Chapter Text
Jake should have known that this day would come. Working with Khonshu when Marc isn’t means a higher risk of discovery. He should have known that. Or maybe he did. He knew and hoped for the best anyway.
Not that it’s doing him jack shit.
“Who are you?” Marc growls from the reflective tiles.
He ignores him. Answering back when he’s hiding from an assassin isn’t exactly the best idea.
“What are you doing? Are you— Are you working for Khonshu?”
Jake wants to tell him to shut up. All that nagging is distracting, and he’s trying to get out alive, thanks.
“You are, aren’t you? That’s why it was so easy, he never intended to let us go.”
“I, for one, am delighted to meet you,” Steven pipes in from the window, and god damn it, can they be quiet?
He slides behind another pillar, itching for his pistol. He didn’t have enough time to grab it, and he’s sorely regretting not taking the detour regardless.
“The blackouts. Those were because of you.”
“Well this is exciting, innit?”
“Khonshu can’t be trusted.”
“How long have you been around?”
“Give me the body—”
“There’s so much to talk about—”
“Shut the fuck up, both of you,” Jake hisses. He barely dodges a knife from the shadows, and runs for another cover, one out of the assassin’s sight. This is taking too long, and he doesn’t have the suit. “We can talk later.”
“As long as we talk.”
Jake stumbles back to Steven’s apartment and shoves the door open. The assassin isn’t dead, Steven told him not to kill them, but they are severely wounded. A broken spine is enough to ensure they won’t come for him again.
He leans on the door and prods the cut on his side. It isn’t fatal, but it’s bleeding a lot.
The suit would be really helpful, Marc.
“I know you’re there,” he huffs as he goes for the first aid kit.
“Didn’t think it was polite to chat when you’re fixing yourself up,” Steven says. “But, um, yeah.”
“We have questions.”
Jake tears the gauze and soaks it in saline. They already know about him. May as well. “Hit me.”
“Why are you working with Khonshu?”
He tips his head back. That’s the big question, isn’t it? Why is he still working with that crusty pigeon? He already shot Harrow. He got his revenge. What else can Khonshu offer him?
(Besides staying out of Marc and Steven’s lives?)
“Someone’s gotta take out the trash.”
“And that has to be you?”
“Yeah,” he grunts, cleaning the wound. “It has to be me.”
“So you’re putting us in danger, for what? To satisfy your bloodlust? To paint your hands red? Some misconception of true justice? We’re supposed to be done with—”
“Why don’t we start with something simple!” Steven interrupts with a clap, earning him a look from Marc and stopping Jake from breaking the vanity mirror. “I’m Steven with a v. He’s Marc with a c. What’s your name?”
“Jake.” The stitches are a bit messy, but it’ll hold. “Pretty sure there’s only one way to spell that.”
“Yeah, thought it’d be Jon without the h, or Jayden with a y.”
“Sorry to disappoint.”
“No, it’s a bit funny, um. How old are you, relatively?”
He should lie. Say that he popped up recently. They don’t need to know that he’s been here for most of their lives. That he’s seen them grow and laugh and cry and hurt. It’s not… It’s not something he should know. He never got that right.
“Dunno. Time is different for me.” And that’s only half true.
His perception of time isn’t as smooth as Marc or Steven’s. He spends most of it in the headspace, and if he’s not paying attention, months could go by when it feels like a day. Blink, and he’ll be somewhere else, sometime else, blocking a knife or shooting a gun.
“You’re lying,” Marc says. Of course he does. Of course he knows. “You’ve been here since the beginning, haven’t you?”
Jake wraps the bandage around his side, ignoring the accusation. That alone confirms it.
Steven sighs from the fish tank. “Well, um, what do you like to do? What’s your favourite colour, favourite food, favourite song?”
That, at least, he can answer. “I like driving,” he shrugs and puts the kit back, “And brown.”
“Brown?”
“It’s a good color. Matches everything,” he shoots back at Marc.
“Noted.”
“I, uh, never have the time to eat.”
Given the nature of when he fronts, he’s never had the opportunity. It’s not exactly a priority when he’s stopping someone from killing them or is killing someone else (or both).
“And I guess ‘My Way of Life’ by Frank Si—”
“Wait wait wait, you haven’t eaten anything before? You haven’t had ice cream? Or chocolate? Or baked beans? Or, hell, even bread?”
He slumps into the chair and runs a hand down his face. “I had pretzels once, on a flight to New York. And a ration bar during Marc’s tour. I think that’s it.”
And water, if that counts.
“Marc.”
“Yes?”
“He’s never had a home cooked meal.”
The apartment goes remarkably still. Jake lifts his head to check the fish tank. Steven’s still there, he’s just not saying anything. “What? Why are you guys quiet all of a sudden?”
“You’ve never had a home cooked meal.”
They haven’t had one recently either, so what’s his point?
“You’ve never… Marc, we have to make him something.”
“Why, are you gonna poison me? We share the same bo—”
“Because, dumbass, you’ve never had a home cooked meal,” Marc supplies unhelpfully, no contempt in his voice. Pity, maybe, and a bit of humor. His attempts to take the body back lessen from ‘forcing’ Jake out to ‘politely asking.’
Stop it. It’s creepy.
“Whatever you two have planned, I’m not having it.”
“Oh, come on. It’s just a meal for our new brother!”
Stop that.
“Also, you can convince Marc to go vegan with us.”
“Listen, Steven, I respect that you’re vegan. Please respect that I eat meat.”
“I’m not saying I don’t, it’s just, you know, two against one means less meat consumption, yeah?”
Jake shuts his eyes, nursing the developing headache. While Marc and Steven decide on whatever they’re deciding on, he needs to figure out why the assassin was sent after them. Or by whom.
“Fine, you make him something, I’ll make him something, and he can decide on what he likes.”
He didn’t recognize them by their weapons or uniform, and it was a uniform. He doesn’t have connections to ask around, and calling on Khonshu at this time is… less than ideal.
“But we only have one body, and whoever goes first has a disadvantage.”
His most recent kills aren’t related to any assassin guilds, and he knows how to dispose of a body quietly. Enough so that nothing should be traced back to Marc or Steven.
“This isn’t a competition, Steven. We can work together, like in Egypt.”
So an earlier kill, maybe before Harrow and Ammit. He heaves a sigh and presses his palms against his eyes. That could be anyone.
“What do you think, Jake?”
He blinks and turns to Marc. “About what?”
“We make you a nice meal, and you don’t shut us out next time Khonshu tries to—”
“Let’s talk about bird brain afterwards, yeah? We just, um, need the body so we can actually make something.”
“We’ll let you know when we’re done.”
Jake cannot stress how creepy it is that they’re treating him like that. Like there’s something they need to do for him. It’s weird and wrong and stupid. See, this is why he didn’t want them to know about him. The buddy-buddy system they have is so foreign and creepy.
Shouldn’t they be more suspicious of him? Marc is, understandably, but he seems to be holding it off in favor of whatever mission they both have toward Jake. And he does not like that whatsoever.
“Can’t you two just, I don’t know, forget I exist and go on about your lives?”
Steven looks so hurt that Jake wishes he could take it back. He doesn’t, though, because he means it.
“Pretend I’m not here, like the last twenty-five years.”
And he knows he messed up, because now Marc looks hurt too.
“Twenty— Have you been here the whole time?”
“I thought you already got that.”
“I meant the beginning of Moon Knight and my deal with Khonshu, not— Shit. You’ve been here the entire time?”
Jake does not like the pity they’re practically throwing at him. “Stop. Just— stop it. Leave me alone.”
They, in fact, do not leave him alone.
"What do you remember about our mum?"
"Are you the reason why I kept getting into fights?"
"Did you know we had a little brother?"
"Now that I think about it, a few people called me Jake."
"His name was Randall."
"Including my best friend."
"He, um, died before I came along."
It’s so hard to focus right now.
"Stop. Shut up. I— Fine. You guys can do whatever you’re gonna do. Just stop. talking.”
“But, we still have ques—”
“I’m tired, Steven,” he breathes out, and after saying that, the weariness weighs heavier. “Not right now.”
“Oh. Okay.”
Steven closes his mouth and winces at the gash in his side. There are painkillers in his hand and he takes them quickly, swallowing them dry. Jake must have gotten them for him. How thoughtful.
“Thanks.”
No answer.
“Jake?”
Nothing. Steven checks his reflection and it does exactly what a reflection is supposed to do.
“Marc?”
“I’m here.”
“Right, then let’s get started.”
Jake’s surprised that he fronts again so soon, even more so that neither Khonshu nor danger greets him. Instead, he’s sitting at a table with a large assortment of dishes laid out.
“What the—”
“We might have gone overboard,” Steven grins cheekily from the metal spoon.
“Neither of you cook.” He honestly thought they’d make instant mashed potatoes and steamed fish, or something.
“We made an exception,” Marc says casually, as if he doesn’t usually avoid kitchens. “YouTube’s a great teacher.”
“‘Course, we had to use my phone because Marc still lives in the 2000s.”
“It’s a burner phone, alright? I’m not gonna get something fancy just to throw it away the next day.”
“You’re literally still using the same phone I found in the wall, and it’s been months!”
Jake stares at the utensils and wonders how he’s supposed to eat if Marc and Steven are there. Plus, they seem riled up, and he has no intention of getting caught in the middle.
“We’re not exactly overflowing with cash right now, Steven.”
The food doesn’t look very appetizing, but he supposes it smells good.
“Yeah, but you can’t deny that your phone is old.”
Jake gets up, walks to the kitchen, and grabs a pair of coffee sticks (they must be Marc’s. Steven doesn’t drink coffee). He has absolutely no experience, but he’s dexterous enough to figure it out.
“It functions just fine, I don’t need the extra stuff.”
He picks up some ground beef and broccoli (he gets it on his third try) and takes a bite.
“What do you mean, ‘you don’t need the extra stuff?’ You were hogging my phone for YouTu—! Oh, bollocks.”
Jake covers his face with his hands. Fuck, this is not how he thought he’d react. Least of all to food.
But it’s warm and tasty and home and he shouldn’t even be here—
“Jake. Jake, I’m so sorry, bruv. I didn’t mean to yell. We’re not really fighting or anything.”
That’s not why he’s— God fucking damn it. Stop being so nice.
“You don’t have to eat it if you don’t like it,” Marc adds, and he couldn’t be more wrong.
Jake likes it. He loves it. But it goes against twenty-five years of existing on scraps, building his own purpose, and remaining unknown.
He made a mistake, he knows that. Steven and Marc are supposed to remain oblivious until the body inevitably perishes. Jake isn’t supposed to be a part of this. He’s still with Khonshu, for fuck’s sake. He’s done things they don’t know about and can’t know about.
And yet, here he is, eating food they prepared as a welcome-to-the-family sort of deal.
All because he’s “never had a home cooked meal.”
“Are you okay?”
Jake puts his head down on the table. What is he doing? Why is he still playing this charade? He should be out there, finding whoever sent that assassin, not sitting here with improvised chopsticks and more food than he can eat.
“I… think we broke him.”
He gets up and packs the food away in plastic wrap. What is he doing? Why can’t he just be grateful that they accept him, at least for now? He should be happy that they went through all that trouble to prepare something they normally wouldn’t.
“Jake?”
What is he doing?
“Is something wrong?”
“Thanks for the food,” he whispers and leaves.