TATAKAE

In your flat just outside London Town, in the dead of night, you awoke to a weird noise.

It was the city; it could have been any number of things, so the noise didn’t necessarily alarm you in and of itself. The thing that got you was something eerie in the atmosphere.

So you stayed still, listened, and then crept to your door to get a better gauge on what was going on in the hallway that held both of the bedrooms.

You heard… footsteps.

On any other night you would’ve assumed it was your roommate, Steven and Marc, but there was more than one set, and they were trying too hard to be quiet. The second you took a step back from the door, there was a loud splintering crash and the whoosh of the air pressure changing drastically. Someone kicked in the door of your pitch-black room. The edge of the wood barely missed your body as it careened by and slammed into the wall.

You gasped and turned away on instinct but a masked figure burst in and grabbed you around the waist. Fighting hard, kicking and screaming as you much as you could with a gloved hand clamped over your mouth, you hit and punched and clawed at anything on him you could reach. He gave grunts of pain but was big and strong enough to subdue your arms while still carrying you out of the room.

Over your own noise you heard the commotion of Steven waking up. There was no doubt he'd be immediately surrendering control to Marc. You heard fighting, and then your attention was taken by being dropped in a painful heap on a bare patch of hardwood floor in the main living area.

A fist tangled in your hair and pulled you to you kneel, your back shoved against your attacker’s leg to force your neck back. You cried out when you caught the glint of a knife in his free hand making its way towards your skin. Closing your eyes, all you could do was pray Steven and Marc wouldn’t self-destruct from guilt.

Please, was your last though, don't let them blame themselves.

A full year ago, the four of you had gone back and forth for weeks, you and Layla against Steven and Marc, convincing them that living with someone who knew them (really knew them) was a good idea. They were entirely unwilling to put anyone else in any danger, but you’d been stubborn. Besides, you were equipped to deal with it.

Mostly.

You’d even landed Steven a job with you at the Smithsonian - somewhere he could really shine - that was Layla’s idea. This whole thing was Layla’s idea, in fact. You'd been getting into sticky situations together since your university years… you'd always joked that you'd get each other into too much trouble one day.

You hoped your death wouldn't consume her with guilt either. It was the final thing you hoped before you felt the impact.

Again, you fell forward into a heap on the floor. There was no pain. You wondered if you were in shock and bleeding out, but the sight of an obviously dead attacker across the room and the sound of a scuffle behind you made you think twice. You scurried out of the way as Marc, with deadly precision, fought the man whom had nearly just taken your life.

After a flurry of limbs and fists, Marc succeeded in taking the man down to his knees before slotting behind him to lock an arm around his thick neck.

“What are you doing here, you piece of dog shit?!” He growled.

Your heart stopped in your chest and you felt like you’d been dunked underwater. Maybe you were in shock and your hearing wasn’t working, or your brain wasn’t working.

Because that wasn’t Marc’s voice.

It was American, like Marc, but less… standard. More Boston. More north-east, like a New Yorker or-

“TELL ME!” He bellowed in the attacker’s ear. The man opened his mouth to speak, to breathe, but the elbow against his windpipe would not allow it. Instead, he yanked up his sleeve to reveal a scale crudely scarred against his skin, as if it had been carved there in some sick branding.

The man in charge scoffed and whispered something you couldn’t understand.

"Rezaría por tu alma pero a los dioses no les importa."

As your attacker lost consciousness, the person in control finally looked up and locked eyes with you. It was startling, to look into his face and not recognise him.

“Who are you?” You demanded hoarsely.

This new man, this unknown person, looked at you with something severe in his eye. He dropped his sneer for a mere second, looking over you with a flash of relief, and then was stoic again. With his arm still around the now-unconscious attacker's neck, he met your eye and said:

“I’m the guy who finishes the job.”

He tightened and twisted his arm, and the attacker was dead before his body hit the floor.

The clunk of the limp corpse made you gasp and fill with a weird type of melancholy. It was you or him, you knew that, but a life just ended before your eyes and that wasn’t something to be taken lightly.

You looked back up at your saviour and found his eyes were still on you. You sat in silence for several moments before he shifted his stare to glance at the two bodies on the floor. He sighed and then scratched the back of his head. Turning back to you, he said “Get back to your room. I’ll take care of the mess.”

“Th-they’re people,” you argued unexpectedly, not really sure why you were defending them. “They’re not a mess. They’re people.”

“They were people who meant to kill us all,” he glowered, standing to his full height and squaring his shoulders. “Now go. So I can do what needs to be done.”

“Where’s Steven?”

“He’ll be back in the morning,” he said. It sounded like he had far too much understanding of how the arrangement worked, considering he wasn’t exactly a part of it. “He doesn’t need to know about this.”

“He’ll know."

He shook his head. “Not unless you tell him.” He knelt and began shoving his hands around the attacker’s pockets. “And since I saved your life, how about you do me the solid of keepin’ this between us.”

You didn’t want to. You really didn’t want to hide this from your roommates. Though, that nagging feeling in your gut said if you didn’t establish the smallest amount of trust with this person right away, you likely wouldn’t get another chance. And you had questions, for him, so you nodded in agreement. “What do I call you?”

He closed his fists around the jacket of the body closest to you and began dragging it away, avoiding your eye and ignoring your question. Asking again felt like pushing it, so you stood and went back to your room without another word.

You didn’t sleep another second that night.

When the sunrise became more obvious, you left your room with the expressed mission of scoping out of the state of the living area. And making coffee. You switched the kettle on to let the water boil and took a hesitant step into the room which held cozy couches, a large rug covering dark hardwood floors, a TV, several bookshelves, a fish tank and way too many knick knacks. Everything was in its place. If not for the way your scalp still held the dull ache of being hauled up by your hair, you could’ve easily convinced yourself it’d all been an awful nightmare.

No blood. No broken furniture. No dead bodies piled in the corner.

Steven would be awake soon and you’d have to pretend like everything was fine. It was Saturday. He’d probably suggest going to the farmer’s market and you’d say yes because he’d been into cooking lately and it had been nice for him to have something to take his mind off everything that'd ever happened to him. Also, something to feel like a normal person. He was actually getting pretty good.

Layla wasn’t due back from her current dig for three more weeks, and Marc really only wanted the body when she was home. Which wasn’t often, but still often enough to make it work.

Which meant a few more weeks of Steven, his homemade fettuccine, his company at work, his movie nights, and… his deeply suppressed co-alter who’d just revealed himself to you for the first time.

“Steven! Do you want some tea?”

“No thanks, love!” He called from the other room.

You got to work making your own, starting with opening the cupboard just above the kettle. You selected a random ceramic mug, a white one with blue polka dots, closed the door, and that’s when you saw it. The vile creature sitting presumptuously on the wall. Before you could stop yourself, your instincts forced out a blood curdling scream.

The mug shattered on the floor next to your sock-clad feet. You jumped back and clutched your racing heart, panting and scolding yourself for your overreaction. Suddenly remembering Steven was in the next room, you started to call out to let him know what had happened. When you turned to do so, you let out another small scream when you were met with Marc thundering into the room, a gun in his outstretched hand. Steven wouldn’t carry a gun, but he would certainly let Marc take over if there was perceived danger.

“Marc, it’s fine,” you breathed, holding up a hand. You then sheepishly admitted: “I’m sorry, it was just a cockroach.”

He looked at you for several moments and then lowered the gun. Your face fell in recognition. Or, lack-thereof.

Marc would’ve laughed in relief.

Marc would’ve made this into a joke.

This wasn’t-

“You’re not-”

“No. I’m not,” he scoffed and placed the gun on the kitchen counter. He leaned over it, gripping the sides of the smooth granite. He looked at you with something serious in his eye. “They care about you, ya know?”

You nodded.

He shook his head. “No, you don’t get it," he pointed an accusing finger for a few moments. "They worry you’re gonna get dragged into all this bullshit and get hurt. I can feel it. When they think you’re in danger their fried little minds get all riled up and-…” He sighed again, a little impatiently. Clearly he’d felt like he told you too much already.

You wrapped your sweater-clad arms around yourself and bit your lip, looking at the ground. “I don’t need protecting.”

He let our a few dry chuckles before tucking the gun into the back of his belt. “Yeah, well… trying telling them that.”

He stood up straight and walked over to the counter, tearing off a piece of paper towel on his way. When you saw he was advancing on the cockroach, which hadn’t moved despite the commotion, you reached out in an honest reflex and touched his arm to stop him. “Hey, you don’t-”

You were silenced by his flinch at the gentle contact. You removed your hand immediately and mumbled some kind of apology before stuffing your hand back against your arm.

He mellowed, again just for a moment, to say what may be his mantra for moments of comfort and purpose:

“Jake Lockley finishes the job.”

In this context, it was almost like a joke. You didn’t have time to wonder whether you should crack a smile before you had to consciously ignore the awful squelch of him squishing the bug in the paper towel. In order to have something to do, you got to your knees against the tile and began gathering the bigger pieces of the broken mug. Once he’d tossed the dead roach in the trash he grabbed the brush and dustpan from under the sink and passed it to you.

You cleaned the floor in silence, wondering how to make him tell you more.

“I didn’t tell them about last month,” you said, gliding the brush against the linoleum. “But they know someone else is there. They don’t know your name.”

“That’s how it should be.”

“But you know theirs.”

“Khonshu told me.”

You looked up and hardened your glare. “Don’t bullshit me.”

You stood and discarded the remnants of the mug before placing the pan back under the sink. You met Jake’s eyes and folded your arms again. He was silent, stoic, and unmovable.

“How do you take the body?”

He scoffed, then tilted his head with a smirk. “I’ll see you around, sweetheart.”

“No, don’t-”

The body lurched with Jake’s forceful resignation of control. The new commander stumbled against the counter and looked up at you, frazzled. Steven.

“You alright, yeah?” He stood up and dusted off the crewneck sweater he'd put on that morning. He looked confused. “What happened?”

Not knowing whether or not Jake could see you, but not willing to compromise any small amount of trust he might have in you, you told Steven, “There was a bug. I freaked out. It forced a change, apparently.”

He eyed you skeptically, nervously. You’d never been a good liar, even though it was a partial truth. Steven opened his mouth, maybe to question you, but you’d turned on your heel and walked out of the kitchen, cup of tea forgotten.

Jake Lockley.

The name replayed in your head as you brushed your teeth and settled down to sleep. It replayed like the vaguely apologetic look he’d given you when you touched him unexpectedly and he’d flinched away. Your heart felt heavier in your chest when you remembered his reaction. Because you knew what it meant.

He was rarely touched with kindness.

An argument could be made that it was unethical to try bringing Jake back. Yet, here you were with your mind made up.

Based on your experiences with Jake and your knowledge of Steven and Marc, you had to assume that the two familiar men were, subconsciously yet intentionally, surrendering the body. They had to be. Marc couldn’t take it from Steven without consent and vice versa.

Maybe Jake was different.

Or maybe, just maybe, in those split seconds between Marc or Steven registering a danger that felt beyond their scope, their subconscious minds called out for someone capable. Someone to finish the job.

Or maybe Jake was truly in control.

You didn’t know, but you felt like Jake knew, and you wanted answers. Still, it felt unethical to be plotting how to invoke such distress in someone. Telling yourself it was a minor infringement on their psyche, you decided that innocently scaring Steven might be within the scope of “acceptable.”

You’d never been one for horror movies but Midsommar got rave reviews. A new cult classic, said the critics, and not to be missed. The plot, the cinematography, the wardrobe and acting were all top-tier and totally worth the scary stuff. At least, that’s what you told Steven on a Friday night after you both got home from work and he asked if you wanted to watch a film.

“That wasn’t exactly what I had in mind,” he admitted sheepishly, then tried to respectfully disagree. “What about a comedy, or-or if you want something darker I think there’s a great new historical film that’s just come out, we could go to the cinema and-and…” he trailed off when you raised your eyebrows at him.

“Have you never watched a horror film?”

“I don’t exactly see the enjoyment of bein’ scared out my mind,” he scoffed, but he was cracking. He gave you a pleading look but saw that your resolve wasn’t moving. So he sighed and moved to the stove to make some popcorn, wordlessly agreeing. You gave him a quick squeezing hug from behind, which seemed to make it all worth it to him (for now) and then ran off to find the film on a steaming service.

You were fairly sure Steven hated every second he watched.

Sitting on opposite ends of the three-seater, you thought Steven might bite his own finger off given how much he was grimacing against it. He yelped at almost every jump scare and muttered choice words under his breath at some of the more gruesome scenes. Just as you felt some guilt nagging at you, seeing that he’d barely touched the popcorn and was pulling his knees up to his chest, arguably the worst scene of them all happened.

Instead of screaming, Steven flinched hard and hid his face in one of his hands. Then, his erratic breathing went still and he slowly removed the hand from his eyes.

“You okay?” You asked calmly.

Truth be told, your heart was racing. Did it work?

His eyes scanned the room, scanned the scene on the TV and then flicked to you. His arm slid along the back cushion to rest comfortably, his hand now almost at your shoulder. He turned in confrontation and gave you a serious look, but not one with any malice behind it.

“Now why’d you gotta do a thing like that?”

That upper east accent made your heart beat faster. Some weird part of you wasn’t quite sure why but you were sure you’d overanalyse it later.

Instead of making a big deal out of it, you took and handful of the popcorn in the bowl on your lap. “Steven couldn’t handle it, huh?” You looked at him innocently, then held the bowl out to him. He ignored it, keeping you locked in his stare once you’d dared to meet it.

Jake chuckled once or twice then rolled his eyes to look away.

“Malo. I’m bringin’ him back.”

You set the popcorn bowl down so it was touching his leg. He looked back to you and you shrugged, looking down at the bowl as you took some more popcorn in your hand, “There’s still an hour left.”

“So?”

“So I thought Jake Lockley finished the job.”

You’d said it with your eyes back on the screen, watching another terrifying scene unfold. Putting piece after piece of popcorn slowly in your mouth, your handful depleted yet you could still feel his eyes on you.

Just as you were sure he was going to tell you off, swear at you or just leave without a word, he picked up a few pieces of popcorn and turned towards the screen.

Heart beating harder again, you held back a smile and shared your popcorn with him until it was gone. Your hands only collided once. He flinched when it happened. You didn’t give any indication that it bothered you, even though it did.

Once the credits started rolling you took your hand away from where it was propping up the side of your head and then turned to Jake. “Scary,” was all you commented. You’d probably have nightmares, since you were prone to that kind of thing, but he didn’t need to know that.

He gave you a wary look, and then shook his head and chuckled through his nose.

You turned more towards him. “What? Why are you laughing?”

“I’ve never been tricked into a date before.”

Your cheeks burned. “This isn’t a date.”

He raised his eyebrows and teased, “No?”

“No!”

“But you got me here on purpose.”

“Yeah, but-”

“To watch a movie with you.”

“To talk,” you said, jutting your chin with a stern look. He met your eye for a few seconds and then laughed once or twice. He shook his head.

“Loco.”

“You’re one of them, it’s not-”

“I am not…” the sudden gruffness in his voice caught you off-guard. He finished his sentence slowly, so you’d take in every word. “… like them.” He looked you dead in the eye and you could tell he meant it. “I’m not. You don’t know who you’re talkin’ to.”

“Then tell me,” you challenged. “What does “finishing the job” usually entail? What are you doing for Khonshu?”

“They’re not supposed to know about what I do.”

“Why can’t they?”

“Dammit!” He slapped the back of the couch, startling you. His fingers dug into the cushion and he leaned in closer, olive skin now burning with a tint of rage. “You think they can handle the things I do?! It would destroy them. That’s why I exist. What, you couldn’t figure that out?” His eyes glazed over with something desperate and erratic and ashamed.

Your jaw clenched and you refused to break eye contact.

You refused to back down.

You refused to be afraid of him, to validate the way he felt like a monster.

It was hard, looking at him without showing all the pain you could feel. Without showing him the heartache of a surface-level understanding of his self-worth. You let a curt breath out through your nose.

“You deserve a life too.”

He scoffed, sat back and then looked to the rolling credits. “The things you saw on that screen are nothing compared to what I’ve done.”

“You don’t strike me as a cold-blooded killer.”

“What d’you know?” He snapped, turning back to you. Your mouth went a little dry at his cool demeanour but you swallowed your pride and reminded yourself that of course he’d try to shove you away. “No sabes nada,” he all but growled.

So you smiled, tight-lipped, wryly. “I know a hell of a lot more than you’d think.” You stood, picking up the popcorn bowl. “So do they,” you added. “They know Khonshu made a bad-faith promise.” You moved to leave, to test the limits of his drive to protect by forcing him to ask you to elaborate if that’s what he wanted. Just as you were two steps away from the kitchen, he called out.

“How?”

You turned and raised an eyebrow.

“How do they know?” He asked, eyes now on the place where you once sat.

Steven had told you about the habit of the sand around the bed and you’d agreed it was okay to continue, but clearly both Marc and Jake had dodged that before. Hidden cameras would’ve been a good idea but they may have been detected and disposed of by any dormant alter who’d had more control than they’d realised. And they knew there was someone else.

Sure, Steven and Marc could now grant each other a degree of privacy but that’s because it was intentional. It had taken work, to figure out the balance between their control. Their foundation of trust is what made it possible, but it also made them susceptible; because they didn’t always have to be on their guard to keep the other from jumping in the driver’s seat, their metaphorical doors had been unlocked.

It didn’t take long to realise they had someone taking advantage of the open-door policy.

“Some mornings they wake up sore and exhausted, and they talk to each other,” you said simply. Jake sighed and rubbed his temples in one hand. “You might be careful to avoid any injuries but underneath those suits that body is human. It needs rest. The nights you take control it’s… it’s obvious the next morning.”

You walked into the kitchen, wondering if he’d follow you. Wondering if he’d call out again. Now that you’d given him an answer maybe he’d come searching for more. There was no way he was ready for camaraderie Steven and Marc could offer, but maybe he could talk to someone who might understand. Or, at least, want to understand.

After dumping the kernels into the rubbish bin and moving to wash the bowl you, heard footsteps approach. You turned to see him walking into the room, still with a hand against the side of his head. He looked at you with something wary, but it was softer than Jake.

“That is the last time I let you choose a film,” Steven’s indignant voice rang throughout the kitchen. You scoffed and looked at the floor. “Oh well, I’m terribly sorry to disappoint but I bloody passed out at that cliff scene now, didn’t I?” Something stormy had clearly fallen across your face because Steven immediately back-peddled. "No, love, I didn't mean to-"

"I'm sorry," you tried to smile. "I shouldn't have pushed it."

But you didn't mean it, and there was something more behind the way you wouldn't meet his eye. You heard Steven look around, then look at the time, and you felt your mouth go a little dry.

What were you thinking?

Steven took a step forward, prompting you to face him. Still, it was hard to meet his eye.

"It's been an hour," he looked hurt and confused. "What happened?" When you didn't verbally respond, and only looked away, he got more concerned. "What, did Marc take over? Did he say something to you? Did something happen?”

You bit the side of your tongue and shook your head but Steven had wasted no time in walking past you to rip open the curtain which covered the window. Night had fallen, and his reflection was noticeable. He held up a scolding finger and talked to it.

“Right, I’ve no bloody idea what you’ve gone and done but we had a deal you and I, didn’t we? And-… what am I talking about? Oh that is rich. Rich, Marc! You can’t-”

“Steven.” You tried interrupting but he wouldn’t have it; protectors, the lot of them.

“-just jump in and out of the body whenever you like. This doesn’t work if we don’t have ground rules so-… don’t lie to me…” Steven’s face fell into realisation as he listened to, what you assumed to be, Marc’s fervent declaration of innocence. “… What?”

Your eyes fell and you said, no louder than a breath, “Steven…”

He turned to you. “The... the other?”

Regretfully, you nodded.

“No, no no no,” Steven’s eyes filled with fear and he stepped towards where you stood, hands meeting the sides of your arms, then your cheeks, behind your neck to make you look at him.

You half-heartedly pushed at him and sniffed, “He didn’t hurt me, Steven.”

“What did he do to you?” He demanded. His eyebrows scrunched in worry, his mouth agape in a perpetual wince. “Marc, yeah? Should I get Marc?”

“No, don't get Marc, he’s not-”

Steven flinched, and some of that worry turned rugged and robust. “Hey,” Marc’s low voice said, trying to soothe, not understanding why you were upset. “Tell me what happened.” He, again, began checking over you for injuries.

"I'm fine."

“I swear if he put his hands on you-” When he tilted your chin up to inspect your neck for signs of bruises, you snapped.

“STOP IT!” You jutted your chin out of his grasp and shoved at Marc’s chest with a grunt, infuriated that no one was fucking listening. He stepped away, worry and confusion painted across his features. You felt hot, angry tears brim in your eyes.

Marc’s jaw set and he turned toward the window. “Come face us, you slimy bastard.”

“Marc!” You stepped forward and grabbed his shoulder. “Stop it, Marc. Both of you. He’s not some psychopath!” He shook off your grip and kept threatening the unknown soul behind the reflection.

“You’re not welcome in this body, especially not in this house, do you understand me?!” His voice had raised to a near-yell but by the sustained nature of his demeanour, you could tell Jake hadn’t made an appearance. Marc suddenly turned to you. “How many times have you met him? What has he told you?”

“Three times, including tonight,” you said honestly, ignoring his other question. Marc searched your features for any sign of hidden truths, and he probably found some, but something made him not press you on it. “He’s not evil,” your voice broke and the tears spilled over. “The first time we met he saved my life. Yours too. He only asked me to keep it a secret because he didn’t want you to freak out.” Another tear spilled down your cheek, and that was probably the reason he didn’t press you on it.

Marc dropped his aggressive stance and let out a tense breath, “Hey, let’s just-”

“He’s not a threat,” you said with finality, turning towards the sink to end the conversation by beginning to clean the bowl. "If you're here you may as well call Layla," you sniffed, making it clear you were done talking to him. "I heard from her yesterday. She'll have service for the next two days or so. The number to her new work phone is on the coffee table."

You turned the tap on and rinsed the bowl, not wavering when you heard Marc sigh next to you. You'd made it clear that you were unwilling to divulge anything else, and Marc had known you long enough to know he'd be fighting a losing battle. You and Layla were friends for a reason, and it wasn't because you were opposites.

So he left to call his wife.

Once he was gone, you looked at your own reflection in that window. The fresh tears that'd filled your eyes didn't spill over. Instead, they were blinked back with a single quiet sniff. Before your mind could fill with memories of witnessing Marc or Steven have an argument with their reflection, or perhaps a funny verbal spar you were only privy to one side of, you reached up and forcefully closed the curtain.

Steven was back the next morning.

Marc hadn't pushed the subject when he came back for the two weeks Layla was back in London on a break from the dig in Syria. It helped that he was barely around, and that when he was around Layla was with him.

He'd obviously told her something because she started saying cryptic things about Khonshu and Marc disappearing in the middle of the night.

"You've never beat around the bush before, Layla. Don't start now," you'd told her. She'd laughed and shrugged.

"What's going on with you?" She asked, an earnest desire to understand behind her fiery brown eyes. "Why are you protecting this other alter?"

You didn't know for sure, but the only thing you could think of was "Someone has to."

Three weeks after Layla had gone back to Al-Suwayda, you still hadn't seen Jake again. Which was bittersweet, considering it meant you hadn't been in enough perceived danger to strike anxiety through Steven's core. What's more, the subject of your rendezvous with the unsung soul in the body had been entirely dropped.

Some nights you’d lie awake and listen through the walls, waiting for a sign that Jake had awoken to do Khonshu’s bidding. Nothing came. Not while you were alert, anyway.

Doing nothing felt wrong but you didn’t know what to do. You couldn’t just forget about him. Though given your last interaction with Jake, you didn't think another gruesome feature film was the best idea; he probably wouldn't appreciate you forcing him up from the depths.

Then, entirely too early one morning, your subconscious cried out for a saviour.

Deep down, some part of you knew it was all a dream. That didn’t make it any less horrific, nor any less traumatic, when your slumbering mind conjured the terrifying images for you to experience in your dream state .

Harrow’s people. Kicking doors in, flipping tables, destroying artefacts, setting fires as they went. They got a hold of Steven. Sweet, docile Steven. You could tangibly feel the fear in him as they lifted the blade. You screamed when they drove it through his chest. They drove it in again, and you screamed again. Someone was holding you back. He was going to die alone. Not entirely alone, but they’d all be gone. Helpless together.

You tried to break free but all you could do was scream until the very real sound of a door being thrown open broke through your dream state and brought you sitting up in bed.

Tears blurred your vision and you choked out a sob or two before clamping a hand over your mouth. Someone was here. One of them. They watched for a few moments as you clutched your chest and hung your head in embarrassment.

"I'm sorry, Marc,” you choked out, noticing the gun he was brandishing. Steven would never. "Sorry. It was just a stupid nightmare. I didn't mean to wake you up. I didn't..." You choked on a pant again and coughed once or twice.

He stood in silence. You heard the safety of a gun click to reengage. You lifted your head and looked him dead in the eyes. The look was more severe than Marc. You felt more tears well up.

"I'm sorry, Jake.”

“It’s alright.”

"I don’t want to keep scaring them so badly," you admitted in a whisper. You made to move out of the bed, to make some practical steps to leave their lives, because it was so early and your frazzled mind wasn’t really working right. "Maybe I shouldn't be here anymore. Maybe it's not good for them- I'm not good for them." You were rambling.

Jake moved in a few swift steps to stand between you and your easiest route out of the sheets. In a surprising move, his hand met your shoulder to stop you from doing something out of an unfounded fear.

"Deténgase."

His voice was low and strong as always. A single shrug let him know you didn't understand Spanish. He sighed, and translated: “Stop. Look at me,” he slipped his fingers under one side of your jaw to prompt you to look up. You shook off his hand and kept your gaze downward. He didn't need to see your tears. "What happened?"

"I told you," you mumbled. "Stupid nightmare.”

"'Bout what?"

You wiped the tear stains with the back of your hand and shrugged bitterly. "Harrow's people."

"They're gone."

"I know," you nodded and looked up with apology in your stare. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean-"

"Stop apologising," he said, then lowered the tension in his shoulders. He gestured around weakly with his gun-free hand. "It’s alright. You know that, don't you?”

Only then did you realise his earlier sentiment was meant to comfort you. The first it’s alright wasn’t him accepting your apology, but him saying you were safe here. So you nodded again.

He nodded back and exhaled slowly, “Good. Now go back to sleep."

Even though still domineering, his voice was softer around the edges, much more than you'd ever heard. It would be easy to mistake it as annoyance or disappointment but something in his demeanour only showed relief. Exhaustion, too; it was three in the morning and he was just catapulted into a body that was probably smack in the centre of its sleep cycle.

Either way, you didn't feel like fighting a losing battle. So you slipped your legs back under the sheets, cleared your throat of the final nerves, and attempted to lay down as naturally as possible to somehow convince him you were fine to be left alone.

Instead, he turned and took a seat in the plush dark green armchair that sat in the corner of your room, just eight or so feet from your bed. He rested the side of his gun against the top of his thigh. His finger was still on the trigger.

"You don't need t-"

"Jake Lockley finishes the job."

His eyes stayed fixed on the door. He left no room for debate.

You watched his body language for a few seconds. You took in his posture. He seemed shaken, but now prepared. Through your limited interactions with this person you knew there was no arguing. Jake Lockley would finish the job, even if that job was merely making sure you felt safe enough to go back to sleep.

Logically, you knew there was no one waiting to burst through your door. Selfishly, his presence soothed that nagging part of you that doubted your logic.

So Jake sat there, stare and barrel trained on the door, and he didn't say another word.

Perhaps more easily than you thought you would, you slipped back under sleep's spell.

When you awoke the next day, you wondered if that entire thing had been a multi-layered dream. Some kind of hyperrealistic inception that for some reason brought you to Jake. But Steven was complaining about the bad sleep he got. It must've been bad, he said, because he felt like he only slept for a couple hours. And his neck was stiff.

Almost like he’d slept sitting up.

"I swear it's in one of these blasted boxes," Steven mumbled as you two searched around. It had been nearly half and hour of head-scratching, nose-crinkling confusion that was slowly mounting into exasperation.

"You're not wrong," you sighed, glancing around the rows and rows of shelves and boxes that held the catalogued minor artefacts and samples found at dig sites over the years. You clicked the pen shut against your clipboard and dropped your hands to your side, clutching the stack of papers in defeat. "Some intern must've put it in the wrong place."

"I suppose we'll need to check through every box."

"Not necessarily," you furrowed your brow in thought. Then, a lightbulb moment. "Come with me," you said, turning on your heel and making your way towards a side room. Your keycard let you into the smaller, dingier storage room which was far less organised than the great storage warehouse.

"Blimey."

"Yeah," you breathed out and ducked your head, knowing what he must be thinking. "It's a tip."

"Who knows what's hiding in here?" He walked past you and into the space. The ceilings weren't nearly as high as the towering warehouse, but still about two dozen feet from floor to ceiling. The room was about thirty feet wide and forty-or-so feet long, every wall lined with cluttered shelves of boxes (some opened, some closed), a forgotten mug here or there (which would most definitely be growing something cursed), and another wide row of shelves straight down the middle.

You shut the door with your heel, without looking at it, and took in that familiar sound of the loud air conditioning unit in the far corner. "This room isn’t temperature controlled so it's become a dumping ground for anything barely salvageable," you explained, walking past Steven. "It's also private. Hardly opened. Very little foot traffic." You turned and gave him a knowing glance. His eyes widened and a blush graced his upper cheeks but he tried to seem cool about it. After all, Steven Grant wasn't usually one to think about workplace rendezvous. He was far too interested in the work itself.

"Oh," was all he said. Adorably bashful, you'd have to admit.

You digressed. "But the Miller-Kayes dig in Utah had obscene amounts of periphery material brought back. Most of it is in here, and most of what's in here is from that dig," you took another deep breath in and out, then gave him an apologetic look. "We have to find it."

"Right," he rolled up his metaphorical sleeves. "Where should we start?"

You suggested starting on opposite ends, meeting in the middle at the back and then scanning either side of the central shelf in tandem. He agreed, and you got to work.

You wouldn't call it groundbreaking or fascinating work, but you also wouldn't call it boring. Not when Steven would exclaim in a child-like wonder every ten or fifteen minutes because he was so infatuated with everything he was seeing. Sometimes he'd call out and tell you what he was so excited about, and sometimes that would turn into a lesson, and then a conversation. No, it certainly wasn't the worst day of work you'd had.

It was taking a lot longer than you'd anticipated though, and about the time you'd reached the halfway mark of the shelves on the perimeter, you started longing for lunch. Steven agreed.

"Just one more box," you called, halfway up the ladder. Steven emerged from around the corner to see where you were at, wiping his dusty hands on a dubious rag you definitely wouldn't have trusted.

Your hands closed around the plastic container and pulled it towards you. However, you didn't anticipate it to be as light as it was. Having spent the past several hours pulling on boxes that far outmatched your strength, you entirely overcompensated.

You gasped as your body was propelled backwards by the momentum of your pull. The large box flew past your head and ripped through your fingers, while your other gentle grasp on the ladder was pulled away from force.

You were falling backwards, sure to land hard and painfully against the concrete floor that lay ten feet below. With a sharp intake of breath, you braced to be badly hurt. Instead, you landed less than gracefully in Steven's arms. Your arms immediately looped around his neck as he made a minor adjustment to keep you from tumbling further, hiking you just a little higher into his arms.

"Steven," you gasped out, resting your head against his shoulder for a second in pure relief before pulling back to look him dead in the eyes. "The things this body is capable of, huh?" You laughed nervously. "My hero," you smiled cheekily, letting it grow into a grin. Steven cracked a small, awkward half-smile.

But it was different than the way Steven smiled, and Marc would've declared himself your saviour. Steven's heart would be wildly racing, he'd be asking you if you were okay, even though he'd saved you from certain serious injury. Marc would've cracked some joking comment that had the weight of someone concerned behind it. But he just smiled, and then looked away when it felt like too much to be so close to you.

Jake placed your feet gently on the floor, and you unwrapped your arms from around his shoulders.

"Sorry," you chuckled, taking a step back, rubbing your arm in a self-soothing motion and looking at your feet on the solid ground.

"What, you're sorry to see me?" He teased.

Wait, he... teased? You furrowed your brow for a second and then look up to see him looking more unsteady than you'd ever seen. You thought of some cute quip to say back, but thought he needed to hear the truth:

"Never."

That seemed to catch him off guard. Especially since you'd said it so sincerely. He opened then closed his mouth, and then gave you a suspicious glance. Sensing you may have made it too much, you picked up your clipboard and turned to the box that'd been forced open by its fall. "Even though last time, you know, you kinda creeped on me while I was sleeping."

"Gracioso," he chuckled once. "You slept soundly with me close by."

That comment, mixed with the low timbre of his voice, sent a swell of flustered butterflies through your stomach and a strike of desire coursing through your chest. Thank goodness he couldn't see your face.

You gave him more honesty, while still ignoring that comment until you could figure out how to respond to it. "You've only ever kept me safe." You crouched by the cracked plastic container and then looked up at him with a wry smile. "Even from the clutches of a multi-legged insect," you grinned and then examined the contents of the box.

He walked over, wordlessly. You stood, after you'd surmounted it was a box full of trash someone was too lazy to throw away, and turned to find him an arm's length away. His gaze was penetrating, but also honest and, for the first time, a little vulnerable. Your lips parted at the intensity of his brown-eyed stare. He looked back and forth between your eyes and for a second you thought he might-

"Why?" He asked.

"Why what?" You turned to place the clipboard on the ladder, then turned back and met his gaze again. It was hard to not want to, considering how long it'd been since someone looked at you the way he did. It was hard to explain.

"That. All that," he gestured to you and you fought a smile. "Why are you tryin'… all of that."

You raised an eyebrow. It was nice seeing him so uncharacteristically cautious. "All of what?"

"To be… you know, nice."

"Jake," you laughed, a little sadly. "I'm just treating you like a person is supposed to be treated."

He searched your features desperately wanting to believe you. He looked for any sign of malice or manipulation. He looked for the tell that you were playing him, or just trying to figure him out so Marc and Steven could cut him off from the body. At least, that's what you assumed he was looking for.

From instinct, from being around this body, you reached out to place a comforting hand on his arm. Jake flinched and his eyes shut for a second, so you stopped your hand mid-air. Your heart sank, because you knew it wasn't personal. When someone reacted the way he did, they'd been taught to fear an initiated touch.

The thought reminded you of the first time Marc and Layla told you about Steven.

You'd been there for Layla when Marc had disappeared off the face of the earth. You'd held her through it, as much as someone like her would allow herself to be held. It would've been impossible to not explain where he'd been, what had happened, and the reality of his mental health when he’d returned.

Marc was careful, and not too open, when he explained that Steven existed because he needed to escape their mother, who violently blamed him for the accidental death of his little brother. His mind decisively split open to protect him from the times she'd thunder up the stairs with whiskey on her breath and false retribution beneath her nails.

For the first time, now remembering back in the kitchen when Jake recoiled at your hand, you considered the possibility that Marc wasn't the one protecting Steven.

Maybe it wasn't Marc who was bearing the undeserved punishment for that fateful accident.

Maybe it was Jake, who was being told over and over again that he deserved it. Every lash telling him he was a monster, every venomous word from her mouth reminding him that he should never feel anything good in this life.

Maybe Jake bore it all so they wouldn't have to.

Here and now, you gave him a level look and said, ”You’re not unworthy of kindness.”

Jake winced and shook his head, taking a step back and scrunching his eyes in a grimace. You'd crossed a line.

"I'm sorry," you whispered, letting your hand fall back by your side. "I didn't mean-"

"I know you didn't," he whispered back, then looked up in pain and tried to give you an apologetic smile for the way he'd reacted to you. "You're sweet," he grunted. You understood the meaning behind it, so you smiled sadly.

You'd made it clear that you thought he deserved something good, so it felt excessive to say it again. At worst it could sound pushy, and the last thing you wanted to do was push him away.

Still, you had to try something.

"You're hungry too, right? Steven said so." You turned and pretended to look at something on your clipboard, to make this whole thing less intense.

"Uh, yeah," he mumbled. You looked back up and him and saw the face of a conflicted man. So you didn't give him any chance to doubt.

You picked up the clipboard. "There's a good lunch spot just a few minutes away." Then, you walked past him with the confidence of someone who expected him to follow.

When you got to the door and pulled it open, you turned to see him rooted to that spot. He hung his head and then stood up straight and turned towards you. For a second, he looked too calm to be any of them. But you knew.

"Jake?" You called in prompt, holding the door open.