"Well, that was a bit of a bad step you took," Steven says, in his latest contender for understatement of the year. "Bloody hell, Jake."
Jake sits at the bottom of the escalator he just tumbled down and tries his best to return to reality. As he's currently drunk out of his mind, this proves to be difficult.
"Jesus Christ," Marc complains, when Jake raises his hands and examines his palms. They're skinned and bloody, and he can feel grazing all down his calves. "You're lucky you only fell down the last few steps. It's still gonna sting, though- thanks, asshole."
"I'm just surprised you didn't pick up an injury sooner," Steven says. Both of their voices are a blur inside Jake's head, and their reflections in the floortiles are thoroughly unimpressed. "Thank you for your consideration, Jake. Getting pissed and throwing our body down an escalator is a really commendable display of selflessness."
As it's late, the tube station is currently empty, meaning there's nobody here to witness Jake's plight. This should be a good thing, but he'd rather have a crowd of laughing bystanders than Marc and Steven right now.
"Look, just shut the fuck up for a sec," he says. "Both of you. I can't think straight."
"That's the vodka's fault, not ours," Steven hisses. "Why did you have to go and drink so much? I can feel it in me, I feel all- all woozy."
Marc scoffs. "It'd feel great if I didn't know that there's a reckless fuckin' asshole piloting our body right now-"
"¡Cierra la boca!"
Once the other two are silent, Jake makes the effort to stand up. He's done a lot of fighting in his time, but the vodka in his system is proving to be one of his biggest foes right now. After a couple of failed attempts, he finally manages to get to his feet.
"Fuck," he groans. The silence and dimness of the empty station disorientates him. "Where's the exit?"
"Jesus Christ," Marc and Steven say in unison.
"Alright, alright, I see it, you whiny sons of-" Jake sets off again, wobbling with every step. His hands are still streaked with blood from his fall, but he nonchalantly wipes them on his jeans, making Steven groan. "I ain't about to apologise for having a good night, if that's what you're expecting."
"Nobody expected you to apologise," Marc says.
"Literally nobody," Steven agrees.
"But we're still gonna complain about it." It's difficult to work the tone of a dire threat into drunken rambling, but Marc tries his best. "You're always doing some bullshit to our body. You can never let us take a break."
Remarkably, Jake finds his card to swipe at the barriers. He's shocked he didn't lose it somewhere on the journey.
"Can't you get a hobby other than drinking and clubbing?" Steven demands, as Jake stumbles out of the station into the cold night. "Pick up a book once in a while. Practice an instrument. Dear Lord, what a sad little life, Jake. We've got money, maybe you can spend it on some lessons in grace and decorum. Because you've got all the grace of a-"
"Steven, if you know the entire Come Dine With Me speech off by heart, maybe you need a new hobby," Marc cuts him off before Steven can get into his flow.
"You two never shut the hell up, do you?" Jake says, not paying attention to anything they're saying. "I'm alive, we ain't hurt or anything, stop fuckin' complaining- fuck, I need to sit down."
Luckily there's a bench nearby, with a public piano a few feet away from it. Jake staggers over to it and sits down. Despite the alcohol in his system, he can feel his skinned knees and hands burning. There are only a few passersby at this time of night, and all of them hurry past the bearded, drunken guy doubled over on the bench.
"He's right, though," Marc says, once they've all recovered from the collective nausea. "What did you actually do before you showed yourself to us? Other than vigilante justice and punching people? It can't have just been... This."
Jake scowls at the pavement. "I enjoyed fuckin' peace and quiet in my head."
"Yeah, no," Marc says. "None of us ever had that."
Scoffing, Jake picks at his jacket and finally raises his head, eyes falling on the piano nearby.
"You brats don't know jack about me," he says. "I got a few things up my sleeve."
"Like what?" Marc says.
Jake doesn't answer for a good while, glaring at the piano with an energy that usually only comes with a personal vendetta.
"What don't we know about you?" Steven persists. "Tell us, tell us, tell us-"
Suddenly, Jake stands up. The movement alarms the other two.
"What's he doing?" Steven asks in a hushed voice. "Is he gonna do an interpretive dance?"
"An interpretive-? He's walking towards the piano," Marc says, interrupting his own disbelief.
Steven squawks. "Why is he doing that? Is he gonna drop kick it or something?"
"Don't narrate what I'm doing like I can't hear you, shitheads!" Jake snaps. "Why'd you think I'm walking over to the piano?"
"To commit property damage?"
"I'm gonna play it!" Jake yells. His voice rings down the street. "Fuckin' pains in the-"
Still chuntering about Marc and Steven, he sits on the stool in front of the piano. He flexes his bloodstained hands.
"You wanna see some fuckin' grace and decorum?" he growls. "Buckle up and listen to this."
"What the hell is going on?" Marc says.
"I've never been so afraid in my life," Steven breathes.
"Good," Jake says, resting his fingers against the keys.
He begins to play.
To an outsider- well, not only outsiders, even the people inside him- it looks bizarre. A man with scratched up hands and wildly diluted pupils banging away at a piano in the middle of the night. Jake has somehow never seemed more strange in his life.
But... it sounds beautiful.
The hands that usually curl into fists or around weapons drift across the keys with more delicacy than the other two, even Steven, could ever manage. Jake's speed isn't being used to catch someone off guard in combat- it's being used to catch difficult notes and somehow blend them all together into something genuinely... gorgeous.
It sounds familiar, too.
Classical music is a Steven thing, and Marc has always poked fun at him for it. Calling him an old man, asking him whether he's still waiting for Bach's new album rollout.
But in his early years as a mercenary, Marc used to listen to it too. In those days, it was the only thing that soothed him when the pressure built to dangerous levels- and when he needed to flood away the violence in his head. When the thoughts came hard and fast and he needed to focus on anything else, he'd put on something classical and let it wash over him. He needed it to soothe him. He'd barely been holding himself together at that point.
Jake said he came in when Marc knew he wasn't strong enough to protect Steven and himself anymore. He was there to protect the both of them. Marc hated the way he did things, but Jake swore left and right he was never against Marc. Never.
And if Marc didn't believe it before... He believes it now.
Jake remembers the music.
He can play the music. The music that calmed Mark when it was all too much. He's fucking drunk, and he's playing it flawlessly. He... he learned it.
It hasn't been this quiet in their head for a long time.
Jake finishes playing with an unceremonious thud of the final note. He's stained the ivory keys with red.
"Finished," he bites, turning away from the piano with a scoff, as though he hasn't just produced tender, beautiful music with it. "There's your graceful fuckin' performance. I can do stuff other than downing vodka. You happy?"
The longer the silence goes on, the more irritable he gets. At least the streets are still empty. That's the only saving grace of his impromptu performance. "Well? The fuck are you two so silent for?"
"Jake, that was-" Steven falters, and actually sniffles. "That was beautiful. Genuinely. I can't believe you're drunk- that was amazing."
"Are you crying?" Jake says in disbelief. "Get help, Steven."
"For once, can we let a moment of sensitivity last for more than two and a half seconds?" Steven protests.
"No," Jake says. "Cállate."
After a moment of poor balance, he gets up from the piano, facing the dark London streets. Jamming his hands into his jacket pockets, he sets off towards a side road, finally deciding to return to their home.
"When did you learn to play like that?" Steven demands. "Where did you get the time in between all the violence? How? I don't understand this at all-"
"I taught myself a new piece after every kill. As a little treat," Jake growls. He rubs his head, which is sore from the alcohol and Steven's blathering. "I'm not doing it anymore, though. Drinking is more fun than this bullshit."
"But you have such a talent-"
"And I'm gonna waste it." Jake places emphasis on every word, and relishes in Steven's exasperated groan. "Shut up, Steven. I'm not saying it again."
Steven does not listen. As Jake navigates the streets and his slowly returning sobriety to try and get home, Steven continues prying about Jake's piano playing ability, undeterred by the Spanish swearing that he gets in return.
Only Jake notices Marc's silence. He doesn't mention it.