Three Moons
Marc stares at himself in the mirror over the sink, adjusting and readjusting the collar of his open button-up.
It won’t fucking lie flat.
“You look fine, Marc,” Steven says from the smaller angled mirror next to the one Marc gazes into, his voice amused. “I’m a bloody mess most times and she’s never minded.”
But Marc minds, he cares so much it makes him feel stupid and sick.
He saw you everyday.
This should not be a problem.
“I look like an asshole,” he mutters, the urge to punch the mirror snaking up his arm. He shucks off the button-up instead, in favor of wearing just the navy blue t-shirt beneath.
Would you mind him in just a t-shirt? Was it too casual? Would you think he wasn’t putting any effort in? That this didn’t matter to him?
Because it does matter to him. It mattered probably what was beyond reasonable.
Steven always wore those patterned button-ups when he went out with you. Maybe he should try one of those? You always complimented those fucking shirts in any case, your eyes soft and amused when you looked at him.
Steven sighs and rolls his eyes as Marc furrows his brows at himself in the mirror, tabling the shirt issue to try to decide what to do about his hair instead. “Try not to be too bothered, yeah? We see her everyday. I’m sure she isn’t expecting too much.”
Marc knows Steven is trying to be helpful and encouraging but he doesn’t want apathy, he doesn’t want to settle. He doesn’t want you to settle.
He wants you to expect something from him. He wants you to have expectations for him, so that he can meet them, exceed them.
Fuck, he wants to impress you, in his own way.
He wants to make you happy, in his own way.
Especially when there’s always a lingering worry at the back of his mind that you only accepted him because Steven got you first. He worries that if Steven hadn’t charmed you into his life, Marc would have never gotten you on his own.
And it doesn’t help that Marc feels like he’s always one step behind.
Because while you’ve been on countless dates with Steven, you’ve never been on one with Marc. He wants you to think of this as your first date together, not just another date in the long line of them you’ve had with his alter. He worries sometimes that you just think of him as just another facet of Steven, even though you’ve given no indication that you do.
“Oh, Marc,” Steven breathes softly, “she doesn’t confuse us. She well knows you aren’t me.”
Maybe.
Still, Steven got his first with you, Marc wants his first with you too.
He should not feel anxious about taking you out on a date, not when he spent every evening walking you home, not when most of your free time was spent with him and Steven in the flat anyways. Not when you cooked together, not when you watched movies curled up on the couch together. Not when Marc has listened to you read, played cards with you for hours, and felt stupidly warm anytime you fell asleep on his shoulder when you stayed late on the couch together.
He can’t consider any of those moments dates, though. They were just time you spent together.
A date came with intentions and expectations and planning.
At least for him.
It was important to him that he try, that he gets this good thing, this very normal thing.
Because you deserved it too.
You deserve his effort and his attention.
Steven has taken you on countless dates, to museums and tea shops, escape rooms and movies - you’ve had so many quiet dates in the flat playing cards and board games and watching endless hours of TV series together. But Marc has never taken you out once, has never really planned a date in either.
Marc had been content with seeing you though his alter’s eyes, letting Steven take most of the soft moments from you himself. Marc was your protector, he was your support, he did not need to be what Steven could be for you better.
But he wants to try. He wants to try to be those other things for you too, even if he was shit at it.
And he was still learning.
He was still learning that this was real, that you were his as much as you were Steven’s, that you loved him too and that you wanted to spend time with him.
Marc was still learning that he could be more, more than just your protector and support. He could be your comfort too, your joy and love.
Marc was still learning to communicate with you, to tell you the things that rattled around inside his head.
Even when it was difficult.
Especially when it was difficult.
But fuck, was it hard.
Harder than he ever thought it might be.
Keys rattle in the front door suddenly and Marc hastily runs a hand through his hair in a quick attempt to tame it, frustrated with the way it looks, with the curl that won’t stay off his forehead.
He hears you shut the door and relock it, your shoes thumping down as you kick them off, quiet socked steps trailing toward the bathroom.
The memory of your face when Steven gave you a spare set of keys to the flat comes unbidden. The memory is like warmth spreading in Marc, your acceptance a balm against Steven’s intense loneliness. You had lit up, bright with joy at the gesture, at the trust they showed you.
The bathroom door is ajar, your head poking around the side. “Marc,” you greet, a smile pulling at your lips at the sight of him. A smile that Marc still isn’t quite used to seeing directed at him, not when he was fronting at least. Your eyes flick over him appreciatively, gaze lingering on his hands. He knows you’re noting the bruises on his knuckles, bruises with no origin, bruises he doesn’t remember earning.
The touch of your stare follows the vein in his forearm before your eyes flick back to his face. “You clean up nice. Ready to go?”
Marc likes the way you look at him, likes the way your attention feels.
The tension that’s always locked in his shoulders melts away, curled hands unclenching. You tilt your head and smile again, clearly wondering at his lack of response.
“See?” Steven reassures. “Nothin’ to worry about, mate.”
Marc doesn’t answer Steven, nodding at you as you push the door all the way open, hesitating there for a moment like you aren’t sure if you should approach, like you think you might be intruding. Marc holds out a hand to you, the invitation immediately taken as you step closer, your fingers warm in his hand.
You’re wearing Khonshu’s jacket. Today the gauzy white-gray fabric wrapped around your shoulders was in the shape of an oversized blazer. Beneath that, you wear only a t-shirt and jeans, just like him. And he supposed he had told you to dress casually and had no real reason to be as worried about the shirt as he had been. “You look beautiful,” he says, by way of a greeting when he tugs you close. “Fucking stunning, baby.”
“She looks divine,” Steven says softly, and Marc doesn’t need to turn to the mirror to know that he’s doe-eyed, that he looks like a sappy love drunk moron. Marc only half admits to himself that he doesn’t want to look at the mirror because he knows he looks the exact fucking same.
“Steven says you look awful by the way,” Marc snarks.
“Oy, I never! Tell her what I actually said!” The immediate outrage makes him snort, and when he looks over Steven is positively fuming.
You look at Marc in surprise, then to the mirror and back again, your mouth falling open, eyes wide, and for a moment Marc thinks he’s made a terrible miscalculation. He doesn’t realize sometimes how harsh he sounds and maybe-
A startled laugh bursts out of you before you stop and cover your mouth, a small snicker echoing from behind your hand as you lean into him, the weight of you warm and pleasant against him.
And everything inside Marc softens just a little bit.
He presses his arms around you, nudges his nose against your temple, the smell of you like summer rain and him - jasmine and lavender, compliments of the jacket you always wore.
“No, he did not,” you grin. “Steven would never.”
“Absolutely right I wouldn’t, love!”
He presses his lips along your cheekbone, feels the scar that lingers there beneath his mouth, until he reaches your ear. “He said you’re hot as fuck.”
You laugh, and the sound is breathless, like he’d flustered you. Marc smirks and you lightly slap his chest. “I don’t believe for a second that the words hot as fuck came out of Steven’s mouth.”
“As you well shouldn’t,” Steven grumbles.
Marc rolls his eyes at both of you. “No, he’s gushing about how divine you are, but I can’t have him upstaging me today,” Marc says. “We both think you look stunning.”
You press your lips together, like you’re trying not to laugh. “Steven,” you say, turning to the mirror. “Thank you very much, sweetheart. I know you aren’t the vulgar one around here.”
“Bloody right I’m not. I missed you. You look so wonderful.”
Marc relays the message, making sure to emphasize they both thought you were gorgeous. “You both just think that because I’m wearing something you gave me,” you tease, trying to downplay their compliments for reasons Marc won’t make himself understand.
Marc loosens his fingers from between yours, touching the bare skin of your wrist instead, sliding his palm up the length of your arm. His heart contracts when you lean further into him, your arm circling his waist, your fingers briefly skating up and down the column of his spine in a soothing motion.
You step closer to him, one of your legs slotting between both of his, tilting your head up, fingers tangling into the back of his shirt. “Has nothing to do with that jacket, sweetheart,” he assures you, his lips only a hairsbreadth from yours.
Marc watches the flutter of your lashes, the way your breathing picks up as your eyes flick to his lips, and he remembers all the times he had to watch in agony as Steven hesitated in kissing you.
But he gets it now.
There was something to be said about savoring the way you looked right before, with your lips parted so prettily, the hitch of breath in your chest, the affection in your eyes.
He likes how he can feel the tremble of your breath against his skin.
Marc trails his fingers across the length of your shoulders, eyes darting over the swoop of your bottom lip, the webbing of your lashes around watchful eyes. He tilts his head over yours, skims one finger up the column of your throat before cradling your jaw in his hand.
You follow his touch, easily leaning your head into his hand before kissing his palm carefully.
When you look back at him, your breath a stutter against his wrist, he feels weightless.
Everything would always be okay, if only you kept looking at him like that.
You’re the one to lean in to kiss him when he can only stare at you, the press of your lips like velvet against his.
Marc kisses you back, wrapping his other arm around you to jerk you that much closer, to feel the full length of you against him. Your hand slides around to rest against his sternum, your skin warm through the fabric of his shirt, before drifting down, making his stomach contract and belly flutter pleasantly with nerves before your fingers dig into his ribs.
He’s so hungry for you, feels like he could devour you. Warmth darting down his spine when your lips part and your tongue slides lightly against his.
Marc turns you in one fluid motion, pressing you back into the sink to get that much closer to you, both hands cupping your face. You’re so close, so warm, and when you circle your fingers around his wrists to steady yourself, Marc never wants you to let go.
You pull back for a breath, gasping against his lips because there’s nowhere for you to go. But you don’t seem to mind, tucking your face against his neck where he feels you press a kiss to the underside of his jaw.
And he tilts his head up, because he wants you to do it again.
He’s rewarded with another press of your lips, the very soft give of your teeth against his throat.
God, he can’t believe he denied himself this, you, for a whole fucking year.
“Where are you taking me?” You ask quietly, tracing the vertebrae of his spine with the tips of your fingers again, the ghost of your mouth whispering against his skin.
“You’ll see,” he says, pulling back just a bit to look at you, to see what he does to you, how dazed and breathless you look.
How happy you seem.
You smile at him and he follows the path of your hand when you reach up to push back the errant curl that he could not get to lie back.
And of course, it stays in place as you trace your finger gingerly down his hairline to curl your fingers against the shell of his ear. “Should we go? Will we be late?”
“I’m actually really happy here,” he murmurs, tracing his thumb over the curve of your cheek, the faded scar that sits there.
“Happy, huh?” You inquire softly.
Yeah, he thinks, he’s so fucking happy.
And Marc feels so stupid, for making you wait, for making himself wait, all those months, a year, for him to realize that this was okay, that this was something he could have.
“I don’t like to say I told you so,” Steven boasts from a mirror he doesn’t turn to look into, “But I bloody well told you so, Marc.”
~
Keeping up with Marc took some adjusting to. Of course, he was different to Steven who was happier with books and solace and chatter in much the same ways you were.
Marc was busier, more active. He fidgeted constantly some days, but not in the nervous way Steven sometimes did. He talked less, saw much more and felt deeper than anyone gave him credit for.
Learning how he operated, how he thought, what the signals of his moods were, had been a process that you gladly undertook.
You want to know everything about Marc.
And while Steven simply told you the things you wanted to know, Marc was solid and quiet.
You learned through observing him. And the tension in his shoulders, the exact way his brow furrowed, the tilt of his mouth, told you more than his words ever would.
But Marc was gradually getting better at telling you things, making an effort to tell you things he’d otherwise lock inside himself.
The trust he shows you makes your heart ache, especially considering how long he’d taken to come to you at all.
You learned quickly that Marc was alert and cautious in public. Even when you were alone, even when no danger lurked, Marc was always sure to have a hand on you, either at the small of your back or locking his fingers with yours.
First and foremost, he was protective, like you could be snatched away at any given moment.
But Marc was also a romantic, though you would be loathe to get him to admit something like that.
You know Marc doesn’t consider the things he does romantic, but rather things that just should be done.
Like covering you with a blanket when you fell asleep on their couch, making you a cup of coffee before you woke, buying your favorite take out, picking up a book that he thought you would like despite never reading anything himself, complimenting you whenever he saw you, always opening doors for you, carrying your bag for you on your way home from the theater each night.
And where Steven chattered your ear off, Marc was okay with periods of silence, with stroking the back of your hand with his thumb, with occasionally pointing something out to you as you walked together, or listening.
Marc was similar to Steven in that way. He listened to every word you said, and he remembered the things you said.
He would bring you a cup of coffee without being asked from your favorite shop that you’d only mentioned to him once in passing. He remembered the brands of ingredients you used when cooking and rebought the same ones. He remembered the names of books you talked about, remembered the passages you read to him even when it was something he didn’t care about.
Marc cared about the things you mentioned, because they mattered to you, because they made up who you were.
His attentiveness was intense, his catalog of everything you extensive and precious to him.
Now, as you walk along a busy London street, you watch him from the corner of your eye, how his gaze never stopped moving and assessing, alert and vigilant to the point of paranoia.
You squeeze his hand and wonder where he’s taking you.
When Marc had asked you to go out with him on a date as you sat on their couch after a recital, Marc’s fingers massaging your calves when you’d put your feet in his lap, he had been weirdly formal about it.
This was clearly very important to him.
Maybe because it was the first time Marc had wanted to do something other than stay in the apartment together where things were safe and controllable. You think Marc considers this your first date together, and you weren’t about to contradict him though you adored all the time you spent together in the flat, though you were already together.
You were already his.
“What is it with the pair of you and secret dates?” You ask as Marc leads you down another street, this one much less crowded. The tension that had his shoulders hiked up around his ears bleeding away.
If you didn’t spend so much time watching Marc, you would have never noticed the difference, the change in him was so subtle. His fingers loosen on yours by a fraction too.
“It's more fun this way.”
“For me or you?”
“Both,” he tugs you into his side, looping his arm around your shoulders instead as you walk, leaning over to press his nose into your temple, kiss your cheek briefly. You think that’s all he’s going to say as you wind an arm behind him, digging your fingers into his side and leaning your head against his shoulder.
But to your surprise, he continues.
“I know you and Steven like to go to museums together. But that’s not really my thing. My first instinct was to take you to a Cubs game actually. But going to fucking Chicago for a date seemed a little much.” He tilts his head to the side, looking at you from the corner of his eye, “Not sure sports are something you’re into anyways.”
Something about it makes your heart swell, your throat tighten, because you know Marc is trying so hard. He’s trying to open up to you, he’s trying to be okay with being vulnerable with you.
You know it isn’t easy, that there are things he may never tell you about his past.
Even something as simple as telling you he wanted to take you to a baseball game took effort. Like you might find the idea repulsive and push him away.
Baseball, you mentally note. Baseball was important to Marc.
Maybe he’d played baseball as a kid, went to games with his father.
“I would love to go to a Cubs game with you someday, Marc,” you say. “I’m a dancer too, you know. I’m more than a nerdy bookworm.”
Marc actually laughs at that and you can’t help the smile that tugs at your mouth as you watch him.
“Yeah, but dance is a little more classy than baseball.”
“Who says I’m always classy?”
Marc smiles again, tilting his head down when you rest your chin against his shoulder, “Cubs are playing the Brewers in a couple days. We could watch it together.”
“I would love nothing more,” you say. “Though I might fall asleep. Time difference means it’ll be quite late.”
Marc’s thumb traces a path along the top of your shoulder. “Not like you don’t fall asleep on me all the time anyways.”
You lift your head and laugh, Marc looking a little bit startled before his gaze softens and he gives you a tight smile. “If your shoulder wasn’t so comfortable maybe I wouldn’t.”
“Could be worse I guess,” he muses. “Worse is you going home before you get the chance.”
A pleasant ache shakes through you at the longing in his voice. “If you want me to move in, Spector, just say that.”
“You wouldn’t believe how boring it gets when it's just me and Steven. Too many fucking books around for it to be exciting.”
You chuckle, imagining the protesting Steven must be doing as Marc turns to glance at his reflection in the windows you pass.
“Steven, baby, Marc is just jealous he couldn’t sit still if his life depended on it. You are anything but boring.”
Marc snorts and brings you to a stop outside of a building. “That’s not the insult you think it is.”
You just smile and squeeze his fingers when you take his hand again.
Marc tugs you along, up to the entrance of the building, through a lobby and past a front desk, to a stairwell in the back, the spiral of stairs leading down. “Are you going to kill me?” You ask, peering down into the darkness.
“I wouldn’t have brought you all the way here if I was going to do that,” Marc informs you, guiding you down the steps ahead of him.
You descend the stairs, a single door at the end which Marc reaches around you to open.
You look out onto a retro bowling alley. There are several open lanes of wam, dark wood. Low red leather couches around sturdy tables before each lane. The light is low and golden, casting shadows across the floorboards.
The roll and crash of bowling balls echoes against the wood paneled walls. “Oh wow,” you say. “I didn’t know there were bowling alleys like this still around!”
Marc, when you look back at him, has a lingering look of nervousness around him. “You like bowling?”
“I hate it actually, I think we should leave,” you snark.
“Ha ha,” he deadpans, the anxiety around him dispersing, his shoulders loosening, eyes softening. “You hungry or you want to bowl right away?”
You nod your head toward the bar, and Marc gestures you ahead, following closely behind you, his hand stretching out to take yours again and you fight the smile trying to capture your mouth.
~
You and Marc bowl a few rounds, and Marc wins every single one of them. But you think it wasn’t really fair, given Marc’s ‘being an avatar of an ancient god’ thing. He was bound to have a few tricks up his sleeve that you did not.
But you can’t be too upset because you discover that Marc turned lovestruck and soft when he had even a drop of alcohol in his veins.
He’d bought you a basket of fries to share, a whiskey neat for himself, and the beer you had asked for. He wasn’t anywhere close to drunk, not with his tolerance and only one drink in him.
But he was definitely warm, a little bit looser than usual.
He touched you more easily, was more willing to tell you what Steven was saying, more prone to laugh. You could crack a joke and get a smile in return instead of a teasing glare.
Marc had wrapped his arms around you when you were bowling, guided your arm back, showed you how to bowl a perfect strike.
But you really were shit when his hand wasn’t pressed over yours.
So maybe you bowled a little worse than usual on purpose.
Just so he’d show you again.
And show you he did, arms tight around you, the ghost of his lips against the side of your throat, the curve of your ear, while he whispered what to do. The low husky drawl of his voice sending pleasantly nervous waves through your veins.
You’d leaned back into his chest, felt the flutter of his breath against your cheek. And when you turned your head to meet his gaze, his eyes had been open and soft, not a trace of the guardedness you were used to lingering in his stare.
Now, you sit next to him on one of the low sofas. Marc had brought a pack of playing cards with him, clearly having planned for only a couple rounds of bowling. A second round of empty beer bottles sit on the table in front of you next to a half eaten soft pretzel.
You’re only half heartedly hiding the cards in your hands. You’d much rather be close to him when he was like this, like there was nothing in the world weighing on him.
You have one knee bent up into the space between you on the couch, the crest of your knee pressed into his thigh as you tap your other foot against his boot occasionally.
Marc’s free hand is on your thigh as he talks, telling you something about baseball that you pretend to understand. It was only fair, considering the amount of times you’d talked his ear off about something he neither cared about nor understood, but remembered nonetheless.
You’d have to buy a book about baseball soon, start keeping up with the games a little, so you could understand and contribute.
You ask the occasional question though, and Marc seems happy enough to explain - about batting statistics and league history and the worth of certain players.
You’re studying your cards and trying to decide which to play next when he abruptly stops talking.
You glance up, watching Marc’s brows knit together as he stares at you, the thumb he’s tracing along your thigh sliding to your knee and back again.
The low lighting casts his eyes in shadow, the circles beneath his eyes more pronounced. He still looks beautiful, like a renaissance painting come to life. But the way he’s looking at you makes your chest contract painfully, and you can’t imagine what he might be thinking about. “Marc? You okay?”
“Fine.”
But you see the tenderness in his eyes and know he’s thinking about something important, something hard. You lower your cards, shuffling them together and setting them aside before you reach out to touch his cheek, brushing the backs of your fingers along the line of his jaw. “You can tell me. If you want.”
He reaches up to take the hand you hold against his face, slotting your fingers between his to tug you close, until you’re hip to hip, until the leg you had folded between you was in his lap instead. “Thank you,” Marc says so earnestly that you can’t help but feel confused. He drops your knitted hands from his face to rest on your creased leg instead, his fingers spasming around yours.
If you didn’t know better, you would say he was nervous.
You watch him for a moment as he flutters his card together as well, carefully putting them down on the sofa’s armrest.
“For what?” You ask carefully.
“You didn’t have to - you didn’t have to give me a chance. You could have told me to fuck off a long time ago, and you didn’t. I know you weren’t waiting for me,” he sounds only a little bit self-deprecating when he says it, his eyes on your folded hands. “I know you only cared about Steven but -,” he falters and stops, like he always does, coming just short of saying the thing he really wanted to. “Fuck, I’m sorry.”
You stay quiet for a moment, letting him gather his thoughts, to see if he’ll continue.
When he doesn’t you tap one finger to the underside of his chin, “Hey, I kinda saw your cards earlier. I know I’m gonna win.”
He glances down at his stacked cards before glancing over at the table. You can see his face reflected in his empty glass. “Looks like I had you beat,” you say with a smile, reaching across him to take his cards and shuffle them together with your own. “What’s Steven saying?”
“He’s telling me to just fucking say it,” Marc grits out, eyes on your fingers.
“You don’t have to tell me,” you soothe. “Not now, not if you don’t want to.”
He takes a breath and with no small amount of effort continues, “This was just really important to me,” his voice is brittle and sharp but you know it's directed inward and not at you. “It's important to me that we get - that you get to have…everything. Something complete. Not just an extension of something you have with -”
He stops again and you can see Marc clamming up and closing off in real time, the way a shutter falls closed behind his eyes despite the warmth between you, despite the way his voice was like gravel, you know he wants to tell you these things.
“Hey,” you say gently. “It's important to me too. It’s important to me that you get that too.”
His brows lift at that, dark eyes tracking your hands when you wrap your fingers loosely around his wrist. “Yeah?”
“Of course, baby,” you say and watch his eyes flutter shut at the pet name on your lips. “Of course it is. Our first date and you planned it.”
He nods and looks back at you, his brows furrowed, finally meeting your eyes. “I did,” he confirms. “Scoped it out and everything.”
“First of many,” you chirp quietly, tracing the vein that runs against the back of his hand. “Tonight has been almost perfect, but I have one complaint.”
Marc’s brow ticks up, an amused smile you’re so relieved to see tugging at the corner of his mouth, “Yeah? And what’s that sweetheart?”
“Well,” you whisper, leaning forward conspiratorially, like you would tell him a great secret. “It would have been perfect had you let me win one round of bowling.”
“You want me to throw a game for you, baby?” His almost grin bleeds into a smirk. “Should have told me earlier, I would have thrown all of them for you.”
You try not to feel flustered at the way he calls you baby, at the rumble that was his voice. He sounded so pretty when he said things like that, when he called you baby and sweetheart.
You chuckle and lean forward to press your forehead against his, glad for the low lighting of the bowling alley. It makes you feel like you’re alone together, like it was okay to be so close and intimate. Like it was okay to have your heart fluttering pleasantly around the back of your throat.
“That’s typically something you just cotton onto, Spector,” you tell him, voice false with reprimand.
He touches your cheek, the slide of his fingers against your skin making you ache when his nose nudges yours and he finally dips his head to kiss you softly.
Marc tastes like the burn of whiskey, like a tang of copper, and something deeper - something like relief and hope.
“There’s still time. You wanna bowl again, sweetheart? So I can right this horrible wrong?”
You nod, “I’m not ready to go home yet.”
Marc’s hand drifts up your arm, his fingers so light against your skin you barely feel it. It sends a shiver up your spine, how tender he’s always been with you. The memory of Marc in the alleyway the night you got mugged springs to your mind, the careful way he’d lifted your hands, tipped a finger under your chin.
He’s shown you love in his own way from the moment he knew you.
The thought makes your chest tighten, makes you ache in a quiet way, makes regret burrow under your skin that you had not realized sooner.
Now, he cups his hand against the back of your neck, fingers calloused and warm against that delicate skin. You feel him squeeze gently, the breath punching out of your lungs at the sensation.
“Neither am I,” he returns, pulling you that much closer to connect your lips again, the kiss slow and soft.
You press a hand against his chest, feel the frantic beating of his heart beneath your touch, almost a nervous tremor, and you become aware of just how badly Marc wanted you, wanted everything between you to work out, how well he hid it because he was trying to keep pace with you and catch up with you while trying not to scare you off.
You pull back from him, raising a hand to hook at his elbow, gingerly stroking your thumb against the pilant flesh there, the edge of bone. “You know, Marc,” you start, making sure to duck your head and catch his gaze when he looks away from you. He preferred to look elsewhere when too many emotions welled up inside him, liked to stare at your hands instead, but you don’t let him. “Maybe I wasn’t exactly waiting for you. But you came to me in a totally different way than Steven did.” You pause and take a breath, “I love you, you know. I love you in a different way than I love Steven, but it's not in a way that’s less. I love you on your own. We can have all the firsts together that you want. I want them too.”
His thumb roams over the line of your jaw before he takes both your hands and pushes your touch gently away.
Your heart cracks, spiderwebs of pain crystallizing over your veins as he pats your fingers and then stands.
He clears his throat, one hand on his hip as he draws a hand over his face. Marc nods to himself, Steven clearly telling him something, before he leans over you one hand against the back of the sofa, the other on the armrest. You don’t pull away when he tips his head over yours, eyes searching your gaze for a long time before he finally kisses you again, the touch of his lips soft and slow against yours. The tight hurt eases just a bit, and you remind yourself that he was not pulling away from you, but that his emotions were too wild for him to continue in that moment.
Something made Marc afraid of being vulnerable, even with you, and you’d like to destroy that thing, to see it come crashing down.
Because he wanted to, he so clearly wanted to be open with you, but something always made him stop.
“Another beer?” He asks.
“Sure.”
“And you want to bowl again?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not going to let you win. You’ve gotta earn it,” he says earnestly, his voice light and joking suddenly.
Better than melancholy, better than self-hatred.
“Sure, Marc,” you nod, falsely seriously. “Of course.”
He bumps his nose against yours, his brown eyes so soft and warm it was like wading into the arms of the earth. “I mean it. I’m not going to let you win.”
Marc doesn’t win another round that night.
~
“That was a bloody awful film,” Steven says, dumping the remainder of your popcorn into a nearby bin.
He immediately reaches for your hand, tangling your fingers together as you laugh, his heart stuttering at the sound. “Horrible really,” he concludes, watching the way your eyes crinkle and your shoulders shake. “What’s the appeal in horror, then? Other than to be scared out of your wits over something that ain’t even real?”
You laugh again and reach over to tug on a lock of his hair, “I told you you should have just let me see it with Marc.”
Steven tugs you closer, tucking you against his side as you walk, the familiar warmth that you bring darting up his spine to settle hard in his chest. It’s a weight he’s delighted to bear, the pain of it well worth it. “Yeah, alright. But Marc gets you so often these days.”
“No he does not,” you roll your eyes playfully, turning your head to nudge your nose into the top of his shoulder. “You see me an equal amount.”
Steven glances into a storefront window, Marc silently watching you, a fond expression on his face. And Steven is so glad to see Marc looking softer, having stopped bloody torturing himself for no reason by denying himself the very pleasant sensation of your affection. Steven raises your hand to his lips, brushing a kiss to your knuckles as Marc says, “She definitely spends more time with you.”
Of course Marc would think that.
“Suppose you’re probably right, love. Marc claims I see you more often.”
“See, I always know best. It’s very equal.”
Steven goes soft with the affection blooming in his chest when he looks back to you, “Yeah, suppose you do.”
“We should have just went to the theater,” you chirp, tightening your fingers on his hand. “Could have seen a play.”
“Oh no, dear heart. You’re at that theater quite enough as it is.” Steven says, catching Marc’s anger in his chest like a physical thing at just the mention of the place.
Marc runs an irritated hand through his hair, “Tell her to quit.”
Steven ignores Marc’s acidity, and asks instead, “Would you like to stop for dinner before we head home?”
He’s also avoiding the subject of your dance company just a little bit. He knows it's a contentious issue between you and Marc at the moment, and that he has the easier position of never being the one to see you directly after your rehearsals.
Steven was never the one to wrap your ankles, massage your feet and calves, see the pain and fear in your eyes that you were not enough, that you weren’t good enough.
Not that he wouldn’t do those things for you but that Marc was insistent on being the one to do it, like the pain you carried was his personal burden to help shoulder, trying to protect you from dance and Steven from witnessing your pain.
Marc was a bleeding martyr about nearly everything, and it was only endearing half the time.
“Don’t you dare ignore me, Steven. Tell her to quit that fucking job. It’s killing her,” Marc snarls at him. “She thinks she isn’t good. It's making her hate herself.”
You swallow thickly and your smile is strained when you meet his eyes, your thumb running soothingly across the back of his hand. “Sorry. Shouldn’t have mentioned the theater. I can practically hear Marc.” You pause, “I’m just not their favorite, and that’s okay. I’m looking for something new anyways.”
Marc settles a little at that, huffing out a breath, and Steven rolls his eyes at his headmate.
The problem was the nepotism the company was riddled with, and all three of you knew it. But something in you so hated to quit, like if you could just practice hard enough, you would be enough in a company that wanted you to play second fiddle to a person who was far less talented.
You were similar to Marc and Steven in that way, incredibly hard headed when it pleased you.
But it was slowly draining you, physically and mentally.
“And tell Marc not to worry,” you say in the tone of someone long suffering the same argument. “I know what I’m doing.”
Marc snorts derisively, and Steven is so glad you can’t hear him. “We support you, darling. We’re just worried,” he decides to say instead, because even though Marc liked to hiss and demand, he would never make you do something you didn’t want to.
“Is Marc upset with me?” You voice is small and you clench Steven’s fingers, the soft lock of them between his grounding. “I’m not ready to give up yet.”
“Of course not, dear heart. He’s just being a right arse because he cares.”
Marc doesn’t comment on that, viciously silent.
“I’m not mad,” his voice clips out after a few minutes of you and Steven walking in silence. “Just can’t see her hurt.”
Steven relays the message to you, relief flooding him when you smile and turn to the nearest reflective surface. “You don’t have to be so mean when you care, Marc.”
“Sorry, baby,” and Marc does look properly chastised, the intense gaze he always sported burning holes into you, peering at you from beneath slanted brows.
Steven rolls his eyes at the dramatics. “He says he’s so very sorry for upsetting you, darling.”
You smile, “You two are always lying about what the other is saying.”
“We enhance each other, love,” Steven says, making you smile wider, nose scrunching in a way that makes him want to kiss you. “He did apologize.”
“I know,” you say, squeezing his hand. “Neither of you have to worry.”
But they did, so much the emotion chokes Steven, and makes him wonder if it was at all normal to love someone as much as he loves you.
~
There are two, and then, one day, there are three.
You stare at the fish tank as you kick off your shoes by the front door of the flat, watching three fish, and not two, circle each other.
The third fish matched Gus and Guy in size, swimming along like he’d always been there, slightly less orange in color than the other two. You tilt your head and approach the tank, watching them swim along happily. “Hello there,” you say. “Where on earth did you come from?” The new fish bobs by your nose, while Gus and Guy continue their slow dance on the other side of the tank. “Cute. Guess we’ll have to have a town hall about your name so Marc doesn’t feel left out again.”
You smile at the memory of Marc’s indignation, that he grumbled about how stupid fish names were but that he was so loathe to be left out of anything. He wanted to be involved, you’ve found, but that would not stop him from grumbling about it.
You wonder for a moment if Steven and Marc bought this one for you, but something about it doesn’t feel right. The last you had all talked about it, it had been agreed that two fish were more than enough.
Steven would have told you about it anyways, probably would have made you come along to the pet shop to pick him out. Steven probably would have also insisted on something new for the tank, but only all the usual fare is there, no new pyramids or sphinxes.
Marc on the other hand - Marc did not care enough about the fish to go out of his way to pick up another one, and certainly not without consulting you and Steven when he knew how important the fish were to both of you.
The fish were mainly Steven’s hobby and responsibility besides, and when Marc was fronting you often had to leave notes and reminders to feed the fish so that another one-finned wonder situation did not occur.
“So, where did you come from then?” You ask the new fish, who hovers near the glass by your face.
You turn away from the tank, perplexed by the sudden appearance of the third fish.
The flat is eerily quiet, a strange energy making you jumpy and alert, finding it odd that Steven hasn’t come to you yet. He usually greeted you at the door. Maybe he wasn’t in the flat at all.
You check your watch, like knowing the time might make Steven suddenly appear.
You had plans to go to his favorite bookstore together, which he never missed.
“Steven?” You call out. “You here?” No one answers, the floorboards creaking forebodingly beneath your feet. “Marc?” You call, your voice slightly quieter.
“Not exactly,” a voice says. The accent is American, the timber exactly the same as Marc and Steven’s. You peer around the fishtank, moving toward the bed on the other side of the room when a figure steps out of the bathroom.
“Hey, sweetheart,” you halt, and stare, your breathing picking up in a slight panic.
Although the accent is American, it's distinct from Marc’s - more New York than Midwest.
It’s the body you know, its Steven and Marc’s body, but the person staring at you is neither of them.
You blink, eyes flicking quickly over him.
He stands like Marc does, with shoulders back and spine straight, but softer somehow, loose, like he was entirely comfortable in his skin. Marc was too tense to ever look at ease, and Steven was always slightly hunched, hands held up in front of his chest.
“Hello,” you say, dropping your bag to the floor, trying not to panic that there was apparently a third alter you did not know about. “I don’t think we’ve met.”
He moves closer to you, steps slow and sure, until he passes you by and stops beside the kitchen table. He pulls out a chair and nods for you to sit down, his hands on either side of the chairback.
You hesitate.
This is not a person you know.
There was no predicting his behavior, or what he wanted from you. With Marc, you had felt you’d known him from the stories Steven told you, from his presence always with you and Steven.
You did not have that benefit with this person.
“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he says, the drawl of his accent rounding his words. “Come here.”
You step toward him, something about him making you want to trust him as you slowly approach to sit down in the chair that he’s offering to you. He hovers behind you for a moment after you sit down, hands still on the back of the chair. You crane your head to look back at him.
His eyes are fathomless. The warm brown that you know so well, was so dark it was almost black. He doesn’t look away from you, like he could see right inside of you. It wasn’t like Marc’s stare, like he was trying to figure you out, but more like he already knew everything about you and was only waiting for you to catch on.
You glance away, look down at the wood of the familiar kitchen table.
There’s a brief pressure over your shoulders and the back of your neck, his touch slipping away as quickly as it had come.
He rounds the table and sits down across from you, tilting his head as he continues to observe you.
You wait, assuming he has something he’d like to say to you, that there was a reason he’d chosen to front and to speak to you now.
“Those two got real lucky with you, didn’t they?” he asks suddenly. “They’re both walking disasters. Think you would’ve run for the hills.”
You smile at him, showing teeth, leaning forward, “Easy there, those are my boys you’re talking about.”
“Don’t I know it. Got ‘em wrapped around your little finger,” he snorts, leaning back in his chair to cross his arms over his chest.
“Do you know me?” You ask, watching the crinkle of his nose when the corner of his mouth twitches, teeth gleaming.
He nods, “I sure do.” His eyes flick over you again before he looks away.
You figure that he must have fronted right before you came into the flat, that he was planning this and wanted to speak to you. He’s dressed as Steven would be, with a funky printed button-up and his hair parted to the side.
It makes your heart ache to think of Steven getting ready, only to blackout. You can only assume he’s experiencing what he once did with Marc. Worry bubbles in you at Marc and Steven having to go through that, and Steven enduring it for the second time - fearful for their sanity.
“Can they hear me?”
“They’re asleep.”
Fuck.
You nod and try to keep calm. “Okay. And they don’t know about you?”
You aren’t sure what would be worse. The prospect that Steven and Marc had an alter they aren’t aware of, or that they were aware and never trusted you enough to tell you about him.
“No,” he says, alleviating a little of the tightness in your chest, leaning forward again suddenly, legs spread wide, forearms braced on the table. “And you won’t tell them either.”
“Why not?”
“It's better they don’t know. I can protect ‘em better. Which brings me to my point,” his eyes are locked on yours, a dangerous energy swirling around him as he leans further forward. “For better or worse, you’re essential to ‘em now.”
You don’t have time to ponder what that means, because he reaches forward and takes your hand in his, his touch calloused and familiar, and yet completely new. The sensation of his fingers over yours is so shocking it makes your head swim. “So, you might see me from time to time. To protect them, I gotta protect you now. Understand?”
“Not really, no,” you admit.
He makes a frustrated sound, but his fingers are gentle against your skin, his blazing black gaze holding you perfectly still, a rabbit caught in a trap. “If something happens to ya, they crumble. They can’t crumble ‘cause then I crumble. You’re a fuckin’ liability, understand?”
You nod, even though you aren’t sure what he’s talking about. “Are you the one bruising them up then?” You slide your thumb along the discolored skin of his knuckles, the new purple and blue bruises against the warm brown of his skin.
“Only occasionally,” he says. “Only when I gotta.”
“What’s your name?”
He hesitates, the hard wall in his eyes shaking just a little, the pitch black depths softening just a fraction. “Jake.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Jake.”
He doesn’t seem to like you being familiar with him, doesn’t seem to like hearing you say his name. Jake pulls his hands out of yours. “You too, princess.”
You bite back a smile, the pet name both condescending and endearing.
“Don’t call me that, Jake,” you tell him, watching irritation spread over his face, the clench of his jaw making a muscle jump in his cheek. “How do I explain the third fish? If you don’t want them to know about you? Little on the nose isn’t it, three fish, one tank?”
He rolls his eyes, “Don’t think I don’t know about your metaphor theory.” You lift an eyebrow at that, that he was a fly on the wall in Steven and Marc’s lives but they were completely unaware of him. “Can be our secret. Our fish. For now.”
“Steven is going to be upset with me for getting one without him,” you warn. “I hate seeing Steven upset. And Marc will be suspicious about it. He knows I wouldn’t do that without Steven.”
Jake rolls his eyes, “Don’t gotta be so dramatic about it. They’ll get over it.”
“Jake,” you say, watching him freeze again at the sound of his own name. You wonder if anyone has ever used his name. “They would welcome you, you know.”
His lip twitches, “Ah. Now I see why they like you. You’ve got brains. Able to get to the heart of the thing so fast, huh?”
You don’t reply, just watch him watch you, watch how he folds his arms and smiles at you.
Despite the energy he radiates, chaotic and wild and slightly dangerous, you aren’t afraid of him, you feel safe.
You feel safe with Jake, whoever he was.
To protect them, I gotta protect you now.
“We’ll keep this between us for now, mi vida,” he says. “Fish and all. Consider it a gift.”
The Spanish that curls off his tongue surprises you, but you don’t have time to respond because in the blink of an eye, Jake was gone and Steven was there.
“Oh, hello, love,” he springs up to walk around the table to you. “So odd, I don’t remember you coming in. Are you ready to go?”
The sudden difference makes your head swim, Steven’s sweet buoyancy contrasted sharply with the still dispersing air of danger that had accompanied Jake.
You wonder at Jake for a moment, having spent so long coming to terms with Marc’s past as a hardened mercenary.
Jake’s energy was wild and dangerous but not dark, not frightening. And you know, without a doubt, he would burn the world down to keep the system safe, to make the hard decisions to stay safe and preserve the system that Marc’s self sacrificial nature couldn’t.
And now, apparently, that little orbit, that little world, included you.
You were integral to their internal life.
It makes your head spin, it makes the world tilt.
You wish you could tell them, how important they were to you too, that in a very different way you would cease to exist without them too.
You stand and throw your arms around Steven who has been chattering at you, waffling on about something he’d read yesterday, some book he wanted to pick up today because of it. “Oh, hello there, love. You alright?” He immediately wraps his arms around you.
“Yeah,” you whisper before pulling back. You touch his cheek, tracing the length of his cheekbone. “I - Steven, I just love you. I love you so very much. I hope you know that.”
Steven softens, his shoulders going loose, like little paper hearts might start drifting around his head as his cheeks pink just a little. “I quite love you too. Very much.”
~
You don’t see Jake for weeks after that first time. You don’t see him for so long that you start to wonder if the whole thing had been a bizarre stress dream.
Explaining the fish to Marc and Steven went about as well as you expected. Marc with false exasperation, secretly happy to have a fish for you, and Steven with a bit of hurt that you’d not included him in helping bring the fish home.
Jake remains aloof and gone and the bruises on Steven and Marc’s skin disappear. You take that as a good sign, that Jake had no reason to front, no reason to protect the system from something.
The day you decide to quit your dance company, after a bad fall at a rehearsal and a sprain to your ankle, and being told that even when you recovered your spot would not be given back to you, you decide to make matzo ball soup - another of Marc’s childhood favorites, a comfort food that had inadvertently become yours as well.
Though he hasn’t yet told you, and Steven has only hinted, there was a before and after in Marc’s childhood that he did not want to think or talk about. There were little bits of good though - and a lot of them were food related, so naturally it became a priority to learn how to make those foods.
Marc often helped you, correcting and adding where the recipes you found missed things that he considered essential.
The day you quit your dance company, you turn Marc’s shirt into a tissue with the amount of tears you shed onto it. You know it makes him nervous, that intense negative emotions made something inside him skittish with fear, but it was a testament to his drive to communicate with you, not to shut down or shut you down, that he stays with you instead of letting Steven comfort you.
Marc was the one to suggest the soup making operation, when you realized you were out of both onions and celery.
He smooths his thumbs over your cheeks when he cradles your face, even though you’d stopped crying a few minutes ago. “I’ll be right back. You should sit down while I’m gone. Keep the weight off your ankle.”
You can tell that he doesn’t want to leave you, not while you were emotionally unstable, his shirt still very much wet with your tears, worried about the state of your ankle.
“I’m fine, Marc,” you sniffle a little, to which Marc raises a brow. “I’ll be fine. I will be.”
He nods and reluctantly pulls away, giving you a lingering kiss before heading out with your keys clutched in his palm, crescent moon keychain swinging from his fist.
You stubbornly don’t take his advice, standing at the kitchen counter to chop the carrots and mince the garlic while he’s gone. And even though your ankle is smarting with an aching pain, a new pain on top of the usual strain, you don’t move.
It wasn’t like you would ever dance again, not with a company and not on your own.
That part of your life, you decide with a vicious swing of the knife, is over.
Marc was back in less than ten minutes, boots thumping down before he crossed the kitchen to you.
But the person who returned was not Marc.
You know it's Jake, the second you turn and see his eyes.
You don’t mean to, but an exasperated sigh leaves you.
Trust Jake to show up now.
He hesitates when he hears you sigh, brows quirking up, but you don’t say anything. He plops the onions and celery you had asked for onto the counter. Something flickers over his face, so quickly it's gone before you can identify it. Something akin to hurt. “Y’know, I like matzo ball soup too.”
Wonderful, you think.
Shame immediately follows the sarcastic thought. Jake was a part of the system, a part of Steven and Marc, you should try to welcome him, but after the day you’ve had, all you want is the familiarity of Steven and Marc. All you want is to be able to curl into them and wallow.
Pain shoots up your spine and swallows your heart, and you take a shaky breath.
“You okay?”
You swallow the lump in your throat. “Fine.” Jake’s dark eyes follow you as you take the celery and onions, beginning to rinse the celery in the sink. “Thanks for bringing this stuff. I appreciate it.”
Dance has been such a big part of your identity for so long, you feel like you’re mourning yourself, like part of you was gone and a crater left in its place.
Jake was still watching you, and when you put too much pressure on your left side and your ankle gives out, he’s there, catching an arm around your waist.
“Yeah you seem okay,” he digs at you. “Top notch.”
You shake your head and pull away from his touch. “I’m okay,” you insist. You move back to the cutting board to continue chopping when a bouquet of flowers are carefully laid next to your ingredients.
You pause and turn your head, watching Jake watch you. “I noticed neither of ‘em ever get you flowers. Pretty girl like you should get flowers.”
You bite your lip and try not to cry, reaching out to touch one of the delicate blooms. They were a bunch of your favorite flowers and you can tell he stopped at one of the proper flower stalls, instead of getting cheap ones from the grocery shop. They’re bundled beautifully, wrapped in newspaper and tied with twine.
“My favorite flower. How’d you know?”
“I listen.”
Your throat closes, tears nearly breaking from your eyes again as you take a trembling breath. “I quit today. I don’t think I’ll ever dance again.”
Jake moves closer to you, his head tilted close to yours. “Fuck ‘em. You were too fuckin’ good for them,” his eyes blaze with a sudden heat, so scorching it almost burns.
You sniffle and pick up the flowers. “Thank you, Jake.”
“Want me to kill someone?”
You have no doubt suddenly that if you said yes, he would. “No, that’s quite alright. Might be for the best anyways, my ankles and knees are nearly destroyed. I was going to have to retire early no matter what happened.”
“You don’t gotta work for them to dance,” he says, his voice strangely gentle. “Hell, have Steven move some of this shit and you can dance here.”
“That’s true, I suppose,” you say, stepping around Jake to grab a glass jar to fill with water before carefully dropping the flowers in. But you know, you know that you will never dance again, today had broken your heart too badly. “Thank you again.”
He nods, and you notice that his hands are hovering, have been hovering, near your waist, like he was anxious your weak ankle might betray you again. It makes embarrassment shuffle up your veins. You wonder what Jake thinks of you, of Marc and Steven, for falling in love with someone so weak. “My offer stands. Just give me the word,” Jake insists. “Anytime. Don’t gotta be murder. Tragic accident maybe, fell down the steps of the theater and broke a leg.”
You snort at that and turn, finding Jake very close to you, that wild chaotic energy radiating off him in waves. Even though they occupy the same body, Jake seemed to produce more heat. He feels hot, his skin so very close to yours. “Not the other dancer,” you muse.
Jake steps into your bubble, pins you down with a gaze you can’t decipher, his hands going to the counter on either side of you, bracketing you in against him. Black, impenetrable eyes dart over your face. “Course not. Not her fault and wouldn’t change a fuckin’ thing. Gotta go for the boss. Director, maybe.”
While Marc’s brows were always lowered over his eyes, furrowed in concentration and Steven’s always tilted up, his eyes rounded and wide, Jake was something else entirely. His gaze was open, he didn’t try to hide anything.
But deciphering what laid in those dark depths took more understanding of the man in front of you than you currently possessed. “Right. Like a director or something.”
Jake looks considering for a moment, his jaw clenching.
You reach up and touch the hinge of his jaw, not sure what possesses you to do so. But talking about inflicting bodily harm on the institution you so hated somehow made you feel just a bit better. “Thank you, Jake.”
“Lockley,” he says.
“What?”
“Jake Lockley.”
“Jake Lockley,” you repeat. “Thank you very much. For the flowers and checking in. I hadn’t seen you for a while.”
He sniffs and moves back from you suddenly. “Wasn’t checking in. Just thought you should get flowers once in a while.” Before you can answer he asks, “You want your boys back?”
You nod, “Yeah.”
Jake stares at you for a moment, muttering something under his breath in Spanish that sounds suspiciously like curses, like a muttered prayer, before Marc blinks at you, brows lowering, posture tensing.
“Thank you for bringing me flowers, baby,” you say to him, so he wasn’t confused, so he doesn’t panic at waking in the middle of a conversation.
But you hope Jake hears you, you hope he knows what it means to you.
~
Jake brings you flowers a lot after that, insists that he needs to do it because Marc and Steven don’t.
You can never predict when he’ll show, or in what condition.
But gradually, you get used to him, to the brash way he did everything, to the random curses and torrents of Spanish, to his requests that you make him something that he liked to eat.
Food was something you connected with Marc over, books something you and Steven shared. And you were starting to get the distinct impression that Jake was jealous, that he wanted something special with you.
You take it all with a grain of salt.
Jake was a terrible flirt, a wild ball of energy that needed more than whatever he was constantly looking for.
But you do wake up one morning to a news story - a curious accident, that one of the directors, the father of your rival, had fallen down the front steps of the theater and broken his leg.
Jake never mentions it to you, but you know what happened.
You also see the photos and know the man more than fell down some steps - nose broken, lip split.
One night while you’re waiting for Steven to call you, your fingers aching as you clench Khonshu’s blanket tight around you, Jake waltzes through your flat’s door, spattered with blood, a bunch of flowers grasped in his fist.
“Lockley,” you sigh and stand, taking the flowers from him. “You’re going to drive me crazy.”
He responds to you in rapid fire Spanish, following you through the flat to the bathroom. He doesn’t stop chattering at you as you push him down onto the closed toilet seat, and take up the first aid kit.
“You know I don’t understand a word you’re saying,” you snipe at him.
“Maybe you should learn Spanish then, sweetheart.”
You roll your eyes and examine his hands, the scratches that score his arms, the bruise on his cheek. “Can’t you summon the suit to help you heal?”
“Why would I do something like that, cariño?”
“Why wouldn’t you?”
You and Jake bicker the most, but it's a pleasant bickering, like the friendly snap of conversation. Where Steven was sensitive and Marc shut down with anger, Jake seemed to enjoy it. He liked poking your buttons, and you know he likes when you roll your eyes and snap something sarcastic back at him. You know he enjoys it when you give into him and let him be snarky without consequence.
“So that you heal?” You prompt when he doesn’t answer.
Jake reaches out and gingerly tips your chin up with a curled finger from where you’re crouched on the floor in front of him. “Nah, having a pretty girl patch me up is much better.”
“Pretty, huh?”
“Sí,” he says and leaves it at that.
You clean and patch his injuries with a gentle hand, not meeting his eyes until you have to stand and wipe away the blood stained on the bridge of his nose. He captures your wrists and holds you close.
“You are so fuckin’ pretty, mi vida. I ever tell you that?”
You ignore his flirting, the way his eyes widen and trace over the planes of your face. “What does that mean? Mi vida?”
“Lotta things. Darling, sweetheart, honey, love. Means my life too.”
You soften, leaning into Jake carefully, feeling him wrap an arm around your hips. “Oh?”
“You’re my girl.”
It’s not the first time he’s said it and it won’t be the last - the sentiment with no definition, no meaning.
Steven had come to you slowly, over months, done everything right, asked you on dates and kissed you at the right time. Marc had denied himself your love, was prickly and unused to affection.
Jake simply tells you what you are.
But it's something that cannot happen. It’s a thought you won’t entertain.
“Is that so?”
He’s such a flirt, such a wild and chaotic and dangerous energy - that you aren’t ever sure of when he’s being genuine, of when he’s fucking with you. You aren’t sure if it's a joke, or if he just likes to see you flustered.
“Better go tell your other girlfriends then,” you quip, leaning out of his grip.
He frowns at you, head tilting to the side like he might be able to figure you out if he just looked at you from the right angle. “You are. You’re my only girl.”
“Right,” you say, shooing his hands away from you so you can clean up the medical supplies.
With Marc, things had been different, falling in love with him had been different because Steven’s approval had been so explicit.
You don’t have that now, Marc and Steven were completely in the dark, and so Jake’s touch feels a bit too intimate sometimes, a bit too close and complicated, and you don’t like the feelings that come with it.
But it also causes a rift of pain to shatter your veins, when you watch his gaze close off, his posture change with the rejection, like he really did feel something for you, like you were breaking his heart over and over again.
It’s not a joke.
He wants you, but you don’t know why.
You want him, and you do know why.
And both things are problems you don’t want to deal with.
~
Jake fell in love with you a long time ago.
He knows it, he’s known it for so long.
Problem was Marc and Steven.
They didn’t know about him, and they probably never should, so he can do his job, so he can take care of them, take care of the fuckers that would hurt them.
But you complicate things.
Because you’re a part of their world, their microcosm in the universe.
And Jake can’t have anything happen to you, not because it would break Marc and Steven, though that’s a part of it, but because it would shatter him too.
He’s been a fly on the wall in their lives for long enough to know he wants you too.
And fuck, he tries.
He tries real hard with you.
Flirts with you and fights for you and complimented you and brought you flowers.
And you brushed him off, you were snippy with him where you were kind to Marc and Steven.
And he guesses they are something to you, while he’s nothing, but he expected you to warm up to him over time.
And you haven’t.
You love Marc and Steven the same, that much is obvious. But you loved them in different ways, treated them differently because they required different handling.
Jake never expected you to love him like them, not even a little, and certainly not as much as them. But he expected you to eventually like him, to be able to tolerate him.
He feels a terrible anger inside himself sometimes, that he can’t seem to make you understand that he genuinely cared about you, that his whole world revolved around you, much to Khonshu’s distaste.
But you seem adverse to ever figuring it out - you pass off everything he does as meaningless flirting. He thinks you know about the time he asked one of Steven’s colleagues out - you’re smart and now that you know about him there’s no way you believe Steven or Marc did that.
It had been a pathetically failed attempt to get Steven away from you before you broke his heart - like you’d ever fucking do that.
Jake knew better now, knew you’d loved Steven first so genuine and true from that very first day that it hurt to see.
The day he decides to finally talk to Marc and Steven, was when he realized you were sad.
You were not yourself. You hadn’t been for a long time, not since you quit dancing.
You didn’t read anymore, you avoided Steven’s flat, you were totally apathetic toward your new job even though it was a library gig you should enjoy, your ankle was killing you but you no longer let Marc help you with it.
And then comes the day that you forget your beloved jacket on the arm of the couch, and a panic bites through Jake that he can’t ignore.
You were never without that fucking jacket, not since Marc and Steven gave it to you.
You were pulling away from them, from everything.
And the other two seemed entirely oblivious to it.
So he pushes down the fear that he carried around inside him, the reason he never let them know he was there, that he was the silent, wrathful alter, and that his headmates would want nothing to do with him, and forces his way to the front of their minds.
You were more important than the fear.
And Jake had never been one to back down.
He curses at them in Spanish, the confusion that radiates from Marc and Steven satisfying to him in a vicious way as he forces control of the body, turning to stare at their reflection for the first time in the mirror across the room. “She’s fucking depressed, you morons. She misses dancing and she’s never going to say it.”
Without explaining anything further, he starts moving the furniture, shoving over piles of books with a reckless abandon.
He can fix this, he can help you.
Explaining himself to his alters as he worked was somehow easy, explaining himself and his relationship to you, his love for you and how you did not return it. Explaining that you’d respected his wishes for them not to know about Jake, was easy.
Marc was more than pissed, but Steven understood and Marc always took the moral lead from Steven anyways.
“Fuck you, Lockley,” Marc snarls at him.
Yeah, he’d probably have to get used to that sentiment.
~
You’re surprised by Marc and Steven’s insistence that you come all the way back to their flat to get your jacket that same night, the texts blotting out all other notifications.
Honestly, you’re surprised you didn’t notice you forgot the jacket. You hadn’t really felt the cold until you realized it wasn’t there.
You walk back to their place instead of taking a cab, even though you know Marc will be irritated with you for doing so. And when you walk down the hall to their flat, you can hear one-sided bickering before you even open the door.
The scene that greets you, shocks you.
All of the flat’s furniture and books and piles of things, knick knacks and old texts and notebooks, have been pushed to one side of the room. And for a moment all you can do is mourn the hours you spent, mainly with Steven, trying to create a system of organization for it all.
You sigh and when you turn you’re surprised to find Jake looking back at you.
You blink and then look at the flat again, anger twisting up your veins. “Jake,” you bite out. “I - I - How am I supposed to explain this to them? What did you do? Why did you do this? Steven is going to hate me -,”
“I told them about me.”
You pause, brows knitting together as you look back at him, at the tilt of his head. “What?”
He mutters something in Spanish, so low you only catch a mumble, before he stalks forward and tugs you through the door, closing it gently behind you. “I told ‘em about me, mi vida.”
“Why -,”
But Jake’s gaze is drifting toward the mirror, focus lost, clearly not used to having to pay attention to the chatter of his alters.
“Jake,” you snap. “Why did you destroy the flat? Why would you do something like this? Did I do something to upset you -,”
“I didn’t - it’s not - fuck, you really believe the worst in me, huh?” Jake runs a hand through his hair. “It's a dance floor. It’s so you can fuckin’ - it’s so you can dance again ‘casue I’m tired of watching you be so fuckin’ sad.”
His dark gaze is fractured, like he’s trying and failing to tell you something, something much deeper than dance and furniture.
“Oh,” you falter, still confused. “Oh. Okay and -,”
“Y’know,” he says, curling his fingers through yours. “I’m not exactly being subtle.”
“About what?”
He pulls you a bit closer but you resist him a little, Marc and Steven were surely watching, looking at you too. “That I love you, mi vida. I told you that you’re my girl but you’re determined to be so fuckin’ hard headed about it.”
You can only stare at him, panic starting to spike in your veins. “I need to talk to one of them, Jake,” you say urgently. “Now.”
You watch his gaze go dark, the hopeful pull of his brow gone. He sighs and steps back, “Yeah I knew you didn’t feel the same. ‘S ok. We can forget it.”
“Jake,” you demand, “Let me talk to one of them.”
Jake nods, glancing down, his nose scrunching as he sniffs and cups a hand over his chin. “Fuck. Fuck. Yeah, thought so,” he mumbles.
Before you can respond, his shoulders soften, his mouth relaxes, and Steven’s wide brown eyes are looking at you.
“Oh, love,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around you as you break, tears siphoning down your cheeks. “You’ve been so very brave.” He strokes your shoulders carefully, his hand slipping down your spine. “Why didn’t you say anything to us? ‘Bout being upset.”
“I’m fine,” you croak, “So fine.”
“You aren’t though, darling. And this Jake character? Keeping so many secrets these days.”
And even though you know he’s joking, it still makes guilt race through your veins.
Your bottom lip quivers, “Steven, I’m so sorry.”
“Whatever for?”
“I think I love him,” you whisper. “I think I love him.”
He shushes you gently, “We know. He told us. You think Marc and I are upset with you? That another part of us fell in love with you? And you with him? Never. You deserve every bit of love. Jake told us all about the last couple months and some of the time before that. Look what he’s done for you - brings you flowers all the time, realized something was wrong before either of us, ruined my bloody flat, pushed that horrible man down some stairs - which I don’t agree with, yeah? But if it's already been done then we’re glad-,”
Steven’s eyes roll back and Jake was staring at you again, and you frown at the way he’s forcibly fronted. “You shouldn’t do that to them. You’ll have to get along -,”
“You love me.”
“Jake -,”
“I told you that you were my girl.”
“Jake,” you say urgently. “Will you dance with me?”
He snorts but his breathing was wild, like he was about to run a race or just finished one, you can’t decide which. His gaze was wild and intense, laced with tension and the unknown.
“Fuck, yeah, sweetheart, I’ll dance with ya.” It’s the softest you’ve ever heard his voice, like if he moved too suddenly or spoke too loud, you would flee.
You grip his hand in yours and let him tug you close, trusting that Marc and Steven were okay with this. “They’re okay,” Jake murmurs, pulling you tight against him. “You’re okay.”
“Are you sure?”
“You think now he knows about me Marc wouldn’t front to keep you away from me?” Jake twirls you, much lighter on his feet than the other two, dancing to music you can’t hear. “Nah, they’re okay, mi vida.”
You nod, and let yourself rest against him, protesting only a little Jake takes some of your weight so your ankle isn’t as strained.
His breathing has settled again, his head tilted over yours, eyes like pitch watching you closely.
“Thank you,” you say when tears strain that back of your throat again. “I missed this. I missed dancing. It’s not the same, obviously, but maybe it's better.”
“I - we’ll dance with ya every night,” Jake promises. “Gotta keep our girl happy.”
You wonder at how quickly Jake had been accepted, but you think part of them always knew Jake was there. The blackouts that left people dead besides, all the times recently where they’d woken in the middle of a conversation with you.
And you remember your own words.
They would welcome you, you know.
Maybe it had been that simple.
Jake’s demanding eyes seek yours. “Don’t gotta talk to me. Maybe Steven is better suited. But you aren’t alone. Not with us. You miss dance. We can help with the ankle. Just gotta ask.”
You smile at how easy he’s slipped into using we.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. And don’t ever forget that fuckin’ jacket again. It’s bulletproof. And it's you.”
You nod, sliding a hand up his arm as he murmurs to himself in Spanish, eyes roving over you as you make a slow circle around the room. “Jake,” you say, because you know how he likes to hear his own name, a name you’re so sure hasn’t been uttered to him by anyone but maybe Khonshu. “Kiss me.”
He smirks at you and says, “Aw, baby, now you know you got me, you wanna use me up -,”
And you’re so glad to have that sharp snappish voice back, the endearing, playful flirting that you kiss him. It was so much better than Jake being panicked and unsure, so unlike himself.
You slide a hand across his shoulders, cup your fingers against the back of his neck to card through his hair and kiss him hard.
He pulls back when you’re gasping for air against his lips, smiling so big that it becomes hard to continue.
“Tell your boys to shut up,” he says, forehead pressed to yours, breath a hoarse rasp against your lips.
“Why? What are they saying?”
Jake’s intense eyes flick open to meet yours. “I’m not used to the noise, not used to hearing them. But they say - they’re saying everything feels complete now. Steven is happy. Marc a little less so.”
You have a feeling you know exactly what they mean, like a final piece had snapped into place.
“And you?”
“Yeah. Feels that way to me too.”