Archive of Our Own ^beta

There was no room left in him. Not in his heart, not in his soul, not even in his mind. If one more thing was stuffed into him, he was liable to break.

Jacob wasn’t sure when that emptiness had filled up. Was it when his mother died? Was it when his cousins made fun of his interests? Was it when his father started drinking? Was it when he realized he was the only reliable one in his family? Was it when his uncle died?

He didn’t know and he didn’t care to know.

Unpacking all of that would lead to nothing good. He only knew this because he’d tried once before. He’d yanked out what was inside of him and laid it at the feet of his father—the only one he thought could understand—and it had been stomped on and stuffed back inside.

Isaac Stone had never given a damn about anyone but himself. It took a long time for Jacob to learn that fact—nearly twenty years. Twenty years of groveling and pleading and begging. Twenty years of having all of his efforts to help his family thrown back into his face with their ungratefulness.

Oh, there were some that acknowledged what he’d done for them. They were the ones he still talked to—his brother and his wife, his cousins Drew, Linda and Sandy, his Aunt Marge… and that was it. They at least thanked him and were there for him when he was struggling (even if they didn’t know the whole truth about him). That was more than he could say for the rest.

He wiped a hand down his face and looked forlornly at the book in front of him. He’d been trying to study herbs and their properties to start helping Jenkins and Cassandra in the lab, but his mind was too full. He was too distracted to do anything more than take notes to read later.

Uncle Jess… Jacob wondered if the man knew how much his death would both relieve and torment him. A small part of him considered the man did it on purpose to try and get the stubborn Stones to talk to one another. It didn’t work.

He dropped his hand from his lips and closed the book, unable to keep reading anymore. He needed a drink.

An insidious part of him whispered that he’d end up just like his daddy. That he’d become a drunkard by the age of forty and a deadbeat by the age of fifty and dead by the age of sixty. How his bastard of a father was still alive was beyond him, but he supposed the spiteful lived an unfairly long time.

He ignored those thoughts and made his way to the kitchen where he pulled out a couple of bottles of beer (he could never bring himself to drink liquor because he became too much like his daddy when it hit him).

The taste of beer did little to steer his thoughts away from how packed his insides felt. It was like being an overstuffed carnival bear, and a single overly enthusiastic hug would burst half his seams at once. 

Shakespear said that an “overflow of good converts to bad.” But did an overflow of bad turn into good? Jacob didn’t think so. It hadn’t, yet, anyway. The beer wasn’t going to help, he knew, but took a long sip of it anyway. The damn text message had been the problem. The thing that packed his last box too full and was now threatening to burst everything inside him.

He loved his brother. His brother had been the smart one daddy had said. Their father had waved him off to college with pride, and Jacob was relieved to see his big brother break free and build a life for himself. 

He pulled out his phone and read the text message again. “Hey, hope everythings okay! Dad’s been calling over here drunk every night since the funeral. I’ve had to block his calls. You heard anything?” 

And that was the thing. He hadn’t heard anything. He’d tried calling and it always went straight to voicemail. And because he hadn’t heard anything, and since his brother was worried about the spite filled old man… he was worried. And damn it all to hell it just wasn’t fair. 

Why did he have to be their father’s babysitter? Just because Chris didn’t give two fucks and wouldn’t didn’t mean he had to be. But that’s exactly what it meant. Because he couldn’t not care at all about the useless old drunk. Could he? A hand went to his upper abdomen as if physically rubbing the area could create more room for boxes and packages. 

He didn’t hear the footsteps, which wasn’t really surprising. Ezekiel Jones was a world class thief as he reminded them all the time. It was probably the first thing he ever learned how to do: walk without making noise. 

“Hey, mate,” Ezekiel barely looked up from his phone, and went straight to the fridge. He pulled a pizza box out, and came to sit a few chairs away at the kitchen table. 

Jake stared and tried to figure out why Ezekiel’s eating cold pizza at the table made him want to flip said table over. 

Because you’re just like your father. A voice whispered in his head. 

“Want a slice?” Ezekiel pushed the box towards him.

He was too full. He was going to burst.

“No, thanks.” 

A shrug, “Suit yourself.”

Jacob didn’t hate Ezekiel. He couldn’t. He was annoyed by him a lot. Really, really, annoyed. But he liked Ezekiel. So why was he angry at him? 

Jacob stood up and dropped his empty beer bottle in the trash as he left the kitchen the full bottle clutched in his hand. 

There had to be something, some way to feel… less full. 

Someway that didn’t involve unpacking everything inside of him. Someway that didn’t make him hurt worse than before. 

He took the stairs to the upper level of the Annex, maybe he could find something to read about other than herbs. Maybe that would take his mind away from the text. Away from his father. It had always worked before. 

If Jacob’s leaving the company hadn’t been what pushed their father over the edge, it was the death of his brother, Jess.

Nearly two weeks had passed since his uncle had died and Jacob was still unable to get into contact with his father. Even being at home, he was unable to get the man alone to talk. Eventually he gave up and went back to work, but he thought after giving him time to cool off he’d at least answer the phone.

Let him suffer, part of him said.

He’s family, another said.

He wandered the shelves, looking for anything that could take his mind off of his family or crush the things within him down into something more compact and manageable.

He always said that family wasn’t easy. He hadn’t ever cared to elaborate to anyone who asked (though not many asked) because he couldn’t trust anyone. He’d never trusted anyone. He didn’t think he knew how. He didn’t think he ever could. Not with everything that was packed inside of him.

One more sock could be stuffed in a drawer, but if one more was put in him, he would—

Just like your daddy.

He took another sip of his beer and picked up the first book that came to hand. He didn’t know what it said about him that it was The Stranger that he picked up, but it was always a bit therapeutic to read about others' depression to remind himself how good he had it.

He sat at one of the many tables and read. He recalled reading the book his freshman year of college, but he’d read so much in the time between that things blurred together. He hadn’t even remembered the main character’s name was Meursault until he read it again.

The beer slowly drained, gradually grew warmer until the last drops were like drinking piss. Like his daddy, he’d never been able to walk away with a bottle unfinished no matter how warm it got.

He shook those thoughts from his mind and tried to refocus on Meursault’s growing irritation with the talkative caretaker.

Too much. He was carrying too much. How did one get rid of these things without trusting another soul? How did one make the pain stop?

He threw the book on the table with a growl and picked up the bottle, leaving a circle of water on the table in his wake. He didn’t bother cleaning it, didn’t bother putting the book back or on a cart to be put away later. Jenkins could lecture him all he wanted. He was tired.

Uncle Jess had once been the reasonable one of the Stone brothers. He’d kept Isaac in line. Until one day he just stopped caring and then let Isaac do whatever the hell he wanted. Drink himself stupid, gamble till his pockets were empty, scream at anyone who didn’t fall in line. So long as he wasn’t laying hands on anyone, Uncle Jess didn’t do a damned thing to stop him. Oh, he’d taken Jacob and his siblings to and from school when Isaac was too drunk off his ass to do it safely, give them support where their father didn’t care. But he did nothing.

Just like everyone else. 

He walked the corridors of the Annex like a kid lost in a mall. At some point, he sat the empty beer bottle down. He wasn't sure where, but it probably wasn't the recycle bin. He didn't care. He was lost. He didn’t know where to go, or how to get there if he did. He just kept moving. He tripped over something at one point causing him to stumble into a stack of books. He heard the books topple over and hit the floor but didn’t even glance back. He just kept walking.

When he got to the doors that led outside to the rest of Portland and beyond, he threw them open as though being in a larger space would make him feel less full. As though he could convince himself that being in a bigger space gave him more space. It was raining. Torrents of rain cascading down from the sky. As if everything crammed inside him needed the addition of water to feel heavier. 

He leaned against the door frame for a few moments before going back inside and closing the door.

“You seem to be running around quite a bit.”

Jacob jumped and whirled around, back pressing against the door before he realized that it was Jenkins.

“You scared the shit outta me!” Jacob ground out, barely able to keep from bursting from his luggage being jostled so violently.

“It wasn’t my intent,” Jenkins assured.

The dark shadows of the outer corridor made him seem bigger, more intimidating for some reason.

“The system sent an alert that the front door had been opened and I volunteered to check on it,” he went on to say.

“Oh,” Jacob’s heart rate was slowing down—a good thing considering how tumultuously things were strewn about inside. “Sorry.”

Jenkins’ eyes narrowed ever so slightly, and Jacob shifted under the weight of the gaze. “I… uuh… I just need a bit of air.”

“Was it air you needed or space?” 

Jacob blinked at the peculiar question thinking his brain must be too near overflowing to make sense of the words. “Listen, umm, I just need to—”

“Walk aimlessly around dark halls and not clean up after yourself when you do stop to breathe for five minutes?” 

“What?” His voice shook just a little at having been called out. With luck he could deflect the brown eyes and knowing tone, “That’s not…no…I wasn’t.” 

So much for luck. That was the story of his life after all. He shouldn’t have been surprised. 

Jenkins was using that stare where he looked at you and seemed to take your brain apart piece by piece. Jacob thought that might be useful when it came to unpacking boxes. 

No. No. Unpacking things never ended well, and to make anyone understand what was packed away with his Uncle Jess’s death he’d have to unpack a whole heap load of other boxes. He’d be fine. He just needed time alone and a good distraction.

“Listen, Jenkins, umm sorry about the door, but I’m just tryin’ to deal with family things still, ya’ know? I just need some time to myself.” He made to move around the older man, hoping he could slip by without having to look in those knowing eyes, again. 

A hand lightly touching his shoulder stopped him. Brown eyes found his for a second before he looked away. 

“It's fascinating, isn’t it?” Jenkins' voice held more curiosity than empathy, “That no matter how well one thinks they’re handling something, their heart betrays them. Two conflicting opinions in the same vessel, and the fight between the two of them weighs so heavily on the soul that it seems easier to focus on that conflict than the actual problem itself.” 

Jacob remained silent and kept his eyes on the floor even as he told his lungs to keep working at a normal pace. He needed to get away, but his feet wouldn’t move. The baggage was just too heavy, and listening to Jenkins—how did he even know? He couldn’t do this. Not with Jenkins. Not with anyone. And not here in a goddamn corridor. 

“Perhaps,” Jenkins' hand remained on his shoulder: solid as the touch of a ghost, “it would help being in a place where you’re more comfortable? I’ll walk with you.” 

Too full. Too empty. Too much. Too little.

He struggled between these extremes for a moment. Struggled to give an answer.

He’d been drowning all his life waiting for someone to drag him to the surface. No one had ever come, and he’d had to drag himself to shore for however long the tide would allow him to hold on until the sand shifted from under his grasping hands and he was dragged back. 

He wanted to be saved, but he’d never been able to rely on anyone to save him. He’d wanted to unburden himself, but each time he’d done so he’d been left gasping for air under a mountain of water.

It would have been better if he just walked away.

But…

Those dark eyes—which seemed like black pits in the dark—were so warm. Would that warmth take away the chill? Would the fire burn away all that was inside him until there was nothing left but a cleansing ash to nourish the earth?

He gaped, trying to force himself to say anything, but he couldn’t. He was too wound up and messed up to say anything because neither his pride nor his desperation would overpower the other.

“Let’s go,” Jenkins said softly as he tugged Jacob forward with a relenting hand.

He leaned into the touch without thinking and found that as they walked, Jenkins’ hand went from one shoulder to the other as if to hold him.

There was a distant memory that drifted through him like a breeze. Another hand had once been on the same shoulder, though the scent associated with the memory was different. Instead of the scent of magic, cardamom and parchment there was the scent of butterfly weeds and cigarettes. He’d looked into eyes as blue as his own and felt loved and safe.

His steps faltered as agony swept over him so thoroughly that he found it difficult to breathe.

With each heartbeat his ribs creaked within him from the force of his insides being pushed out and out and out.

“Jacob?”

The voice sounded as if it were coming through a tunnel. As if it were through water. Whoever had said it mattered less than the memory.

He hadn’t cried out for his mother in years. He’d stopped that not even a year after her death when he knew she’d never be coming back to chase away his father’s habits and ornery attitude.

But right then, he wanted no one more. Needed no one more.

If there was anyone that would have understood him, that would have taken the things he unpacked with gentle hands and eased his burden it was her.

He felt warmth envelop him, covering his face and smothering some of the pain by causing surprise. He stared at the dark white fabric in front of his face and frowned.

Since when did Jenkins hug him? Since when did he care?

A hand tenderly gripped his neck, keeping him in place as a gentle voice spoke above him.

He shuddered, his resolve weakening to the point where he was sure his very guts would be on the floor in a moment.

“Don’t hold it in.”

He fisted his hand in the fabric at Jenkins’ side and fought against the tears, the sorrow that wanted to pour out of him.

His father. His Uncle Jess. His brother. His mother. People he was left with and the people he’d lost. All of them flickered in his head at dizzying speeds. Each blurred into the other until it was one image of pure loathing and love.

The hand drifted up from his neck and fingers brushed through his hair until his head was cradled there.

He broke.

It wasn’t loud like breaking a glass when it was dropped in the sink. More like a leaking pipe in the wall that goes unnoticed until it bursts and pushes against the wall until that fails to contain its strength. 

He kept trying to stop the flow. Tried to find the shut off valve. But the more he told himself to stop the more boxes fell open and every box had something else that caused a new wave of unidentifiable emotions to overwhelm him, and he ended up leaning more into the solid form that was Jenkins. Pleading without words for the man who in these few moments was providing more comfort than almost anyone in his life had ever done before. Pleading with him to help carry some of the baggage.

He gasped for air trying to force his lungs to expand and take in a deep breath so he could get himself under control. 

The chest under his ear expanded, taking in a deep breath of its own and letting the air out slowly. It repeated the pattern and Jacob did his best to copy it. 

“Very good, Jacob.”

He almost lost the pattern at the praise, sucking in a breath too quickly. He pushed his face even further into Jenkins, and only just realized that the older man was nearly carrying him. He clung tighter. 

Jacob couldn’t let go. Even as his breathing became more normal, and the tears stopped he couldn’t bring himself to let go of Jenkins. Just thinking of letting go was enough to make his heartbeat quicken. For the first time in his life someone had pulled him out from under the sea of emotions he was drowning under, and he knew if he let go he would fall back beneath the turbulent waves.

He didn’t know how long they stood there. He couldn’t tell how long Jenkins stood there and took everything that was shoved into his hands, but it didn’t matter.

He’d cried in front of two people before this with mixed results. His mother had held him and caressed his face as she wiped the tears away. His father had scoffed at him and told him that real men didn’t cry.

His fist trembled from where he held Jenkins’ shirt.

He was so terrified. He’d not jumped off a cliff before, but he was pretty sure this was the exact same feeling. Looking into the crashing waves below and not knowing whether they would be forgiving or vicious until it was too late.

“My Uncle Jess died a couple weeks ago,” he managed in a wheeze.

Jenkins didn’t say a word. All the acknowledgement that was given was the arms around him pulling him closer.

“It’s not even his dying’ that’s the problem.” Jacob knew that sentence didn’t come out right. Knew the words sounded cold and selfish. He fell quiet trying to unscramble what he meant in his own mind. His forearms were starting to hurt from the strain in his hands. But he couldn’t let go. “It’s just… everything that happened because of his dying, you know?” 

“I do.”

And Jacob believed he did know. Believed that Jenkins knew better than anyone else and had more practice with death than anyone he knew. 

“Sorry,” Jacob mumbled into Jenkins' chest. 

“If you’re going to apologize, please direct that apology at the mess you’ve been leaving everywhere for the last two weeks, and not for taking a few moments of comfort from someone willing to offer it.” 

Jacob felt himself smile a little at the words. 

One of Jenkins' hands left his back and moved to his arm. “Let go.” Jacob tensed immediately, but Jenkins continued quickly, “just with this arm. That’s all. Just so we can get up to your room, my boy.” Jenkins soothed when Jacob’s arm showed no sign of loosening its hold. “I won’t let you go.” 

Jacob squeezed his eyes shut. Jenkins wouldn’t lie to him. If Jenkins said he wouldn’t let go then he wouldn’t. It was that simple. He knew it was that simple, but he still had to use every ounce of strength left in him to force his fingers to release their grip.

Jenkins didn’t let go. 

“You’re alright.” Jenkins reassured him, as his thumb gently rubbed the area where the muscle in Jacob’s forearm met his elbow. The motion soothed the aching muscle, but all Jacob really cared about was that Jenkins wasn’t letting go. After a moment Jenkins shifted so that Jacob was pressed against his side. “Let’s get you upstairs.” 

True to his word, Jenkins did not let go the entirely too long walk to Jacob’s room. Distantly, Jacob noted that the other man had chosen a rather circuitous route and figured that he was doing so to prevent them from being seen by the rest of the team. That distant, quiet part was grateful, but the rest of him was focused on making sure his grip didn’t falter on the fabric he held with his one hand.

His bones and muscles groaned in his forearm, protesting their continued and frenzied use, but he paid it no mind as they trudged forward. All that mattered was he didn’t let go. All that mattered was that Jenkins didn’t let go.

The door opened and he was led to the bed where they sat down side by side. His hand hadn’t let go of Jenkins despite the awkward angle that it was in now.

“Come here,” Jenkins muttered, guiding the younger man back to his chest. “You did well, my boy, very well.”

He tried to remember the last time he’d gotten genuine praise, but the only person that came to mind was Chris when he’d finally gotten the job at the Library and escaped their father’s iron grip.

No, he realized, he’d gotten praise since then, just not from family. From Eve when missions were accomplished, or he protected his teammates. From Jenkins when he’d gotten a complex concept down from a lecture or briefing. From Cassandra when she gushed about his versatile use of language. From Flynn when he’d shown outstanding leadership within the group. Even from Ezekiel when he handled a situation better than expected.

He’d gotten praise from the outside (maybe inside since he was in the Library more than he was at home). He just hadn’t thought of it until he was forced to think of it. 

He wasn’t completely in control of his voice and wasn’t sure when he decided to speak or why his tone had a nearly childlike quality. “Don’t let go.” 

“I’m not going to,” Jenkins’ arms tightened around him, “I promise, I won’t let go until you want me to.”

It was a good promise. The kind made by someone who doesn’t break promises. Jacob took a deep breath amazed at how much space there seemed to be in his chest now that he wasn’t packed to the brim. 

He closed his eyes and kept taking one breath after another. It felt easier, now. Manageable. He’d unpacked just enough. He could always add more later, if he needed to. There was room now. 

He let the hand still holding on to Jenkins relax just a little. Just enough to ease the pain in his fingers and arm. He couldn’t let go completely. Even if he was tired. He’d been hauling so much around for so long. 

He found himself drifting to sleep and tried to force himself awake. Every time he caught himself just as his hand was starting to relax.

Jenkins was saying something, but the words were too far away to understand. 

Jacob’s last coherent thought before he fell asleep was an unspoken plea to the man holding him against his chest: please, don’t let go.

Jacob didn’t have dreams often. He didn’t know when he’d stopped going to sleep with his imagination running rampant, but he’d dreamt that night.

Butterfly weeds and cigarettes.

He remembered that smell being there. He’d remembered laughter and warmth and safe hugs. He hadn’t dreamt of his mother in so long he’d nearly forgotten what it was like to have her visit him when he slept at night.

He buried his face into the warmth next to him, chasing after a time when his mother was alive.

But his mother wasn’t alive.

His eyes snapped open, and he stared at the white fabric with complete and utter disbelief. It took a second for him to remember the night before when he’d been ripped open and sewn back together.

I promise I won’t let go until you want me to.

There was a perplexing mixture of joy and embarrassment in remembering those words and knowing that it was fulfilled.

He in equal parts wanted to throw himself away and bury himself deeper into the man. He hated contradictions, most especially when it came to his emotions. It meant he couldn’t act and not acting led to fights and scoldings and—

“Good morning.”

Hiding it was.

He gripped the fabric under his hands tightly despite how sore his forearms were. He dipped further under the covers and hid his face in Jenkins’ side where he muttered a greeting. He elected to not think about how he’d come to be under the covers on his bed because it would pack more things into him, and he’d just unpacked.

A hand gently massaged his neck. “Hiding won’t help.”

Jacob shook his head. “Lemme alone.”

Jenkins squirmed slightly. “Does this mean you want me to let go?”

Jacob didn’t know he could hold onto him any tighter, but somehow he’d managed. He shook his head again, unable to voice his desire as easily as he had the night prior. These moments were much easier in the dark than they were in the light.

Jenkins squirmed again. “Alright but quit moving.”

“Why?” Jacob muttered petulantly as he moved just enough to look up at the man.

The older man’s lips twitched as he squirmed again. When he’d regained his composure, he glowered down at Jacob as if he knew what he was doing—which he didn’t.

“Because I asked,” he said simply.

Realization dawned on him and brought forth a quiet, halting chuckle as he tried to keep his composure. But the more he thought about it, the harder he laughed and the deeper into Jenkins’ side he had to go to muffle his laughter and the more Jenkins squirmed.

He’d never thought Jenkins—who was once the greatest knight of Camelot and was currently the curmudgeon of their team—to be ticklish.

A burst of laughter above him sent him further into his laughing fit until Jacob found himself breathless.

Jenkins, apparently having had enough, hauled the younger man up until Jacob had no choice but to laugh into his neck until it subsided back into sporadic chuckles.

“Are you finished?” Jenkins demanded, though there was no heat in his words.

Jacob pinched his lips together to halt the last chuckle and nodded.

“Good,” he huffed while practically stuffing Jacob’s face into his neck as if he didn’t want to look at him after having his secret exposed. “We can discuss your horrendous habits now.”

The laughter that had bubbled up in him disappeared as suddenly as darkness when the light came on. He was left with no small amount of apprehension in his soul where that humor had been.

“Don’t wanna talk about it,” he grumbled, glad that he’d been made to hide in Jenkins’ neck.

“That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t talk about it.”

“Never been good at doing what I should,” he grumbled, knowing it was a lie.

“I’m very much aware. You barely clean up after yourself on a good day now that you’ve gotten comfortable here,” Jenkins groused as his fingers ran through dark hair rhythmically. “Your study material, your beer bottles, the books you’ve read for your entertainment. Strewn about the Annex as if you grew up in a barn.”

A huff of amusement. “Sorry.”

“No you’re not.” Arms tightened around him, and the hand went still. “What happened, Jacob?”

He’d thought he’d used up all his tears the night prior, but apparently not. Apparently, he’d had enough stored up from all the times he didn’t use them that he could spare some now.

“I…” He went back to gripping Jenkins’ shirt because it felt better when he was holding him. He was more solid than the sand he’d gripped most of his life. “My daddy’s not answering my calls. I think he blames me for Uncle Jess’ death.”

The body under his stiffened. “Why would you be to blame?”

“Something about how I broke his heart when I left the company and put more stress on him, so he’d have a heart attack,” he grumbled.

“You know that’s not true, don’t you?”

“Logically? Yes. Emotionally? I mean… last time he got a heart attack it was saving my ass.”

It had been raining that night and he’d overestimated himself when driving home after a party. A deer had come out of nowhere and he’d ended up in a ditch on the side of the road. His dad hadn’t picked up and his friends were drunk as skunks, so he’d turned to the only one he’d ever been able to rely on as an adult figure that still lived in town. Uncle Jess had always been the first or second call growing up—at least after his Aunt Marge moved for work two states away—so it was natural.

Uncle Jess had been furious with him, but ultimately relieved he was alright. It wasn’t until they were nearly to the house that he’d doubled over in pain. Jacob remembered being terrified, had tried to get them to switch seats so they could go to the hospital, but Uncle Jess wouldn’t let him. In the end, he’d used his uncle’s phone to call his father (he always resented that his daddy picked up for his brother but not for his son) and Isaac had rushed over to get them to the hospital.

It was one of the worst nights of Jacob’s life.

He told Jenkins this and elaborated on the complex web of emotions that Jacob himself couldn’t begin to understand. He loved his family. He wouldn’t have stuck around as long as he had if he hadn’t. But he hated what they’d done to him. They’d broken him to the point where he didn’t feel like he could trust anyone ever again.

He didn’t take out everything and place it in Jenkins’ hands—there wasn’t enough time in the world for that—he gave as much as he could, as much as he was willing in order for the current situation to make sense.

And Jenkins listened and never let go.

When there were no more words, Jacob sat in silence, waiting for everything he’d placed in Jenkins’ hands to be slammed to the ground as others had done before him.

He didn’t. Instead, Jenkins took everything and refused to drop them; refused to give them back. Instead, he took them and gently placed them in his own boxes as if he had more than enough room for them.

Jacob’s tears continued, not with sorrow or resentment, but with relief.

He’d finally been able to unload the burdens that had made his bones ache from the strain of keeping them in. There was someone in this world that he could trust. Someone who could help unpack his boxes, even the ones filled with the most fragile of things. 

The silence wasn’t tense. Not really. He knew Jenkins wouldn’t act like his daddy.

But he didn’t know what the man would say either.

Jacob didn’t know what he wanted the older man to say. He didn’t want pity. He didn’t want Jenkins to feel sorry for him. He just wanted… he didn’t know what he wanted. 

Thankfully, Jenkins knew what to say. 

“You’ve been keeping this locked away inside for years?” 

Jacob nodded, he hadn’t looked up into the dark brown eyes that could see straight into his soul the entire time he’d told his story, but he glanced up cautiously, now. But Jenkins pushed lightly down on his head keeping him in place on his shoulder. Jacob was more than happy to comply. 

“Yeah. I mean, last time I—” he stopped. He’d asked Jenkins to unpack enough already. 

“Last time?” 

“I tried talking to my daddy once. About this stuff. It didn’t go well.” Jacob shrugged, “I didn’t try again.” 

“I’d imagine not.” 

Jacob could tell that Jenkins was doing his best to keep a neutral tone. It came naturally to him most of the time. He’d seen a lot of stuff over the centuries, after all. But Jacob would have bet good money that if he could listen to Jenkins say those words again he’d have heard just a touch of scorn in the words. 

“Sorry,” Jacob didn’t know what else to say. 

“Stop that.”

Jenkins had a way of giving commands in the softest way possible. 

Jacob’s lips turned up just slightly and with impish delight he replied, “Sorry.” 

Jacob didn’t know where Jenkins grabbed the spare pillow from, but he laughed when it came crashing down on his head with a squashy thump. His laughter died shortly afterwards. 

“Jacob,” Jenkin’s voice was still soft, but slightly more serious than before, “promise me something.” 

Jacob deflected without hesitation. “That I won’t tell everyone you’re ticklish? I can’t make any promises about that.”

Jenkins ignored him. “Promise me that you won’t wait until you’re about to explode before you confide in someone.” 

Jacob squirmed a little.

That really was the problem wasn’t it? Sure he’d let Jenkins help this time. Well, had a complete breakdown when Jenkins happened to be standing right in front of him and Jenkins was nice enough to catch him when that happened, but…next time? What would he do next time? Would he be able to know when there was too much built up inside him again? Before it was too late? 

He’d spent a long time packing stuff away, and he wasn’t sure he knew just how much a normal box was supposed to carry and for how long. How would he know when to start unpacking things if things weren’t ready to explode? 

He wanted to hide, again. Jenkins had kept his promise: he hadn’t let go. Jacob couldn’t do the same. He couldn’t make a promise he couldn’t keep simply because he didn’t know how to keep it.

“Jacob?” 

He kept silent, and after a moment felt Jenkins sigh. 

“Eventually,” Jenkins began talking in a tone that was somewhere between his lecturer voice and his theoretical curiosity voice. “You’re going to speak to your father. Or your brother will send you another text message. What will you do when that happens?” 

Jacob shrugged the best he could while not relinquishing his hold. 

“How will it make you feel?” 

Miserable. Jacob knew the answer to that question. He would feel miserable just like he did nearly every time he was around or spoke to a member of his family lately. 

“The next time that happens. The next time you feel whatever that feeling is when you talk to them, promise that you’ll come talk to me. Or someone else if you feel more comfortable with that person.”

Jacob considered the request.

It was easier. Talk to daddy then go talk to Jenkins. Get a text from Chris then go talk to Jenkins. That made sense. He could do that. 

“Okay,” Jacob agreed. 

“Thank you.” Jacob felt Jenkin’s chin rest on the top of his head for a moment. “Thank you, my boy.” 

Jacob turned his head into Jenkin’s shirt and took a few deep breaths. He took in the smell of ancient magic, rich tea, and archaic books. He didn’t want to forget that smell. And unlike all the baggage he’d tried to pack and store away and forget about. He wanted to keep that scent in his mind tucked away but easily accessible, and maybe next time he went home, and the feelings of love and loathing got too mixed up inside him—when that happened he could make a cup of tea with cardamom. Or find an old book. And remember what it felt like to have someone that kept promises. 

Someone who wouldn’t let go.