the compound. There were no signs of lookouts or guards, and the sinking feeling in his gut told him that it was not a fortuitous turn of events.

Jake rolled as he leapt to the ground, slipping into the shadows and using the blade of a crescent dart to slice through the barbed fencing linked around the exterior of the warehouse. He had no luck jimmying the chain lock keeping the doors shut and had to scale several rotting crates to climb in through a crumbling window. Bits of glass clinked against the scaffolding beneath his feet, the only sound indicating his presence other than his pounding heart.

A group of armed men stood talking in hushed tones in the center of the cluttered floor. Shipping containers, barrels, crates, and dilapidated, rusting equipment kept them mostly hidden without giving ample enough room for him to guarantee killing shots. He would have to engage them directly, but that would risk alerting the rest of the compound.

He crept along the railing to scope out the place further, assured that they hadn’t noticed his entry.

A gaping garage door at the back of the warehouse opened up to a series of sheds that had evidently been converted into their base of operations. He peered through a fractured window to see even more people armed to the teeth, not as mindful of the noise they made. Their conversations told him exactly what he needed to know.

You were being kept in the furthest building, crouched low under the awning of another empty factory looming over the wrinkled sheet metal. You were still alive. They weren’t keen on keeping it that way for much longer.

There was no way for him to get any farther without someone spotting him.

Mouthing a curse beneath his mask, Jake glanced back into the warehouse behind him for a distraction of some sort. Some vehicles were parked in the corner, surrounded by equipment…including gas cans.

He’d have to act quickly.

Jake summoned two darts, clamping one between his teeth and using the other to cut a strip from his cloak. He tied it tightly around the gleaming metal, then reached under the folds of the armor to dig out his lighter. He took the first dart, found his target, and sent it whistling through the dark with a snap of his wrist.

The sound of it sinking into the plastic and immediately causing the fuel to dribble freely onto the floor drew the attention of the first group. They couldn’t see as well as he could, however, and were forced to use their flashlights to try to find the source of the noise.

He only had seconds to act before their alertness turned outward.

Jake flicked the lighter to life, ignited the ancient gauze, and flung it after the first.

The eruption of flame and smoke rocked the entire building on its foundation. Smoldering debris rained down upon the zealots, sending those furthest from the blast scurrying away from the fire despite their varying injuries. Jake picked them off one by one using their disorientation to his advantage.

By the time the rest of the troop arrived, shouting and bearing their weapons like teeth, enough fabric and melting plastic had covered the vehicles to cause a secondary explosion. This didn’t kill any of them, unfortunately, but several were felled and incapacitated by projectiles of glass and metal and wouldn’t pose much of a threat until he could give them their due attention.

Jake dropped down behind the brunt of them, more crescents in hand, and was able to cut down two before the others grew wise to his sudden appearance. A peppering of bullets sunk harmlessly into the armor, the muzzle flashes only aiding him in locating each cultist.

All thoughts save those pertaining to your safety faded by the wayside as the majority of his faculties focused on combat and survival. This lot was sloppier, less skilled, than all the others he’d faced before (probably because he’d picked off all their good fighters over the last few months). Their efforts to gang up on him were admirable, but they were simply no match for the advanced strength and agility Khonshu’s armor afforded him.

By the time he emerged from the warehouse, his armor was speckled with blood seeping into the aged gauze. Cursory glances into each shed as he passed them informed him that they were lifeless. It wasn’t until he approached the farthest that any more movement stalled him.

Those bastards that had tried to chase the pair of you down nights before met him in the doorway, and past their brawny shoulders he could see you tied to a chair in the center of the room, a sack slung over your head with coarse rope binding your limbs.

“Last chance to back out alive, pendejos,” Jake growled, fingers tightening around the dripping blades.

They only smirked and raised their automatics towards him.

Jake smirked. “Good. I wasn’t really looking to let you go after pulling this shit anyway.”

Despite their size, he made quick work of them. As the last one collapsed, Jake kicked aside the limp corpse and whirled on his heel to hurry over to you.

You stiffened as he knelt in front of you, resisting his investigative pat-down to make sure you were still in one piece with a tense sound of protest.

“Hey, hey, it’s me,” he said, reaching up and snatching the sack from your head and chucking it vehemently over his shoulder. “Calm down. It’s over.”

Your pupils, blown from the dark, didn’t adjust properly to take in his concealed face. Tacky blood had dried in a trail down the arch of your cheek from your temple, crusting some of your hair to your skin. Bruising was already darkening the half-circle beneath your eye. There was a cut on your lip and your skin was reddened on the opposite cheek—damning evidence of an unrestrained, backhanded slap with a ring if he’d ever seen it.

The ringleader had one shaped like an alligator skull on his pinky.

He allowed you a moment to regain your bearings, cutting away your bindings and grasping your elbows to bring your stiff arms forward. He gritted his teeth at the sight of your wrists, chafed raw and oozing fresh blood, but forced himself to focus on the task at hand. He raised his eyes back up to your face, watching you blink away tears under his scrutiny.

“You okay?” Jake demanded, cutting your ankles free before tugging you up onto your feet. You wobbled as your knees gave out, but his grip on your waist anchored you against his front. He pushed the sweaty strands of hair off of your drawn, grimy face, then snapped his fingers inches from your nose to pull your haunted gaze away from the bleeding bodies littering the concrete just outside. “Hey, look at me. Yeah, that’s it. There she is—good job.”

You sank into him at his soothing tone, relief finally bleeding into your features as you gradually slid back into lucidity. “Marc?”

He willed away the mask, offering you his grim expression. “Try again, chaparrita. Marc’s still not home.”

Your brow furrowed, and some apprehension returned to your frame—much to Jake’s chagrin. “I…you’re…you.”

“The one and only.” He jerked his chin to the side. “Tell me what they did.”

You swallowed roughly, sucking in harsh breaths, trembling all over—but you still tried to speak for him, even as your shaking hands curled into the ragged bandages interwoven over his chest. “They…they kept talking about a sacrifice to their goddess—Ammit? I think they said Ammit? To try and bring her back to them.” You dropped your uninjured temple against his clavicle, squeezing your eyes shut. “They—they had these weird tattoos on their forearms and kept grabbing my wrists and chanting something—something about ‘the scales’, and ‘balance’, and…a ‘paradise on earth’? And—and nothing would happen and they’d get pissed and—they knocked me out. I don’t know what they wanted, and—” A sob finally tore itself from your lips, and the tears spilled over your cheeks. “I tried to—to tell them that I didn’t have anything, or knew what they were talking about, but they—they wouldn’t stop, wouldn’t listen, and—”

“Hey, hey,” Jake said, reaching up with one gauntleted hand to pat your bruised cheek lightly—a grounding touch against your racing mind and snowballing panic. “Tranquila*. It’s over. Let me get you out of here.”

You nodded hesitantly, but went rigid when he stepped back from you, reaching for him again seemingly on instinct—Jake bit back his grimace, offering you a hand for some modicum of comfort. You took it without complaint, squeezing hard enough that his knuckles ground together. He didn’t utter a word against it—didn’t have the heart to.

Not when all this was his own damn fault.

Jake tugged you close to his side as he went, shading your eyes like a horse’s blinders whenever he’d walk you through the carnage he’d wrought tearing his way to get to you. You kept your eyes resolutely forward, only daring to glance up at him out of the corners of your peripheral when he’d grumble curses in Spanish while having to step through puddles of blood and viscera. He almost pitied the city officials who would have to clean it all up—because for as much racket as they’d made once they’d discovered his presence (not counting his own method of distraction), he was surprised the cops hadn’t already showed up.

Once he got back to the warehouse, now openly engulfed in an inferno unfit to approach, he bundled you up into his arms in spite of your squeak of surprise and glanced up towards the moon with a glare.

“You made quite the mess of things.”

Jake glanced over to the top of a neighboring building discerning the moon god’s silhouette against the background of the celestial body he represented. ‘Later,’ he mouthed. ‘Get us out of here. Now.’

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you that she would end up involved,” Khonshu growled, but a flick of his wrist resulted in a draft of wind strong enough to scoop the pair of you up into the air and into a current high above the city.

To your credit, despite your petrifying fear of falling (confessed with some embarrassment to Steven while going down a set of grated metal steps that reduced your knees to pudding), you didn’t scream for it to stop or beat at his shoulders to put you down. You only shut your eyes tight, clung to him as tightly as you could, and gasped as the unpredictable turbulence would jostle him.

Landing on the fire escape was no easy feat, and prying the window open with you petrified was made even more difficult by the fact that he’d forgotten that Marc religiously kept them all locked like the paranoid prepper he was.

“Come on,” he muttered, rearranging you to stand next to him on the narrow, creaking platform. “Give me a minute. Need to jimmy this.”

You pressed your back against the brickwork and kept your stare fixed resolutely on the cityscape sprawling out before you, eyes glazed over. The shock had definitely set in.

Jake got the window open after a few moments with a blade and steadied you as you climbed inside, following suit and finally allowing the armor to dissipate. You sank onto the bed, propping your elbows on your knees and dropping your face into your hands with a shaky sigh. He moved wordlessly to the bathroom, fetching the first aid kit that Marc kept well-stocked with all his remaining military supplies. You flinched when he set it down next to you, popping the lid and fishing through the various packets and ointments.

“Here,” he murmured, kneeling at your feet and patting your hands. “Let me see.”

You glanced down, still mostly absent, as your tone was distant. “Your gloves are cold.”

So they were. The fine leather did well to keep his hands warm, but the exterior didn’t fare so well. Jake stripped them off and tossed them onto the duvet on your other side, scrubbing his palms together for friction and blowing into them for good measure. Only faint green blotches of his earlier brawl remained under his knuckles after the armor had done its work.

You didn’t complain as he tended to your wrists first, applying antiseptic lotion as carefully as he could manage while ensuring an even coating, wrapping them in gauze, and studying the similar bruising on your own hands. You must’ve perceived his bemusement because you whispered, “I tried to fight them off. I did. Marc’s taught me a lot of stuff I didn’t already know before.” You swallowed and glanced away. “Didn’t do a whole lot of good.”

Jake’s glower seemed only to cause you to retreat even further inside of yourself, and that was the last thing that he wanted. “You did good,” he told you firmly, squeezing your hands with contrasting gentleness. “Saw the shiner on that bastard with the ring. Proud of you.”

Your lashes fluttered shut and you shook your head.

Jake set about cleaning up your temple and face, wiping away the blood with a warm, damp washcloth before patching up the laceration and blotting your lip with more ointment. There wasn’t much he could do for the hemorrhaging, but when he asked if you wanted an ice pack, you refused. He suggested that you change into something different—something clean, something warm, something untouched by those horrid caricatures of so-called peace-seeking humanity. It gave him enough time to hole up in the bathroom (with the divider cracked, just slightly, in case you needed him), to put away the first aid kit, and to recenter himself by splashing his face with cold water at the sink.

The two sets of umber eyes staring back at Jake—baleful and shellshocked, respectively—from the folded mirror’s parallel surfaces certainly did not assist in calming his thrumming blood pressure.

Finally decided to show yourself, didn’t you? muttered Marc darkly. What in the hell did you get involved in?

“Only taking care of the rest of Harrow’s cult,” Jake returned evenly, stomach pitching towards the floor. He braced himself on the edges of the sink and hunkered down, eyes shifting between his host and his fellow alter. “Since you two were too busy playing house to clean up the rest of the mess you started.”

You’re the one who finished him, aren’t you? Steven ventured quietly. Harrow. You did that.

“Neither of you had to dirty your hands,” Jake responded, “and the world is rid of that crazy son of a bitch. I see it as a win-win.”

They’re our hands, too, you know, Steven murmured despondently, looking away.

The same hands you’re using to touch our girl, Marc growled. Stop it. If you hurt her, I’ll—

“I just saved her life,” Jake bit out, “no thanks to the both of you turning a blind eye to everything going on right under your noses. Why do you think that she got attacked at the coffee shop, huh? Or that you both got ambushed? People didn’t miraculously stop recognizing our face after what went down in Cairo. It was inevitable that she got roped into all of our shit.”

Why the hell would you even get involved, anyway? Marc seethed, bristling. I don’t see how it’s any of your business.

“It became my business when you put all three of us in danger time after time just because you were so desperate to hide from your problems,” Jake shot back. “Or need I remind you why exactly you two had to have a literal goddamn heart-to-heart after you got us shot?”

Both of their faces blanked with surprise, suspicion and confusion, then dawning, horrified realization. The second sarcophagus hadn’t been a coincidence.

“We can finish the rest of this later,” Jake sighed heavily, dragging a palm down his face. “‘Your girl’ is shaken up all to hell and I need to make sure she doesn’t succumb to her concussion.”

Give me the body, Marc demanded, right now!

You can’t keep us trapped in here, Steven said tersely, but Jake could easily perceive the underlying apprehension in his tone.

“Give me until the morning and you can have her back, all to yourselves,” Jake said, turning to the divider and curling his hand around the handle. “I never meant to get involved in your little domestic fantasy anyway.”

So wrapped up in the ordeal of finally interacting face-to-face, as it were, with his alters was he that he hadn’t even realized that you’d been standing just on the other side. You flinched and stepped back half of a step, but the resolution on your face didn’t waver.

“Thank you,” you told him.

Jake frowned. “It’s our fault you ended up like this in the first place, chaparrita.”

“No, not this,” you replied, wringing your hands. “I mean…for talking to them.”

Jake stared at you, lips parting.

You gazed up at him, gauging, shifting between his eyes as if you could see past them into the paracosm of their jumbled mind. You reached up, slowly, expression easing into something tender as you cupped his cheek and stroked the pad of your thumb over the high arch. Jake’s skin scrawled, at first, from the unfamiliar sensation, but the ghostly echoes of that same touch pressed heavily on the back of his inherited memory.

“Marc, be kind to him,” you said softly. “And don’t fret, Steven. He doesn’t mean any harm. He’s taken as good care of me as you two have. He can stay for as long as he wants, as long as he learns to share and to take turns, too. He’s just as welcome as you two are.” You tilted your head and studied his features once more, memorized yet brand new. “It would help if we had a name to call you by, though.”

They were still co-fronting, if the weight of their presence on his consciousness was any indication.

…She has a way with that, Marc said quietly. Like she can see right through us.

Stops bein’ frightenin after a while, though. You get used to it, Steven added thoughtfully. It’s kind of refreshin’, actually, not havin’ to worry about keepin’ up appearances.

And all at once, the tension drained from Jake’s body, and he sank into your caress and shut his eyes. The stifled warmth in his chest crescendoed into frissons breaking out across his skin, sending shivers ricocheting all over him. You weren’t afraid of him.

“Name’s Jake,” he muttered under her breath. “Lockley.”

“Jake Lockley,” you repeated, sending his heart beating wildly against his ribs. “Completes the set, doesn’t it?”

He cracked his eyes open, brow furrowing.

“Oh, you haven’t heard?” You smiled. “All good things come in threes.”

Maybe…just maybe, this wouldn’t turn out so bad after all.

[yellowocaballero]

6, 7, 18 :V

What is your darkest fear about writing?

Oh god uh uh uh

I worry my stuff is bad, like literally everybody else. I get stressed out when I feel like I just can't make the story work, when it just has way too many flaws, or when I feel like I just can't reach the level that I want to reach. It frustrates me and I definitely vent to friends that I'll never be good enough for myself and my own standards.

But that's just frustration. That's my shit self-esteem and my bad habit of wanting things to be perfect without putting the effort in. I WISH I was a perfectionist. That's a huge part of my psyche that I have to manage in every aspect of my life.

That's not fear. Fear is anticipation of negative consequences. Fear is 'I'm terrified this'll happen, because then X Y and Z will happen'. These consequences can be physical - I'll flunk, I'll get rejected, I'll crash the car - or they can be emotional - she'll hate me, he'll be disappointed in me, they'll dump me, I'll hate myself. There's, like, stakes.

There's no stakes in my writing? If I post a fic and it gets no hits, then I've lost exactly nothing in this process. If I write a fic and it's terrible, then I'll get really frustrated and go cool off and then go back to writing something better. Worst case scenario with my writing is...?!...my friends will think it's bad..?!...I don't know. That I'll never be good enough...? I will never, ever be good enough for myself, this is a me problem that has little to do with my writing. This is why I write to destress. Everything's made up and the points don't matter?

(This is why I'll never be a professional writer, for what it's worth - hugely rooting for your success in that aspect).

What is your deepest joy about writing?

I sometimes get extremely nice comments about how much a story meant to them. That is always so wonderful, they are very meaningful to me. I also sometimes get comments that I have made somebody realize that they are ace/trans/has made them quit their job, which are the ABSOLUTE BEST. I love talking about my writing and discussing it with other people, and I achieve this through writing stuff that is hopefully good enough that I can make other people care about it. It's hugely rewarding and feels wonderful & it makes me happy to know that I brighten days. The best part of fanfiction is the friends I make through fanfiction.

But my actual joy is - I don't know, just in the writing. When I'm wading through a scene and I just really love the scene, and I feel like a freaking genius, and I can't type fast enough to keep up with my brain. When the image is incredibly vivid in my mind and I'm feeling everything in the scene, and it's coming out even more beautiful than in my head. When I'm, like, ALMOST THERE. Writing a sentence and going 'that's the EXACT right sentence' or writing a line of dialogue that is so clever or writing a joke that is just so funny. When everything is just right and I'm just having a complete blast, and then I go brag to my friends about how smart I am. I just like doing it.

18. Choose a passage from your writing. Tell me about the backstory of this moment. How you came up with it, how it changed from start to end. Spicy addition: Questioner provides the passage.

This post is already pretty long, so I'll attempt to be laconic.

I like Wolverine , Khonshu said wistfully. 

“Damn, then go staple yourself to his adamantium skeleton. Their crusade’s a waste of time. This ain’t a team-up issue, it’s a multiversal mistake.” Jake snorted softly, flexing his hands inside his hoodie pockets. “Mark my words, Boss. Day after tomorrow my knife’s going to find that kid’s heart. He’s going to die because our little justice system’s fucked up, because he made the shit choices a shit situation gave him, and because the keepers of the peace like us care more about justice than what’s right. And the same thing’s gonna happen next month, and the next month, and the next month. ‘Cuz there’s nothing cruel or unusual about state-sanctioned serial killing. How’s that for your piping hot pie of justice?”

The entire process of trying to make Jake was complicated enough, and he changed a tremendous amount through conceptualizing him. I hadn't intended to have him in the scene - I actually never intended to do a Jake POV until the final scene - and him becoming a major character actually fucked some stuff up. But I just liked my brand new OC so much he started eating up word count (The joy of Jake Dialogue is real). He was going to be a bit more unhinged until I wrote the passage, really loved it, and swerved hard in this direction.

This passage is to blame for a lot of that, because it cemented Jake as: an astute outside observer of the situation, a mouthpiece for the justice-themed moral, keenly intelligent, a kinda spicy fourth wall breaker, pretty hilarious, uncontrollable, pettily cruel, and bugfuck insane.

Anyway I actually just bring up this passage because I read The New Jim Crow in prep for this story and somehow Jake became the character in universe who's read The New Jim Crow. I also re-read all of She-Hulk 1989, and although Shulk was always gonna be 4th-walley it somehow became INCREDIBLY funny to have Jake be the only other 4th wall breaker just because he is bugfuck. I also watched many telenovela recaps and none of them made it in except for the general vibe of extreme drama.

Thanks for the ask!