Archive of Our Own ^beta

It took every ounce of courage he had to write out the request.

Deep down, he'd known it would backfire. He wanted to believe the thought was just idle anxiety, but deep down, he'd known it would end badly.

But he wrote it down anyway, because the alternative felt worse. 

Just eight words.

How much harm could eight words cause?

"You seem uncharacteristically tense. Everything all right?"

Funny thing; if he'd asked Marc that, he probably wouldn't have gotten an answer. But since it was Jake pacing a hole in the carpet, reading from one of his notebooks and chewing so hard on one of his pendants Jean-Paul thought for sure he'd put a hole in it, he figured he had a 50% shot at a full answer and a higher chance of a partial one. He'd take what he could get, really.

"Just ready to get the fuck out of Illinois," Jake said. He only sat down long enough to scribble something in the notebook before slapping it shut and throwing it into his suitcase. "Too close to home for my tastes."

Home. Marc had mentioned he was from Chicago before. The one and only time he'd talked about his childhood supplied more than enough reasons why Jake would be tense. "Fair enough," Jean-Paul said. "Is Marc going to be…?"

"I'm taking the lead as much as I can on this." The comment seemed to spark something, though, and Jake abruptly turned to grab a different notebook. "Just to be safe. Sorry, I know he's your favorite."

"I don't have favorites, mon ami ."

Jake didn't reply. Jean-Paul had expected a witty retort, or maybe a heartfelt do you really mean that . He had the whole emotional speech prepared.

It died on his tongue the second he saw the look on Jake's face. Ashen, wide-eyed, hands gripping the notebook so tightly that Jean-Paul really thought he was going to rip the thing in half. "Everything all right?" Jean-Paul asked hesitantly.

Jake slammed the notebook shut and stalked to the bathroom. The door slammed harder than the notebook had, and if Jake thought that the closed door would muffle any sounds, he was sorely wrong. Jean-Paul could very clearly hear him.

"WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?!"

No reply. Jake slammed his open hand against the mirror. " Steven …"

What?

"Don't what me. I read the note." 

I want to see Mum before we leave. Written down as if that were a reasonable request . He could've asked to see the Bean, or maybe even stop by the old synagogue (though Jake wasn't sure he liked that either). Fuck, he could've asked to see Randall. But Wendy? He wanted to see Wendy?! Fucking Wendy?!

"We're not doing that. We're not going anywhere near Chicago and we're definitely not going to see her. End of discussion."

Jake could vividly picture Steven's stance, as if it really were reflected in that mirror. Hands clasping together anxiously, but his jaw set, his hair flopping down into their shared face, its usual softness stripped away by his stubbornness. I don't see why we can't at least put it to a vote…

" Absolutely not . Marc is never gonna know you asked, ¿entender? He shouldn't be in this state at all."

But why?! Neither of you have to be there for it. I just want to…

"What? Pay your respects to the woman who beat us?! Is that what this is?!" Jake's hands gripped the counter so hard, he felt like he might shatter them. "Just because you don't remember doesn't mean it didn't happen."

There was a long pause. Jake was about to leave the bathroom when Steven spoke up again.

You think this hasn't been hard for me, too? You can't get your head out of your ass long enough to think that maybe I'm hurting, too?

"Oh, so you remember now? Because you don't get a say unless you do."

That's not fair.

" DON'T TALK TO ME ABOUT FAIR! "

He heard shattering glass. His fist stung with a sudden, sharp pain. His frantic, enraged reflection stared back, shattered into pieces.

Gloves aren't on yet , he realized dully. Whoops.

The sound of someone knocking on the door. "Jake?"

Oh. Right. Frenchie.

"It's fine," he called back. "I'll be out in a minute."

It was quiet as he checked his knuckles for any glass, slipping out a few pieces and wrapping the wound with some gauze. He could have summoned the suit.

He didn't summon the suit.

"We're not talking about this again," he said quietly.

Deep down, he knew it wasn't going to be that simple.

He'd heard the glass shatter. He could put two and two together. It was still a shock to see Jake emerge from the bathroom with his hand bandaged and bleeding. Jean-Paul hadn't seen them seriously injured in years. "Are you…?"

"Fine." Jake tore a page out of the notebook and threw it in the trash. "Come on. Day's not getting any younger."

He wasn't wrong, but Jean-Paul still moved as slowly as possible gathering up his things and following Jake outside. The mirror in the bathroom was broken. They were probably facing a noise complaint. And that piece of paper…

It felt wrong, but Jean-Paul grabbed it anyway, shoving it into his back pocket as he left the room. Jake was far enough ahead that he didn't notice. He probably wouldn't have even if he were closer. He had a laser-focused stare that stayed straight ahead as they left the hotel and went to the car. I'll read it later, Jean-Paul decided. Give him a chance to explain…maybe when Marc's back, I can ask him about it.

Though he did wonder if Marc would know anything about it. It didn't sound like Jake had been talking to Marc (if that was how it worked). It sounded like he'd been talking to Steven.

Yelling at Steven.

But that didn't make any sense. Yelling at Steven in general didn't make sense (he was, without a doubt, one of the sweetest men Jean-Paul had ever known), but Jake? Rabidly protective Jake yelling at someone he had only ever spoken highly of? What, would he be yelling at Gena's boys next?

Something's not right.

The crumpled up paper felt like a brick in his back pocket as they drove into town. Jake said nothing. Not even being behind the wheel seemed to calm him down.

His knuckles kept bleeding.

"You going to fix that?"

"It's just a scratch. I can't go crying to Khonshu every time I get a papercut."

"That's…a little worse than a papercut, ami ."

"And it's not as bad as what I went through last time I was in town, so."

The words were sharp. Harsh. Spoken like they were directed at someone in the backseat, even though he was speaking to Jean-Paul. He thought there was nothing worse than being the middleman in an argument, but he'd just found something: being the middleman in an argument where the two parties shared a body.

"So, this…tension, this isn't just you worrying about Marc?" Jean-Paul guessed. Jake's grip on the wheel tightened. "Are you all right?"

He heard Jake mutter the question back to himself under his breath. It didn't have the usual, almost playful cadence to it. Not this time. "I'll be better when this is over," he said finally. "And I'm asking you as a friend to leave this alone."

"Well, you know you can talk to me. Just us, oui? "

No response. Not even the hint of a smile from Jake, who usually grabbed onto every acknowledgement that he deserved privacy and individual treatment with both hands and ran with it. He didn't even parrot back the oui , which made Jean-Paul more nervous than anything.

What happened, Lockley?

It was almost a relief when they stopped driving. They parked somewhere unobtrusive downtown, then started walking. It was a pretty standard Khonshu job; some rich fuck was doing something criminal, Khonshu'd had enough, so now it was Jake's turn. Frenchie was just there for backup, because even instruments of divine retribution needed a getaway driver sometimes (or a getaway pilot, depending). "We're just taking a look for now," Jake said. He had switched from the pendant to one of his many stowed away lollipops. "Once I get inside it won't be a problem. We just don't want too much heat before that. You take the left side?"

"Yep." It almost felt like their mercenary days again. Right down to the weird tension and not telling me things, now that I think about it.

Speaking of.

He waited until Jake was a safe distance away before pulling the page out of his back pocket. He had to smooth it out to read it properly, but once he did…

I want to see Mum before we leave.

Oh.

Oh, Steven.

His hand hurt, but he didn't mind.

Pain was easy for him. Pain was the thing that drew him out most often. If his hand was hurting, that meant he had a reason to be there. It meant he could stay, be in control, get them through this job and the fuck away from Illinois.

That was the idea, anyway. Just one problem.

Jake, please, let me explain.

Jake took a slow, deep breath. "We're not doing this now," he whispered.

When, then? When we're back in London?

"Yep, that's the plan."

I know she hurt you. Jake, please, listen to me, I know she hurt you and Marc, I'm not trying to gloss over that…

"Don't."

… she wasn't the woman I thought she was…

"I said, don't ."

…I've been trying to process that, I really have, but I haven't… Jake!

He shoved his knuckles against his hip bones. Blood oozed against the bandages, threatening to spill out into his pocket. He focused on the pain. Narrowed his entire world down to it. Bruises and open cuts and everything he could protect Marc from. Everything he'd given up so much to protect Steven from… and he has the nerve to throw that away, he has the fucking nerve…

Jake, stop. Please, I'm sorry, I just…

"Steven, cállate la boca ."

Please, stop.

" Déjame en paz. No quiero hablar contigo. "

He had to focus. He had to focus , he had work to do, he had to make this stop, he had to make it stop…

I'm not trying to hurt you - 

Jake!

The body jerked back, nearly tripping over the curb, a car blaring its horn as it drove past. Panic swirled through their mind, and the first one to pull himself out–

" Ow! What the fuck…?! "

Marc pulled his hand out of his pocket. He was bleeding. Why was he bleeding? What the fuck had Jake hit? He looked around, trying to get his bearings. He didn't know about this week's pest control–he never asked, and he especially hadn't wanted to know when he learned it was in Illinois. Not too far away from…

Marc shook his head. Not important. Take stock of the situation. Where was he? What had Jake been doing before he slipped? No immediate danger. Just a fancy-looking building off to his right. Is this the place?

Frenchie appeared around the corner. Marc suddenly breathed a lot easier. "Hey…" He jogged over. "Uh, bad news, Jake's AWOL."

"Marc?"

"Yeah. Fuck ." Marc flexed his hand. "Shit."

Frenchie took it carefully, peeling back the bandage to examine the wound. He grimaced. " Qu'est-ce que tu fais , Jake?" he muttered. Then, louder, "Come on. I can patch you up in the car."

"Well, let me finish up…" He glanced towards the house. "What, just taking a look?"

"I got enough of a look. Let me help you."

Marc let himself be guided back to the car. That did not stop him from carefully scanning the exterior as he went by. General check for security systems, guard dogs, comings and goings. He had no idea what Jake was up to, but he knew the more intel he had, the faster it would get done, and the sooner he could get back to London. He missed Layla. And the apartment. And their normal day to day. He wished that right now he was a fly on the wall, checking in on Steven at work, getting the evening to do… anything but sit in the backseat of a rental car and let Frenchie fix his busted up hand. But here he was, doing just that.

"This is just like old times," Marc noted dryly.

Frenchie laughed quietly. "Except it was usually both hands," he corrected gently. "And your face. Maybe a few other places, if you were very unlucky…"

"Oh, trust me, I remember." He still had the scars. The suit hadn't done anything about those. Just kept him from getting new ones. "Do you know what happened?"

"Yes and no." Frenchie finished bandaging the wound back up and pulled off the disposable gloves. "We were about to leave. Jake read something in the notebook, the one for all three of you, and it set him off. He was…mad. At Steven."

"...Jake was mad at Steven? " No, that didn't sound right. If it had been him, Marc would've bought it, but he still remembered their second time in the Duat. The way Jake had smiled at Steven from the second they met stuck out–how gentle he'd been, even when he was frustrated. He'd walk on two broken legs for Steven. It had been the only thing they agreed on at the time. "What was in there?"

Frenchie grimaced and reached into his breast pocket. "Before I give you this, I just want you to know I'm here for you, and…" 

Marc sighed and snatched the paper out of Frenchie's hands. "I know , Jean-Paul," he said. He opened the paper. It just had one sentence written towards the top.

I want to see Mum before we leave.

…well, that explained the look on Frenchie's face.

Marc carefully folded back up the page. "Yeah," he said. "That'd do it."

An awkward silence settled over the car. Marc glanced Frenchie's way, then sighed again at the look on Frenchie's face. "I'm not about to have a meltdown."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm positive. It's just…"

He did feel queasy, but it was…strange. It wasn't just his own nausea at the mention of Mom. He understood, in sharp relief, why Jake had been so angry.

He also understood why Steven would ask.

Marc groaned and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. " Shit , if I didn't know any better I'd say the fucker brought us back here on purpose."

"Who, Khonshu?"

"Yeah." Marc sighed. "Can we just…drive? Anywhere? I need to think."

He wasn't sure this was something he wanted to think about. But he didn't have a choice, either. Frenchie took the wheel while Marc sat in the passenger's seat. He ran his thumb gently, carefully over the bandages on his knuckles. Not to draw pain, just to feel the texture of the cloth. Something solid to ground himself to.

Jake?

No answer.

Steven?

Nothing there, either.

Okay. New plan.

"Do you have a pen I can borrow?" he asked suddenly.

The crumpled up piece of notebook paper wasn't the best medium for this, he was sure. But he had to get these thoughts out now before it got too frightening. Frenchie passed him the pen. Marc pressed the paper against the dashboard and started writing.

He wasn't sure how good his chances were that Jake would listen, but it was worth a shot.

"WAKE UP, JAKE."

Jake bolted upright, frantically scanning the space in front of him for a car.

No car. Just the hotel room. He…well, whoever had taken over after he'd blacked out earlier, had fallen asleep in one of the chairs. He could hear the shower running. It was late afternoon. He wasn't hungry, so either Marc or Steven had eaten, too. And the voice was…

Right , he was working. Or he was supposed to be. "What?" Jake asked irately.

" WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN? " Khonshu asked.

"Do I need to explain the inner workings of DID to you again?" Jake rubbed his eyes. His hand didn't hurt quite as badly. The bandages were tidier now, and the bleeding had mostly stopped. "The job's getting done. Don't worry your skeletal little head about it."

" I DON'T WANT THOSE TWO SLOWING YOU DOWN. "

Jake hesitated, then narrowed his eyes. "Oi. Bird brain. Do we need to go over boundaries again?" Khonshu didn't talk about Marc and Steven. That was supposed to be the deal. Didn't stop him from testing that boundary, constantly. "I have it under control. Let me…" He rubbed his eyes. "...just let me catch up."

At least Khonshu was gone when he opened his eyes again. Just because Jake agreed with his ultimate goals didn't mean he wanted the bastard around all the time. Taweret has the right idea…show up occasionally, don't be so damn annoying…

As Jake adjusted his spot, he heard something crinkling in his breast pocket. There was a piece of paper tucked in there, one he definitely didn't remember leaving. It had been previously crinkled, but was now carefully folded up. Jake had a feeling he knew what it was, but he opened it anyway.

As he suspected…

I want to see Mum before we leave.

That part wasn't new. What was new was the writing underneath.

We should let him go.

I'm not going to force you, but I know why he's asking. He's lost her twice over. She's dead and she was never the woman he thought she was. That's a lot to process. Maybe going to see her will help.

You're not wrong to feel angry, but he wasn't trying to hurt you. He'd never do that. He needs this and this is gonna be our only chance to do it for a while.

She's gone, Jake. She can't hurt us anymore. You don't have to protect us from anything.

Jake stared at the note. Re-read that first sentence, over and over.

That awful pit in his stomach should've been an old friend by now.

It wasn't. It still hurt.

"Listen, I know you said you wanted to stay busy, but I have the stakeout covered if you…"

There was no one in the room.

Jean-Paul didn't want to assume the worst. Maybe everything was fine. He might've gone for ice, or to get some fresh air. Still, first thing he did was try to call Marc's phone.

It started ringing from inside the room.

Jake's phone next. Same result. And when he looked out the window, no sign of the car.

"...shit," Jean-Paul sighed.

Elias always took a walk after dinner and he always had dinner around the same time. He was a creature of habit. They got that from him.

It made hopping the fence easy, too.

Just under an hour. That was all the time it took to get back home. It hadn't changed at all. He even found the spare key under the same fake rock. Going through the motions made him feel smaller and smaller. Shrinking down from a fully grown man to a frightened preteen sneaking into the house, praying desperately that Wendy was in one of her wine comas again.

She wasn't in the house. Not anymore. It was quiet and still as a grave inside. That didn't stop him from taking his shoes off. Socks were quieter. It'd attract less attention. And if he tracked mud inside, that'd only make her angrier.

The thought sent a shiver up his back. The crawling anticipation of something horrible grew as he crept across the room. Towards the steps. He still remembered where the creaky floorboards were.

He made it to the stairs without making a sound. Stopped. Stared up into the yawning darkness at the top.

What are we doing here, Jake?

Jake inhaled sharply. "Go away," he whispered.

If you go up those stairs, I'm going with you.

Even in their mind, Marc's voice shook at the thought. But he was resolute, too, the jackass. He'd stay no matter how much it hurt. And it would hurt.

But he knew Jake wouldn't do that to him.

Jake turned around, but he didn't leave. He went back to the living room and sat down in the middle of the floor. He wouldn't leave a trace here. Not a single sign that Marc Spector and Jake Lockley had come home. 

Seriously. Why did you come back?

Jake laughed bitterly. "To remember."

Why?

"No one else in this fucking system seems to." Jake's hands clenched into fists on his lap. "You can't actually want him to go back there."

It's not about what I want. He needs it. I really think that.

"Right." Jake scoffed. "Little quality time with Mum. "

…I'm jealous of you, you know that?

Jake's head snapped up. "What?"

I wish I could just hate her like you do.

"Why don't you?"

Because she was my mom. For ten years she was my mom. Jake could picture Marc's face then. The sheer pain carved into it. Just like on that rooftop in the Duat. All that time, all those years I waited for her to come back. But she never did. Roro died and something else took her place and now…

Marc trailed off. Jake thought for a moment maybe he'd disappeared again, but eventually Marc spoke up again.

Now she's gone for good. And I'll never get the chance to see if she'll come back. So…yeah. I kind of know what Steven's going through. I lost her twice, too.

Jake had never thought about it like that. He'd never said it aloud, but he'd been relieved when he found out Wendy was dead. Even though it was painful for Marc he'd just… assumed that Marc would come around one day. Realize this was for the best. She'll never be able to hurt us again.

But he'd only known her as a monster. The woman who'd hurt him day in and day out for four years until the day Marc left home. Marc had known her as Mom. So had Steven.

Love did make scars run deeper, sometimes.

That doesn't make what you feel any less real. It doesn't erase what happened to you. It's just different. Steven never meant to diminish that. I know he didn't. And I don't, either.

Jake nodded. Drew his knees up to his chest and hugged them to himself tightly. He closed his eyes. It didn't smell the same, he realized. No more rotting flowers in vases. Only Elias's cologne.

It hadn't even been a year and she was gone. Just a body wrapped in a shawl somewhere in Chicago. Six feet under.

She could never hurt them again.

"Okay," he said finally. It didn't make sense. It would never make sense. But he understood Marc's point. "Okay. He can go."

Okay.

They sat in silence for a little while longer before Jake stood up. "He'd better not leave her anything," he said.

That's fair. How'd you get in, anyway?

"He still keeps a key in that rock. We should probably go before he gets back."

Yeah, probably. Jake couldn't help feeling relieved. He'd worried for a second that Marc would want to see Elias again. He might be willing to let Steven see Wendy (Wendy's grave, he reminded, she was gone), but he still wasn't ready to see Elias.

…that said…

Jake abruptly turned around and headed for the kitchen. Where are you going? Marc asked.

"Hang on, I want to check." Jake stopped at the cabinet above the fridge and opened it. It was shoved back just far enough that he had to reach for it, but sure enough…

" Damn ," Jake said, smiling for the first time since he'd walked into the house. "The old man really hasn't changed at all, huh?"

Dad always stowed his candy stash above the fridge. To keep himself from eating it, he said, though Jake had a feeling it was to keep it away from Marc and Randall's grubby little hands–and later Jake's, not that he knew about that part. Jake only took the one piece, one of those coconut Neapolitan candies, before putting it back.

Really?

"He owes me that." 

Marc didn't argue.

He made sure everything was as he left it before slipping out, leaving no trace that he'd ever been home. He waited to eat the candy until they were back in the car.

"...yeah, it tasted better when I had to work for it," Jake admitted.

Not so fun now that we're adults, huh?

"Nothing is."

He only stopped once at a gas station with a payphone to let Frenchie know he was okay. Other than that he just drove. Tried to lose himself in the silence. Tried to grapple with the still-lingering, dull feeling of nervous acceptance in his chest.

Steven?

Nothing.

He'd have to work on fixing that, too. Justified as he felt his anger had been, now that it had dulled…he did feel bad. Especially for the hand thing. He moved the thought up his mental itinerary and focused on the road.

Lot left to do, and he hadn't even gotten to Khonshu's work yet.

Something told him that was going to be the easiest part.

He thought about saying something humorous and mildly petty when the door opened, but the exhausted look on Jake's face killed the urge instantly. "Do you need anything?" Jean-Paul said.

"...we might have to go into Chicago for a day or two," Jake said.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah."

"Is Marc…?"

"He's sure, too." Jake hesitated. "Actually, I could use a good crush right now."

Weird sentence coming from anyone else, but Jean-Paul knew what that meant by now. Not the emotional comfort of a hug, but the physical pressure of the strongest hug he could give without hurting them. Jake sank into it instantly, gripping the back of Jean-Paul's shirt. "Bring your phone next time you bolt on me, yeah?" Jean-Paul said gently.

" Pardon ."

" C'est bon ." Jean-Paul waited until he felt two taps on his back before letting go. "So…what's the plan? Still moving tonight?"

That had been the original plan. They'd switched to staking out the place when it was unclear when Jake would be coming back. Now…now it was hard to say.

But as he watched, Jake considered the question. His eyes grew resolute, and more than a little bit dangerous. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, still moving."

Well, that was that. Jean-Paul almost felt sorry for the sick son of a bitch back in town.

Almost.

A moderately sized crime ring operating outside of Chicago was broken up almost overnight. There were many injuries and one fatality: the ring's boss. All survivors spoke of a spirit that entered the home seemingly from nowhere, cutting through the assembled participants as if they were nothing.

Marc Spector kept the news off and booked a hotel room in the city.

Steven hadn't spoken up. Drastic measures were required. Fortunately, Marc knew him well enough to know which buttons to push.

You'd better be reading that to piss off Khonshu.

Marc smiled and carefully closed the book. He hadn't actually registered any of the words. The UFO in front of a pyramid on the cover told him everything he needed to know. "Welcome back, buddy."

Hi. Steven sounded strangely tired for a guy who hadn't been anywhere near the body in days. Where are we?

"What, you don't recognize the place?" Marc stepped back out of the aisle to give Steven a better look. "Or did you not come here so much?"

… oh! No, I remember!

Marc thought so. This was about the only library he'd gone to as a kid, and if Marc had gone, Steven definitely had. He was the real bookworm of the system. What are we doing here? Steven asked.

"Jake's done, so…you're up. If you still want to go see…"

Mom. He couldn't bring himself to say it, but he was sure Steven knew.

…are you sure? What about…what about Jake?

Marc pulled the notebook out of the bag. "He left this for you."

The invitation was unspoken, but eventually taken. Steven adjusted his grip on the notebook. He looked around the space first. He did remember this place. Dad took him there all the time, whenever he wasn't busy. Steven remembered him sometimes using the study rooms to make phone calls.

In hindsight, the blank, sad look on Dad's face when the calls were over was probably a bad sign.

Steven picked a nearby chair and sat down. The piece of paper he'd written the request on was tucked in among the other pages, crumpled up and with another note from Marc written underneath. And then, on the next intact page next to it, in Jake's infuriatingly tidy handwriting:

I'm sorry I yelled at you. It felt like you were ignoring what happened to Marc and I. I know that wasn't what you meant, but [there was an ugly scratch in the middle of the sentence] she really did a number on me. Doesn't make it right, though. And I wasn't trying to punish you with the hand thing. That was my bad coping.

It's okay if you go. Say what you need to say to her.

A few months back, he might've been more bitter about it. The Steven who was resentful of having to give up what felt like his entire life to a stranger probably would've had a thing or two to say.

The Steven of now fumbled at the bag until he found a pen and added to the bottom:

It's okay. I'm sorry, too.

There was a lot more to say, but not a lot of time to say it. He had a feeling they'd already put off going home to do this, and if he lingered too long, he might lose his nerve.

"Okay," he said quietly. "Where is she?"

Steven had almost called Mum more than once since learning the truth.

At this point, it was hard to tell if it was habit or denial. Marc wouldn't lie to him about that, and of course he'd seen her shiva in Marc's memories. But it still didn't feel quite real. Sometimes he thought, he really thought he could just pick up the phone. Talk to her. Maybe even try to make everything right.

The headstone in front of him said otherwise.

Wendy Spector.

His chest felt tight, and he could already feel the tears forming, but he forced himself to look. To read the name over and over, until it sank in. Wendy Spector. Wendy Spector. Wendy Spector was buried in that grave.

Mum was dead.

Steven carefully knelt in front of the tombstone. "You don't know who I am," he said quietly. She'd never known about him–or if she did, she hadn't cared enough to get to know him. "But I remember you. Or…I guess I remember who you were." He had the notebook in his arms. He hadn't been able to bring himself to put it away. Steven hugged it tightly against his chest, as if he could shield the others from her. Or, maybe, they could shield him from her.

Maybe both.

"You were wrong about Marc, you know," he said. He remembered her in Marc's memories–that wild-eyed shadow that accused him of those awful things. "He wasn't jealous. He loved Randall. And he loved you, too, even when…" The tightness in his chest finally caught up to him. He struggled to force the next words out. "...you didn't deserve that. I wish you did. I wish you were the woman we wanted you to be. And…maybe you were back to that, by the end, I don't know. But…"

Wishing solved nothing, really. Marc and Jake were still hurt. Mum was still in the ground. Those wounds were still there. They could heal, one day, but for now they felt raw and fresh as they had that moment in the Duat.

You've gotten to live thinking that she loved you. That she was kind. That she's still alive.

He'd be lying if he said he didn't sometimes wish he could've stayed in that lie.

But then he thought about Marc's pain, Jake's pain, the sheer prolonged scream he'd seen in their eyes those times when they balanced the scales. He couldn't dishonor what they'd been through by living a lie. Even if it hurt. Even if it meant…

"I guess this is it, then."

He stayed kneeling.

"Goodbye, Mum."

The graveyard was silent.

Steven had to force himself back to his feet. He had nothing to leave her–he wasn't sure he should, all things considered–but he let himself rest a hand on the headstone. Just for a second.

Was any of it real? Any of what I remembered?

He'd asked Marc that, during a sleepless night a few weeks after Cairo. He'd almost regretted asking, but Marc had answered.

She used to be like that. Before. And she had good days, sometimes. Just…not enough.

That was the woman he loved. The woman he mourned then, standing there in the graveyard.

But it was time to let her go, too.

Steven cleared his throat and stepped back. There was one thing left. It had, going in, felt like it'd be easier than talking to Mum, but moving those few steps to the side felt like walking miles. The headstone was so much smaller.

Randall Spector.

Eight. He'd only been eight.

"Hi," Steven said quietly. "Uhm. I'm Steven. You didn't know me before, but Marc's told me all about you." He  knelt down again, just to one knee this time. "I just wanted to let you know…he's doing a lot better now. And I'm looking after him for you, so you don't have to worry about him." He smiled, despite himself. "All right, you should worry a little. He's a handful. You know that already. Oh, almost forgot…"

He had to fumble in his pockets to find it, but he did, eventually. "Sorry if it's a bit crooked. I'm not much of an artist." But he had done his best to paint a one-finned fish on that stone. Steven placed it carefully on the grave, next to a few others. Maybe Dad had left them, or some other family Steven couldn't quite remember. "His name's Gus. I thought you'd like the company."

He lingered there a bit longer. Sitting in regret for the moments he didn't get to have. That had been stolen from Marc in that cave.

But he had to let go of that, too.

"I'll stop by again next time I'm in town, okay?" he said. "Bring you a really cool one next time." Steven stood up. "Laters, gators."

That was supposed to be the end of it. He really thought it was. But he was halfway down the path when…

Turn around.

What?

Please, turn around. I want…

...Marc are you sure?

I can't go back without seeing him. Please.

Maybe Steven shouldn't have. He was worried this was going to be a setback–a chance for Marc to fall back into guilt and self-flagellation. But maybe it would be best to trust him.

Steven turned around. Walked up the path, back to the two headstones. Past the larger one, to the smaller one.

But it was Marc who stood there for a long, long moment. Clutching the notebook, same as Steven had moments ago.

It was the rock that did it. That little rock with the one-finned fish. Marc fell to his knees, forehead pressed against the dirt.

Sobbed.

He hadn't cried when they'd dragged him out of the cave. Hadn't cried at the funeral, or during the shiva. He wanted to, but that numb, dull feeling leeched away his grief, his sorrow, replacing it with a vast nothingness in his core. He'd held onto that void for so long. Let it eat and eat and eat away everything else in his life. The pain was bad–the pain shook his body apart as he cried into the dirt–but it was better than that emptiness.

At least this was something.

"I miss you," he said. "I really miss you, Rosser." Always the sidekick in their games, but…really, he was more than that. Rosser had always been the real heart of the team.

There were other things, things the old Marc might've said. That Randall should've been there instead of him. How sorry he was. But someone a lot smarter than him had said it wasn't his fault. That Randall wouldn't want him to blame himself.

Maybe Marc was finally starting to believe that, because there was only one thing left to say.

"I love you. I love you so much."

It hurt. But it was something.

Eventually, he ran out of tears. Pulled himself upright and pressed his forehead against the headstone, like he did when they were kids. Randall hadn't been so big on hugs; that had been their thing instead. "I'll see you later, okay?" he said. "I'll bring Steven. Maybe Jake." Assuming Jake could handle being that close to Mom. "'Bye, Roro."

He stood. Stopped only for a second in front of Wendy's grave. Stared at it.

Said nothing, because he didn't have anything to say.

He walked down the path, out of the graveyard, back to the bus stop. A strange feeling settled in his chest–heavy and light, all at once. He sat down underneath the rain shelter and leaned against it. Closed his eyes. Let himself pretend that it was a second body he was leaning against.

"You okay?"

Steven had to think about it. I will be, I think. You?

"...yeah. Yeah, me, too."

Chicago had nothing left to offer them–nothing else they were ready for, anyway.

Time to go home.

Jake woke up a few hours before dark back in London.

He'd never been more relieved to see the dust magnet that was their apartment.

He only got up long enough to grab the weighted blanket and the notebook. His gaze lingered over Steven's words– I'm sorry, too –before drifting a bit further down. Looked like Marc had something to contribute, too.

Frenchie's got something to do but he said he'd call. Layla will be back in town tomorrow. Hope you're doing okay.

Was he?

Jake took a look around the apartment–around home. His home. It finally felt like it. The space was familiar, he had things there, it was comfortable and secure and theirs. He even dreaded the thought that they might go back to Marc's old place whenever he and Layla got it together. That apartment wasn't bad, but it wasn't… this. It wasn't everything he and Marc had fought for Steven to have…and then all three of them had fought to have together.

Maybe I can convince her to move in.

Jake pulled his knees up to his chest and took a deep breath. " Estamos a salvo aquí ," he whispered. It was their space, it was his space, it was safe and nothing was going to hurt him here. It was so hard to convince himself of that some days. Childhood trauma re-writes the brain , or at least those books Steven kept getting said so. You got so used to being unsafe that you expected everything to be unsafe.

You expected your dead mother to rise up out of the grave just because your headmate wanted to say goodbye to her.

" Ella se ha ido ," he whispered softly. He buried his face in his knees. "She's gone."

He expected it to stay silent as he sat there, simmering in the confusing mixture of relief and dread. Instead…

I got you those mangos.

"Hmm?"

The spicy ones. They had them at the grocery store.

It took him a few seconds to register what that meant, but when he did… " Steven! " He was out of bed in a flash. " Eres mi favorito ."

Even still?

"Never stopped." Sure enough, the package of dried fruit was on the counter. Despite his initial eagerness, Jake suddenly felt guilty. "I'm sorry."

I forgive you. Communication's still a work in progress, innit?

"Yeah, just a little."

I'm sorry, too.

" Te perdono ." Jake finally opened the mangos and ate one. Just the one. He wanted to save these. "Like you said. Work in progress."

… I don't want to talk about it now, but the…hurting yourself thing…

Jake sighed and looked down at his hand. The wound had, of course, completely healed during the job. Not even a scar. "I know, I know." He could explain it, or at least try, but he was too drained then. "Later. I promise. On Gena's, okay?"

Okay.

Jake was strangely aware of his clothes in that moment. Well-worn and washed, no seams in odd places. Steven always seemed to surround himself with soft things. It had taken some getting used to.

Now he couldn't imagine life without it.

"Better book up the next few weeks," Jake added in a conspiratorial whisper, "because I'm really looking for an excuse not to go stateside for a while."

You're a terrible avatar, you know that, right?

"Well, I'm also all he's got, so he can live with it." It was probably a bad idea to test Khonshu's patience, but Jake was still feeling a bit sleepy, and just starting to slip back into feeling comfortable. It made him brave. Brave or stupid, either one. "Do you have work tomorrow?"

Nah, took the extra day.

"Great. I'm going back to bed. If Marc wakes us up before ten, take the body back and go back to bed."

Steven laughed. Okay. 'Night.

"Technically morning, but…yeah, goodnight."

Jake crawled back into bed, under the secure weight of their blankets, and let himself relax.

It took a bit longer than usual, but that was fine. They'd be back to baseline soon. They were safe now.

He was safe.