The flat is warm, butter yellow sunshine spilling along the kitchen counter, lighting along long dead flowers and open jars of flour and yeast and sugar.
Peace you’ve never really known, at least not like this, heats you from the inside out.
You’re content, happy.
You’re home, the flat has become your home.
“Hey, corazón,” Jake greets, the front door slamming closed behind him as he strolls toward your place at the kitchen counter. “Need ta talk to you about something.”
You turn away from the dough you’re kneading, wiping your hands along your apron that’s already coated with flour, stained with cooking oil.
You hadn’t been expecting him.
“Hey, Jake,” you greet, eyes flicking over him with a soft smile, your gaze hooking on the bouquet of flowers in his hands, your grin widening a bit.
He doesn’t smile back at you, his gaze unwaveringly intense.
Nerves flutter in your belly and to sate your anxiety you pick up a spare kitchen towel, working the fabric between your fingers.
It’s been a couple of weeks since you’ve seen him. While you see Marc and Steven nearly everyday, Jake is more elusive. Sometimes he doesn’t front for weeks. Sometimes he fronts without visiting you, sometimes he fronts with the sole purpose of spending time with you.
He’s a bit unpredictable and it only sometimes bothers you.
Though you’re a little annoyed today at his bad timing, since you’d planned to make dinner with Marc, but you’re still happy to see him, happy to have him in the flat with you.
“What brings you round? What do you need to talk with me about?” you inquire. The tense line of his shoulders makes you frown, the furrow in his brow deepening as he steps closer to you, black fathomless gaze not wavering from yours.
Jake leans in, depositing the new bouquet of flowers he’s brought you into their vase without removing the dead ones. You take the opportunity to dip forward to press a quick kiss to his jaw that you know he won’t mind. Jake doesn’t usually show affection through touch, but he certainly doesn’t mind receiving it that way. You feel him tilt his head into your lips just a little, his mouth quirking up, spine loosening just a fraction.
But instead of answering you when he pulls away, he leans against the counter and folds his arms across his chest and watches you for a long moment. You raise a brow, knotting the tea towel in your hands around your fingers as you wait.
Eventually he says, “It’s about Marc.”
You freeze, “Oh.” Then your hands are moving again, wringing the towel tighter around your hands, squeezing the blood out of your fingers. “Is something wrong?” And then you hesitantly follow up with, “Can he hear me?”
With Jake, you’re never sure who’s listening. It depended on the day, on his mood.
He swallows, almost nervously, uncertainly. “It’s just me and you right now, mi vida.”
You nod, raising a brow at him, “Is something wrong, Jake? Is Marc okay? Is Steven? Are you?”
Jake never approaches you like this, with trepidation and concern. If he had concern for something he simply took care of it, no questions or hesitation or consulting involved. Especially if it affected Marc or Steven. And certainly not with you.
To Jake, you’re something that should be protected at all costs, no matter how large or small the problem was.
The fact that he’s bringing a problem to you at all, tells you more than he could probably guess.
“No,” he says, and then seems to backtrack a little. “Maybe.”
When he doesn’t continue, a nervous anxiety starts to bite through you in earnest. “What do you mean maybe, Jake Lockley? How is something maybe wrong? How are you all maybe okay?” You fidget in place, shifting from foot to foot. “He was supposed to help me with this tonight,” you say helplessly, gesturing at the half kneaded dough on the counter - the olive oil and rosemary and garlic and salt. “Did -,”
“Calm down, honey,” he says, rolling his eyes at you like he isn’t standing there making fear gnaw a hole in your belly. Like he isn’t equally as concerned about something. “He’s fine. We’re fine.” He leans closer to you, not letting you look away from his eyes, the heat of his body so close to yours comforting.
You stare at him, tilting your chin to better meet his gaze, “Okay..?”
Jake takes a breath and straightens, pacing the kitchen a few times before he stops and turns back to you.
He mutters under his breath in a Spanish that you’re getting better at understanding each day, “Steven is better at this shit.”
“Why don’t you let Steven talk with me then, baby?” You ask carefully.
The pet name on your lips makes his shoulders drop a bit, some of the tension rolling away. “Steven doesn’t see it as a…concern.”
Steven, you sometimes forget, protects Marc in his own way. He shouldered the emotional burdens of the system most often. They all had different ways of protecting each other.
“So it’s a safety concern?” You ask. “Is he in danger?” You step closer to Jake and press one hand into his arm, running soothing fingers from wrist to elbow and back again, his skin warm beneath your touch. The sun dapples over you both, the light shifting with the turn of the clouds outside.
You don’t mind the question and answer game you have to play with Jake sometimes to get information out of him, even when it’s something he wants to tell you.
Marc takes gentle cajoling and lots of patience, while Steven often word-vomited at you, not holding a single thing back.
Jake speaks one word statements to you and then stares at you, like he was willing the information from his brain to yours in some kind of mind dump. “Not exactly,” he answers after a long pause, leaning into your touch subtly. “Listen, mi vida,” he licks his lips. “Marc is gonna ask you about somethin’ soon. And I’m just worried its gonna fuck everything up. That its gonna fuck all of us up. I don’t know how to protect him, us, from that.”
“What is it?” You ask, tangling both hands in the towel again, knuckles aching with the force. You can’t imagine what question Marc might have for you that could make Jake, your fearless brutal Jake, afraid.
“Can’t fuckin’ tell ya that,” he says, reaching forward to tug the towel out of your hands, skim his fingers along the bare skin of your forearms. He threads his fingers between yours, his grip reassuring. “Marc’d kill me for that. You’ll know soon enough.”
You blink at him, trying to swallow past the lump in your throat. What could Marc have to say to you that would make Jake worry badly enough to approach you about it? What could he have to ask that might make you in turn break their hearts?
“Jake, you're scaring me.”
His expression splinters for just a second before he smiles, lifts a hand to your cheek to track his thumb across your skin. “We’re the ones that’s gotta be scared over this one. Don’t worry.”
That is much easier said than done.
~
For the next several weeks, worry chews at the inside of your skin, stalks behind you, guides your every move.
Every time Marc fronts, a little shiver of anxiety runs through you, though you try not to show it. He can tell though, you know he can, that you’ve pulled away from him just a bit. You see it in his eyes, in the naked pain that lived there sometimes.
Jake doesn’t front again, silent.
And so you can only assume whatever Marc has to say to you is something bad, something that would change everything between the two of you for the worse, between all of you for the worse. If it concerned Jake enough to approach you over it, it had to be bad.
Jake is the protector of the three of them, the one who’d do anything to spare the system hurt.
Steven knows something is wrong too, your energy affecting his until you’re both morose and miserable and upset. You’re faking being okay so badly that you both end up crying one evening.
It takes tea and cuddling and the weight of each other together to bring you back to reality.
“Sorry,” you whisper to him when you finally make it to bed, eyes rimmed red and heart aching. You’re facing each other, legs tangled and hands knitted together between you. “I’ve just been worried lately.”
“But about what, dear heart?” he asks, ever gentle. “You’ve got Marc and me in a right twist over it. He’s worried about you too. Never seen him fret so bad, really.”
You tighten your fingers against his, “Jake?”
“He’s been...quiet lately,” he says, his tone a bit peeved.
You try not to let the hurt show on your face and shake your head. “It’s something silly, really. It’ll pass, I promise,” you assure him, though you think that all depends on what the question is - the question Marc still hasn’t asked you.
Steven pulls you into him then, tucking you snugly under his chin. “You know you can tell us,” he says. “We can help, love. We’re here, yeah?”
“I know,” You murmur into his throat, pressing a small kiss to his collarbone as his arms tighten around you. “I don’t need your help just yet. It’ll be fine.”
~
“Wanna go to that Italian place with me?” His voice is casual but when you look up from your book his expression is vulnerable and serious.
Marc is leaning against the bathroom doorway, arms folded over his chest. He’s in a t-shirt and jeans, a favorite jacket of his in his hand. His hair is combed and styled and you can smell his cologne drifting toward you.
“The one with that bread we like?” He prompts when you just stare at him, eyes flicking over the length of him.
“You look nice,” you say, smiling at him and appraising the snug fit of his shirt instead of answering.
The question Jake warned you about a month ago never came. Some of your frazzled, anxious energy had burned away in the last week much to the relief of Steven and Marc. Maybe Jake had been mistaken, and there’s nothing to worry about.
You sit up where you had been lounging in bed, folding your book closed and putting it aside.
“Thanks,” Marc says, his voice deadpan, like he doesn’t believe a word you say. “Wanna go or not?”
You roll your eyes at him and he opens his arms to you, welcoming you closer. “Of course I do,” you inform him, standing to press a kiss to his cheek, sliding your arm around his back, your fingers against his spine. “I’d never say no to that.”
Marc responds in kind, pulling you in close, his eyes glued to your lips, tucking his arms tightly around you. “Good,” he says against you, his mouth skimming the crest of your cheek. You feel his hands on your ass, squeezing gently before he pulls away, “Go get ready.”
His voice is soft and gruff and nervous all in one - you can’t really imagine why.
~
Hours later, you find yourself ducking out of a downpour, your belly full of pasta and bread, grinning from ear to ear and laughing so hard tears threaten you. “I told you we should have just gone home!” You shout at him over the din of the rain on the overhang above you, swiping rainwater from your cheeks. You’re stopped outside your favorite tea shop to wait out the downpour at least until it becomes a more manageable drizzle.
You poke his shoulder, stepping close to him and tilting your chin into his, the heat of him radiating into you. “I should make you go in there and buy me a cup of tea for all this trouble!” You laugh despite the tea shop being closed and dark.
Marc had taken you to your favorite Italian place, but then he had insisted you go for a walk through the park afterwards and you’d agreed despite the dark clouds that had been looming overhead, warning him that you’d never forgive him if you were rained on.
“See, I always know best,” you snark at him, not really angry, not even really trying to pretend to be. It’s kind of romantic even, the warmth of his arms around you as cool water shivers along your skin. “We could be warm and dry in the flat. I was going to make hot chocolate and everything -,”
Marc takes your hand in his. His other palm slides along the column of your spine, water dripping down his brow as he looks at you. There's a strange look in his eyes, a curious tilt to his brows that makes you stop.
“Marc?” You tip your head to the side and lift a hand to his stubbled cheek, “You okay?”
His mouth twitches up, and he shakes his head, not at you but at himself as he glances away for a moment. You reach up with your free hand and thread your fingers through his hair gently, tugging on the damp curls at the nape of his neck. “I’m fine. I -,” he reaches up and takes your hand in his, holds your fingers against his cheek. “I have something I need to ask you.”
You feel the ground drop out from beneath your feet. “Oh,” you whisper, feeling the blood drain out of your face.
“You okay?” Marc drops your hand and cradles your face between his palms instead.
You nod, listening to the rain slow, the noise of the drops against canvas lessening with each moment that passes. “Yeah, of course. Ask me.”
The noise of the street seems to fade away, the splash of boots on the pavement and taxi cabs speeding along on the next road over.
“Okay,” Marc says, not sounding convinced. “Well, listen, baby, I wanted to do this a little bit different. I thought maybe I’d do it today, but as soon as we got to the restaurant I knew I had to do it today. It’s why I asked you to go to the park after dinner, so I could ask you in front of those trees you like. Those ones that are pink right now?”
You nod, not sure why the trees would matter, trying to keep yourself calm and not jerk your hands away from Marc’s.
You wish he’d just rip the bandaid off and ask you, put you out of your misery so you can move on and fix whatever problem the question would create.
“Yeah,” you whisper. “My favorite trees in the park.”
“Right, yeah, well,” he grouses. “Fucking London rain ruined that so I thought your tea shop would be an okay second. We first met here remember?” he asks and you nod mutely, the anxiety not allowing you to do much more than that, not allowing you to think beyond Marc’s words. You glance away, a lump forming in the back of your throat.
You don’t even consider for a moment that he wouldn’t bring you to your favorite place, the place you met, to ask you something life ruining.
Marc nods along with you, trying to catch your eye but you keep your gaze firmly somewhere near his clavicle.
He fumbles in his pocket and brings out a little box. You blink down at it before furrowing your brows and glancing back up at him. Marc is looking at you intensely, warm brown irises boring into yours, and when you don’t react he looks back down with a swallow, nodding to himself, like he expected this to be your reaction.
For a moment, you think he looks terrified.
But his head tracks to the right, his reflection staring back at him in the darkened front window of the shop, and he seems to steel himself.
The rain is now a light mist, water beading along Marc’s brow and temple. You reach up to swipe away the moisture, thinking he looks more beautiful than anyone you’ve ever seen. He takes a breath and flips open the box.
A ring sits inside, sparkling innocently at you. The band is gold, an oval diamond in the center.
Your brain can’t make sense of the sight, of what it means. “I don’t understand,” you say, your voice distant to your own ears. “What-,”
A question.
He’s holding a ring and needs to ask you something and -
“Baby,” Marc interrupts your frantic thoughts, the pieces that were coming together with halting slowness. He slides his other hand against your forearm, his touch gentle and calloused against you. Marc hooks his thumb against your wrist, stroking slowly. “I’m asking you to marry me. Will you marry me?”
Everything in you freezes, your mind going back to Jake’s words, his half-warning all those weeks ago.
Marc is gonna ask you about somethin’ soon. And I’m just worried its gonna fuck everything up. That its gonna fuck all of us up. I don’t know how to protect him, us, from that.
Had Jake thought you’d say no? To Marc?
It stings, just a little bit.
“Oh,” you whisper, the pieces finally coming together completely in your mind. “Oh.”
This is how a question posed to you could hurt them.
Marc’s eyes drop from yours, fastening on the ring in the box between you instead. You keep your eyes on his, on the way the little crease between his brow appears, his mouth dipping down into a frown.
“Maybe I shoulda thought of a better way to ask,” he frets quietly, his thumb sliding along the top of the velvet lid of the box, like he’s restraining himself from snapping it closed. “I’m not good at this. At words. Steven tried to get me to -,”
“Yes,” you say suddenly, reaching up to tap a finger beneath his chin so he’ll meet your eyes, “Marc Spector, yes. I will marry you.” Your heart is beating hard, your fingers trembling when you throw yourself into him, “Yes, yes, yes!” You chant, feeling Marc stumble a little with the force of you. “Yes, oh God, yes of course!” You hold him tight, his arm trapped between your bodies and so he slides his free arm around your back, his lips curving into a smile against your cheek. “Yes, Marc, yes. I will marry you.”
He relaxes in increments against you, his voice low when he asks, “Really?”
“Yeah, really,” you say, pulling back and grinning at him when you suddenly realize what Marc just asked you, what you’ve just agreed to. You feel that lump form in the back of your throat again and launch yourself at him a second time, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Marc, baby, yes. Yes. I’d never say no to you.”
He’s hugging you, his arm tight around you, so comforting and warm and consuming, his nose buried against your neck. “Fuck, fuck,” he murmurs, his voice muffled against your skin, his mouth brushing along your throat. “God, you scared me for a fucking second.”
“Sorry,” you murmur. “Sorry, sorry. I just…wasn’t expecting this.”
Marc pulls back, fingers deftly plucking the ring out of the box and fitting the ring onto your finger. He drags his thumb over your knuckles, evaluating the fit of the ring, the sparkle of it in the gloomy post-storm light. “You weren’t?”
“Actually, I was worried. I thought you were about to tell me something horrible.”
Marc snorts, his lips against your temple, “Yeah I couldn’t tell. You didn’t look terrified at all.”
You decide not to out Jake for his worries, he clearly hadn’t wanted Marc or Steven to know his thoughts. You aren’t sure how to take it, not sure how Marc would feel about it either - knowing his alter might have doubted you. “Just surprised,” you murmur, letting Marc pull you close, his fingers digging into your hips slightly, his eyes flicking over you before settling on your eyes again.
A drop of water rolls down his nose, and you reach up to wipe it away.
“I love you, Marc,” you whisper.
“I love you too, sweetheart,” he says, dipping his head toward yours. When his lips touch yours, you lose all coherent thought. There is only him and you and the rain and the weight of a new promise on your finger.