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Goddamnit Marc, why did you have to fixate on a some cheap-ass British Indiana Jones knock-off as a kid, instead of the real deal? That way I wouldn't have to impersonate Steven's ridiculous gor-fucking-blimey guv'nor accent!
Since his first, eventful, encounter with Layla's mom, Jake has successfully avoided being conscious when she's around. It's just easier that way. It's not like she's his mother-in-law in any case, just the two fuckwits he shares a skull with. And his slip up did at least force them to talk about things like grownups, so eh. Now he stays out of it and lets them get on with their domestic bullcrap. It seems to make them all happy. Hell, the woman even seems to like Steven. God knows why.
"Well some of us didn't proposition her within 5 seconds of meeting her, mate." And isn't that just great? Now he doesn't even need the kid to be awake to know what smartass comment he'd make next. He always said spending as much time co-conscious as the other two do would drive him up the wall; looks like he was right. Yeah, yeah, you little shit, he thinks, you sleep it off and leave it to me to deal with everything. And, At least I didn't burst into tears from fright when I met her.
So here he is, at the top of the steps to her smart little townhouse in Chelsea, wearing one of Steven's daft shirts and a dopey smile. It'll only take a couple of minutes to pick up the god-in-a-bottle, and he can keep up the act for that long. He did it plenty back in the bad old days when staying hidden was his first priority. Even did the kid a few favours while he was at it.
He knocks on the smart red door with his best attempt at Steven's usual jaunty rat-at-tat-tat. If he's honest, it's more of a barrage of thumps with the hands under his control.
"So sorry to bother you at short notice, Li-uh-Mrs El-Faouly," he chirps with an inane grin as she opens the door.
"It's no trouble, I needed to go in for a bit this morning anyway as it's all been rather hectic the over last couple of days. Want to come in for a cuppa while you're here?" She offers. "I was about to make lunch."
"Oh, my days, no!" He squeaks, in a voice made high and tight more by desperation to avoid prolonging this than any attempt at his deception. "Lots an'lots to do today before we hop on the plane to New York tonight, yeah! Busy busy bees, us lot!" He tries to replicate Steven's laugh, and turns it into a cough as it becomes clear that the only laugh he can manage is his own staccato bark.
"Are you sure you're well, love?" She inspects his face with obvious concern. Damn. The freaking paint stains around his eyes make him look half dead.
He does not say, "As well as I can be, considering that your favourite son-in-law goddamn drugged us last night," or "did you know magic is real and making my life a living hell," or any of the dozen equally accurate and equally inappropriate answers that occur to him.
"Jet lag." He says, then adds quickly. "Innit."
She looks at him appraisingly, before holding out a canvas shopping bag.
"You need to take better care of yourself, dear." You're telling the wrong guy, Lady. He thinks. I damn well know that! It's the other one who needs that lecture. "I know your work is your dream come true, but there is such a thing as working too hard." Certainly is a dream. The sort of dream where you wake up screaming.
"Oh it is, yeah!" He enthuses. "So terribly fascinating! Absolutely worth it all, let me tell you!" He manages not to roll his eyes. Just about.
He takes the bag with mumbled thanks, and gives a little wave.
"Laters, Mrs El-Faouly." He's quite pleased with that one, it sounded pretty dead on.
"Bye Steven love." Before he can step away, he's wrapped in a hug, "Give my love to Layla, and have a safe trip." He hugs her back uncertainly, as of course that's what Steven would do.
After what feels like an awkward eternity while he contemplates at what point it becomes acceptable to push the hugging party over and bolt, Linda lets him go and closes the front door with one last wave.
"I hope you're grateful, you pointy asshole," he mutters to the bag as he turns to leave.
He's halfway down the steps when Linda reopens the front door. "Jake," she calls.
"Yeah?" He grunts in response. Goddamnit. Way to screw it up.
"Just a tip, dear," she says to his retreating back. "If you need to impersonate him again, Steven doesn't usually sound quite so Scottish."