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Jake wakes with a start. His face is wet, and he lifts his hand up to touch it. It's not blood, for once. They're tears. His. Even worse. The bed under him is warm. Bed? Why is he here while they're in bed?
He curls onto his knees as he recalls the dream he's just woken up from. That's probably it. He can just barely remember bits of it as he remembers it for the first time, and even those bits are slipping from him now. Stupid. What's he supposed to do about a damn dream? It can't hurt him, and he can't hurt it.
He still feels unreasonably shaken. It was a dream. A dream about their stupid dead mom, that couldn't hurt him even if she was alive. He runs his hands up his arms, and takes note of the body sleeping next to them. Layla.
“Khonshu?” He whispers. Even his whisper is shaky. Weak. Maybe he's needed.
Silence.
“Spector?”
Nothing.
“Grant?”
Still nothing. Assholes.
He's still crying. He takes a deep breath and wipes his face a final time. Marc’s mom is dead. And if she wasn't, he'd take care of it. He knows he won't be able to sleep, but Layla is still asleep next to him. He doesn't want to have to talk to her if she wakes up. He slides out of the bed, gently as possible, and closes the bedroom door behind him.
He sifts through the desk drawer in the living room. He has no idea where his cigarettes are, and he can only assume Steven hid them. More likely threw them away. Damn bastard. He thumbs over the remote's buttons, picks at them with his thumbnail. He decides against turning the TV on. He feels wrong in this house, foreign. He guesses he's never had the opportunity to tour it the same way Marc and Steven do. He barely even considers it his house. His body sleeps here, sure, but he doesn't. The bed isn't his, nothing here is. He doesn't want to leave, either. If Khonshu had something for him to do, he would, of course, but it's all quiet on that front. He settles for the closest compromise he can get: Their balcony.
It's cool out, and Jake feels it'd be a nice temperature if he had a coat on. He shivers. Their new apartment is fairly high up. He distantly wonders if he called Matt's name if he could interrupt his rooftop hopping. He isn't sure how far away Matt could actually hear him from, or how far away they are from Hell's Kitchen anyways. Either way, he keeps quiet. He curls up in the chair, dragging his legs onto the seat with him. He feels so useless, waiting like a sitting duck. But what is there to do? Track down Marc's mother's grave to show their idiotic brain that she's dead? Whine for Khonshu to give him something to do, like a dog? If he isn't needed, he isn't needed.
So why is he the conscious one?
He hears the door slide open behind him, and he turns to see Layla. He turns back towards the balcony and the night sky.
She wordlessly sits in the chair next to him. For a few minutes, she's quiet. Then, she reaches a hand over, and places it on top of his. Jake's hand twitches. He doesn't pull away.
“...I'm not your husband, you know.” He mumbles, laying on his accent a little thicker than usual.
“I know.”
“Not your other husband either.”
“I know who you are, Jake.”
“Yeah, now that I've talked I'm sure you do.” He grumbles.
“I knew it when I came out here.”
Jake shifts his gaze to the side to meet Layla's stare. “Then why'd you come out here? Not like I'm goin’ anywhere in Spector's sleep shirt from a balcony.”
“I just thought you might need some company. Or a reason to come in. It's cold.” He notices the cardigan she has on looks especially soft. And warm.
“‘S perfectly fine out.”
Layla sighs. “I'm not stupid, Jake. It's cold out, and you came outside for a reason.”
He considers continuing to beat around the bush. He's a damn grown man, he can take care of himself, and he doesn't need someone else to check on him after a nightmare. But, he guesses he can't really fault her for checking in on someone who shares a body with her husband.
“Do you want me to come back inside?”
“Yes, I do. I want to know why you're out here, too.”
“... Didn't want to be inside.” He sees her purse her lips. “Not being sarcastic, Layla. I didn't want to intrude on your space.” He drags his hand out from under hers.
“My space? Jake, you live here.”
“No, I don't. Your two do.” Jake's eyes flit to Layla absent-mindedly toying with her wedding ring. “I touch something here, I touch someone here-” He points at her “-I bring something in here, I do damn anything in this place, I get shoved back in until Khonshu drags me out. So I'm not.”
“Jake.” He almost feels bad at the hurt on her face. “You're-”
“I'm right.” He stands up, and the chair clatters against the wall. He leans over the railing. “Go back to bed. I'll sleep on the couch.”
“...Don't stay out here. I'll leave, but don't go and do something stupid the second I do.”
“I told you, I'd come inside.” He growls. He can tell she's frustrated; even with how little he talks to her, Jake knows you don't just tell her what to do. She should know the same for him, shouldn't she? He doubts Marc and Steven tell her anything else about him other than he ‘doesn't listen.’ Like a disobedient child.
He hears the door slide open and shut behind him.
He stays out there for a good while. Hopes that, maybe, if he looks at the night long enough, Khonshu will appear out of it.
When he does come inside, there's a blanket and a pillow on the couch. Now, he guesses, Layla would know if he never came in if he doesn't touch either of them.
He stares out the window until sleep takes him.