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People like him don’t just get to wake up one day and choose to stop being alone.
Blood pools out from his side, a generous free-flow of red that weaves between the cobblestones and snakes towards the storm drain. Mustering the last of his strength, Jake drags himself backwards — groans involuntarily when he leans too much weight on his broken wrist — into an alleyway, hoping the rain will wash away the trail of blood before anyone comes down the street. He has to pause twice to catch his breath, unable to breathe in too deeply without disturbing his fractured rib, and before the final heave backwards he pushes his knuckles into his mouth and bites down hard.
His back hits the alley wall and Jake almost passes out. He slumps his head back and closes his eyes against the rain, trying not to wince as the cold droplets pelt down on his face to rinse the blood from his forehead. The chilly air gnaws at his skin where his clothes had ripped. The weather hurts; everything hurts.
He needs to take a second to just breathe, completely motionless, before he can summon the energy to do anything else. The start of a chuckle rumbles in his chest, only for it bubble up and get stuck on the layer of blood and mucus coating his throat. He’s been taking Khonshu’s powers for granted and forgotten that he’s not actually invincible. The broken bones, black eye, and cut tendons are the price for his carelessness. When Khonshu sent him on this mission, he probably hadn’t expected Jake to take on all twelve targets at once.
Jake fishes for a cigarette and lighter from his breast pocket. He places the cigarette between his lips and flicks his lighter open, but after a dozen failed attempts to light it in the rain, he grumbles in defeat and tosses the now-wet cigarette aside. He settles for the rhythm of his own breathing, fast and uneven, whistling slightly on its way out each time.
“Where the fuck are you, old bird?”
A sudden buzz from his inner pocket answers him instead of the god he’d been waiting for. Jake sighs (immediately regrets it as his rib stings and bleeds in protest) as he fishes out Steven’s phone and looks at the screen — the call’s coming from Layla, and there’s a red heart and a beetle icon next to her name. He picks up.
“Hey, Steven, was just checking if we’re still on for dinner at seven. The rain’s coming down pretty hard.”
“Shit,” Jake hisses, pulling his jacket collar up to shield the phone receiver from the rain. Then he clears his throat and puts on the British accent that he’s been practicing. “Ye, of course. Pissing down, innit?”
“G-d, yea. Should I come pick you up from work?”
“Oh, no no. I’ll go home and change first. Meet you there…” Jake feels his face heating up as he continues, “My love.” That’s what Steven and Layla call each other. It feels wrong for him to say it, even if he has Steven’s voice and he’s wearing Steven’s clothes and face. Those aren’t his words to say. Not his tenderness to enjoy.
“Okay, see you soon then. Love you, Steven.”
“Love you too. Bye now.”
He hangs up before the last syllable finishes leaving his mouth, and the long exhale afterwards almost collapses his lung. Jake clicks his tongue, somewhere between annoyed and ashamed. Khonshu better show up soon, if he wants to get home, clean up, and hide the mess he’s made of Steven’s brand new printed shirt in the next half an hour.
A rush of air washes through the alley, and for a second, it almost feels like the drops of rain around Jake have slowed to a shimmering halt, a million tiny crystals hovering around his body, bejeweling the bloody air he breathes out. Then Jake blinks and the illusion breaks; his clothes soak up the rain where they haven’t already been oversaturated with his blood. He breathes out groggily, “You’re late.”
“You humans make haste where there is no need. I would not have let you bled out, Jake Lockley,” Khonshu’s voice drips down the back of Jake’s skull like molten lava.
“Sorry, guess it was too much to ask for some medical assistance for my fucking broken bones,” Jake snaps back, his nose bridge creasing into a scowl. “You damn old bird don’t give a shit about how much pain I’m in.”
“Hm… to think that even Steven Grant would have had the pride not to complain.” Khonshu waves a hand over Jake’s legs, and Jake watches, more disgusted than he is fascinated, by the way his fractured bones click back into place, the way his flesh weaves itself back together as if it had never been sliced open. “Watch your mouth, Lockley. Do not tempt me to reach for Marc again.”
“Excuse silly old me then,” Jake growls bitterly, the corner of his mouth twitching up into a sarcastic grin, “For getting in the way of you and your golden child Marc.”
“At least you know your place, pet.”
Jake blinks, and Khonshu is gone. His clothes are still bloody but his wounds have all been closed up, his severed tendons reattached and his black eye flattening down into the healed, but nonetheless dark and sunken creases of his eyelids. He slumps further down the wall and chuckles, a grating sound that starts and ends in his adam’s apple. “You spiteful old man, you really hurt my feelings with that,” he laughs, not particularly interested in whether or not Khonshu can still hear him. “Low blow, man.”
The din of raindrops splashing against some nearby trashcan lids is the only sound that answers him. He exhales again and wipes the water from his eyes, his face hot, thankful for the rain’s disguise.
It’s too far to walk home from here, and he doubts he’ll be able to catch the bus in time. “Think of something, asshole,” Jake grumbles quietly at himself, “Don’t fuck up another one of Steven’s dates.” He can probably make it back in time for a shower if he starts heading back now. And he’d probably have to run.
Groaning and panting, Jake struggles up to his feet. Khonshu may have fixed him up but he still aches all over; the human body can only take so much divine surgery before the magic itself starts hurting. Superficially he’s completely fine, but he aches so deeply in every muscle, every bone, in every inch of skin that should have turned into thick scar tissue long ago, if not for Khonshu’s rewriting of his very atoms every time he takes a beating. He picks up his pace and starts sprinting in the rain, but the throbbing pain in his feet (dammit, these dorky loafers were not made for running) and the migraine radiating just above his right eyebrow and the knot in his stomach and the lump in his throat all become too much, too painful, too heavy for one person to carry on their aching, so deeply aching shoulders—
Jake crashes to the pavement, sending splashes of rainwater onto the road as his knees hit the ground, and then his hands crash down too, barely extended in time to catch his body as he slumps down like an abandoned puppet, suddenly cut from its strings. He presses his forehead into the tiled street and he is silent and silent and then he is sobbing, giving his whole body to the big wet ugly sob that claws its way out his throat and rattles his entire frame. There isn’t a single soul in sight — nobody is stupid enough to still be out on the streets during a rainstorm as heavy as this one — but still his entire body curls up as if he’s been caught doing something shameful.
He doesn’t have time for a fucking tantrum, he needs to get home so Steven and Layla can have the nice outing they deserve, but… “Fuck’s sake, you pathetic, bitter, goddamn fucking loser,” he hisses at himself, slapping the pavement only because it’s an odd angle to hit himself at.
But the thought of Steven and Layla sitting at a candlelit table, warm and smiling and wrapped up in soft cozy layers, the thought of the nice live band they’ll probably get to listen to while they enjoy the three-course meal they’d booked a month in advance for, the thought of Layla putting her hands over Steven’s and calling him her love while Jake watches from the window, or maybe even from the reflection of the perfectly polished silvery if he decides to venture closer—
A low moan, weak and animal and completely fucking pathetic, makes his entire body heave and Jake almost feels like he has to retch. Is it too much to ask if, for once, he just gets to lie down in some dirty alley for a bit and properly catch his breath before he has to get up, fix his mess, and pass the body over to Marc or Steven? He’s not even asking to dine at the fucking Ritz — he just wants the leisure of smoking one fucking cigarette in peace before he has to move onto the next job or crawl back into the headspace like a guard dog being ordered back into its cage.
Disgust rises in his stomach like bile as he catches himself in his train of thought. He laughs hoarsely at himself. “What, jealous of the guy who actually gets the girl because he’s timid and sweet and actually a decent human being?” he snarls out loud. “Yeah, see, this is why you’re not anyone’s first choice, even fucking Khonshu.” Another bitter laugh. “Right, because you’re such a sad fucking loner that you’ve resorted to pining for the attention of some talking dead bird.”
The rhythm of the rain beating down on his back is almost therapeutic. He stays like that on the ground for a while, curled up, forcing himself to wait a little longer between each inhale and exhale, until his body steadies a bit and his voice doesn’t feel as wet and thick as he breathes in. He bites his lip and holds his breath, hoping it’ll cut off the shudders and hiccups in his voice. He counts the minutes that he’s wasting in his head, trying to calculate how late Steven will be to the date because of him, and how sorry he should feel afterwards.
Eventually he calms himself down enough to pull out Steven’s phone again. He gets back to his feet but remains hunched over, shielding the phone with his own body so it won’t get wet. He unlocks it (the passcode, to no one’s surprise, is 0411, the date of the discovery of Tutankhamun’s tomb), and finds Layla at the top of the contact list. It rings thrice before Layla picks up. “Hey love,” Jake says, forcing himself to lighten his voice, “I’m so dreadfully sorry, but I’m gonna be fifteen minutes late, I think. Got caught in the rain.”
“Oh no, where are you, do you want me to come get you—”
“It’s fine,” Jake cuts her off firmly, a little too firmly for it to be a convincing Steven voice. He overcompensates with a meek stutter, “I-I mean, bus is nearly here, see? Well, you can’t see. Um, well, bus is here, I’ve got to run for it, a little bit. I’ll see you soon. Gosh, I’m so sorry again.”
“Is everything okay? You sound a bit hoarse.”
“Ha. Lousy day at work. Anyway, ta-ta.”
He hangs up right as he feels a series of involuntarily sniffles rise up his nose. “Pull it together, Jake,” he snaps at himself, as he safely returns the phone to the only dry pocket left on his jacket. “Steven’s date depends on you.” He lets himself have one more quiet sniffle before he presses his palms into his eyes and wipes them violently.
Jake runs the rest of the way back home, practically hobbling by the last stretch as he makes a mental note to buy some plasters for his shoe bites. He stops by the florist around the block, trailing water all over the shop.
Steven arrives at dinner twenty minutes late, with the most beautiful bouquet of roses he doesn’t remember paying for.