Archive of Our Own ^beta

Warm water rains down on him plastering his curls to his forehead, Steven pushes them out his eyes and squints at the bottle on the shelf. He's rinsed off most of the soap, some bubbles still clinging to his shoulders but he was almost ready to finish up his shower when he spotted the dark green bottle. There's a heft to it and he realizes once it's in his hands it's glass. Steven frowns, he's never seen it before.

The label is printed on the glass itself and when he rubs his thumb over the surface he can feel the raised letters. He has to hold it close to read the small print. Soap, or body wash according to the label, posh looking and from what he can tell expensive.

“What's that?”

Marc's curious voice startles him so bad he nearly drops the bottle.

“Oi!” Steven's eyes snap to the ceiling and he covers his dick with one hand. “We agreed no tandem showers!” His face is as hot as a furnace and he wonders if Marc can tell. Probably.

Steven feels Marc's laugh. “It's my dick too, buddy.”

“Not while I'm wearing it,” Steven grumbles.

Marc huffs another laugh. Steven supposes he could have phrased that better.

“What's that,” he repeats.

Eyes dropping back to the bottle, Steven shrugs. “Soap.”

A gentle pressure at his neck pushes Steven closer and lifts his hand. It used to bother him to have Marc shove him about when he was in control of the body, now it feels like a soft nudge, an invitation instead of a demand.

His eyes scan the bottle, reading closely.

“Kelp?”

His eyebrows raise, Steven's seen soaps with ingredients like honey, vanilla, fruits and flowers but this one is new.

“Seaweed, huh?” Steven muses. “Well, according to this it's great for your skin.”

Marc hums, Steven feels a wave of discontent roll over his mind. “He's just making himself at home, isn't he?”

Guilt and discomfort make their home in Steven's belly. “That's what we wanted isn't it?”

They've gotten good at this, talking about him without talking about him. He's so new and unknown, they have no common language yet or idea how to communicate, he's like an alien landing in their flat. Marc is upset that he's been hidden from them for so long, kept in the dark. Steven thinks it's a bit hypocritical but keeps that to himself.

Marc's presence is already retreating, the press against his mind fading. Off to sulk.

“It's not safe to have glass in the shower.”

Then he's gone. Steven puts the bottle gently back on the shelf because Marc's not wrong and shivers. He's dilly-dallied and the waters gone cold. Rinsing quickly, Steven wonders what else Jake has added to their home.

Steven wants to co-front with Jake but he's a hard man to pin down. In and out like a thief in the night. It would worry him more if Jake was still working for the old vulture.

On more than one occasion Steven has been called nosy, mostly by Marc. Steven thinks it's a natural byproduct of finding out your life is a lie but he'll admit he's always been incredibly curious. And here he thought it was one of his better qualities.

Each of them has two drawers in the dresser and hanging space in the closet. Marc's grey, black and dark blue shirts form a shadow that butts against Steven's bright, patterned button ups. More than once he's caught Marc, the arsehole, trying to throw one out when he does the laundry.

Jake's clothes are different, stark white shirts and dark trousers, the occasional dark greys thrown in the mix. What strikes Steven as odd is how identical they are, Jake buys clothes like he's buying a uniform. A neat row of white shirts hangs next to his own bright clothes and before he can stop himself Steven rubs a sleeve between his thumb and fingers.

“Oh,” he murmurs.

It's soft and somehow slick at the same time, sliding over his fingers like water. The callouses on his hands catch the fabric, there's a roughness to his hands built in by Moon Knight that hasn't faded and it frustrates him that he can't feel the fabric properly.

Without thinking, Steven brings the sleeve to his cheek and caresses it against his skin. He hums and closes his eyes. It must feel so nice to wear.

“You like it?”

The low rumble startles Steven, his eyes snapping open. Even know that he's heard the voice, Steven still can't feel Jake the way he does Marc. They'd gotten closer and didn't need reflections as much to communicate and understand each other.

Jake was another matter entirely. He's wearing Steven's clothes and his face but that's all they have in common. Jake's expression is blank, or inscrutable, or Steven can't read it. It makes him nervous and guilty.

“It's nice. Very soft,” Steven says. He realizes the sleeve is still in his hand and drops it. “Do you like it? Of course you do, silly Steven. You bought it. You wouldn't buy something you didn't like. That's crazy.”

The corner of Jake's mouth quirks, like he might smile. He doesn't, his eyes bored into Steven, they could be disinterested or they could be furious.

Just then Steven realizes how obvious it is that he was snooping, he's dressed and not going anywhere so there's no reason to change, there's no laundry to put away because Marc insists on doing it himself.

“I was just...” Touching your clothes. Examining you from a distance. Trying to solve you. “Going through my wardrobe. I have a lot more stuff than the two of you and some of it I haven't worn in ages so it's time for purge. Out with the old, you know?”

Committing to his lie, Steven starts digging through his collection and feels his heart sink. He likes them all and looks like these are hard to find. Keeping the frown off his face as he watches a pile form on the bed, Steven glances at the mirror. Jake is still there. He can sort of sense his presence now, nothing like Marc where their emotions bleed into each other but feeling of other, of being watched.

Once the pile gets to almost heartbreaking, with enough shirts and trousers and cozy jumpers filling a plastic bag, Steven turns to Jake with an awkward grin.

“All done,” he says. Jake says nothing, just nods in a yes I can see that. “Thanks for keeping me company, mate.” It surprises Steven how sincerely he means it.

Jake does his almost smile. “I have a shift tonight. I'll take it to a thrift store for you.”

Steven's smile strains as he wilts inside.

“Cheers.”

Crumbs from his crisps keeping falling from his mouth and landing on the page, Steven brushes them carefully to the side so they don't fall into the center of the book and get stuck. It would be easier to maybe sit up straighter and not hunch over his desk, or move the book back a bit, or really it would be smart to not eat crisps while reading but he's hungry and can't be bothered to make a real meal.

Without looking up from the page Steven absently bites down on another crisp that turns to shrapnel under his teeth.

“You're wearin' more than you're eatin' ya know.” Marc looks ridiculous. Steven's reading glasses perched on his nose, about to fall off, crumbs scattered across his bottom lip and chin. The whole thing undercuts his serious countenance, glaring from the small mirror propped up on the desk.

It probably looks fine on me, Steven thinks. But he does wipe his mouth and chin with his sleeve.

Marc's nose wrinkles briefly, but then his expression hardens.

“Have you been missing any time?”

This is a new habit of Marc's, clandestine meetings where they swap suspicions and compare notes. Spying on someone in your own head can be difficult and Steven's been conscripted to the cause, he's not sure if he's doing it right, or if he wants to do it at all.

“No more than usual,” he whispers. He feels like a knob, volume won't disguise their conversation but Steven can't help it. “Bound to happen with three blokes in one head.”

“We need to keep an eye out,” Marc says sternly. “Track our time and make sure he's going where he says he's going.”

He feels guilty, trying to spy on someone when he himself felt so broken open when he found out his life was practically a telly program for Marc to watch. “He says-”

“He says he's driving a cab. I know. He also says he's done with Khonshu.”

Steven opens his mouth to inject but Marc cuts him off, “We don't know for sure. Khonshu is a god and a damned good liar. Jake is dangerous, Steven.”

Shrugging with his eyes glued to the page, Steven wipes at the crumbs on the desk. “You're dangerous. Were dangerous.”

Glancing back up Steven winces. Marc's got that haunted soldier look again, thin frown and sad eyes that say determination and perseverance but fail to hide the hurt underneath.

“You saw what he did in Cairo.” Marc's eyes bore into Steven's, commanding him not to look away. “That wasn't the first time he's killed.”

There's a creepy caf full of bodies you put there, he wants to say. He won't of course, because that would be cruel and Marc doesn't deserve that. Instead Steven nods.

“Good. Keep your eyes peeled okay, buddy? Don't-” Marc hesitates, “don't spend too much time alone together.”

If there's a way to avoid someone living in your head, Steven can't think of it, but he nods and some tension leaks out of Marc. A grin tugs at the corners of his mouth.

“Maybe you could keep your eyes peeled for ants too. How much of that are you wearing?”

Straightening up Steven spots a decent pile of crumbs pooled in his lap, he'd been wiping them off his books and onto himself for the last half hour. His cheeks burn with embarrassment.

“Steven,” Marc admonishes.

Steven tosses a crisp at the mirror, it bounces off Marc's laughing face.

Staccato taps on metal come fast and furious. A drum beat that surrounds on all sides but is loudest above his head. In the dark his consciousness swims towards the sound.

“Ohh,” Steven hums happily. He's always loved the sound of rain.

“Mierda,” Jake hisses, low and almost inaudible.

For a split second tension seeps into mind, a tight grip of edge and vigilance that shuts down suddenly, trapped behind a steel door. Steven's left with his own feeling of warm, joy and wonder, and a new blooming concern.

“Hi Jake.”

Adjusting to Jake's senses and the information he's taking in, Steven sees the inside of a car. Steering wheel in front of him, leather seat beneath him and a lake of water rushing down the windshield. They're in Jake's cab under a blanket of heavy rain.

“Hola Steven.” Jake avoids the mirror and windows, so Steven can't see his face but his tone is tired.

The rain taps, taps, taps on the roof of the car. Jake keeps his mouth shut as he stares at the steering wheel and awkwardness builds in Steven.

“I love the rain,” he blurts out. “I love the sound it makes, the flat is top floor so I can almost hear it hit the roof but I think it sounds best when you're in a car. I don't spend a lot of time in cars, so it's a real treat when I do and it rains.”

Jake hums. In the distance a bright flash of lightning lights up the sky and a second later a boom shakes the air. Steven thinks he can feel it in the bodies rib cage.

“Oh, I love that too. The way the thunder comes just a bit too late.” Without thinking, Steven crawls deeper into the bodies senses, he wants to feel the next boom.

Ironically, it's like being hit by lightning. Heart beating in double time, tense muscles and a jaw clenched tight enough to shatter teeth. The feeling is electric and it shocks Steven.

Jake's fear arcs into Steven and for a moment he wants to run, dive back into the darkness like a kid hiding under the covers.

“Jake?”

“I don't like storms,” Jake rumbles, his voice it's own kind of thunder. “I don't like rain.”

“Oh.”

There's a strange secrecy to their memories, no one really knows what the others remember. He's in the dark about a lot of their lives, given the Coles notes by Marc in the Duat. In his reading about their condition Steven learned about all sorts of roles different alters play, protectors, caretakers, fictives. There's some whose job it is to hold bad memories. Steven's always wanted to figure out where he fit into these roles but Marc was adamant that he has no job so he dropped it.

It's not an easy trick, he's done this for Marc when he's had panic attacks or nightmares, and he has no idea how Jake will react but Steven's determined. From his perch in the body, he focuses all his energy on a movement. He pictures it in his mind, the soft weight and slow movement.

Jake freezes. His shoulders tense and raise like a startled cat, his breath gets caught in his throat. Steven continues to rub his back with comforting circles. He feels his own effort as a warm, ghostly hand.

Slowly, the tension eases, second by second, melting away. After an hour Jake's slumped back against his seat, breathing slow and deep.

“Should we go home?” Steven asks softly, continuing the comforting movement.

“Sí.”

Jake turns the key and the car comes to life with a rumble. A deep bass accompanying the smattering of taps above them. Reaching up with a gloved hand Jake adjusts the rearview mirror, catching his own eyes. Catching Steven's eyes.

“Gracias.”

The mirror is too small to show the smile that lights up Steven's face, but he has no doubt Jake can feel it.

“Any time.”

“For you,” he said before disappearing completely.

Steven spins in a little circle, looking for Jake despite knowing he won't be found. “What?”

The jumper was folded up on their bed, the bag it came in tosses to the floor. Knit in a pattern of tight, little squares in a handsome cream color, the jumper is paradoxically simple and expensive looking. The yarn is soft and the knots and bumps add a lovely texture that feels nice in his hands.

Steven buries his face in the material and breaths in the clean scent. It would be nice if it smelled like Jake. Jake always smells nice, when he doesn't he smells like cigarettes, though he says he doesn't smoke. Steven wouldn't mind if the jumper smelled like cigarettes, not too much.

When he's done smelling Steven tries it on and is pleased to see how well it fits, like it was made for him. It's probably meant for special occasions but he wears it the rest of the day, carefully of course. He's not used to fancy things and he knows this jumper is fancy. More than that it's a gift, the thought brings a flutter to his belly.

Steven eats his lunch hunched over the sink, he's too messy an eater to be trusted with nice things.

“That's the wrong order.”

A wave of frustration ripples through the system. No, two waves.

Steven was sleeping. The thing about sleeping in the mind was that there was no gradual wake up, no long yawns or bleary eyes, just sudden wakefulness.

“This is stupid. We don't need all this.” That's Marc's voice, he's annoyed but the kind of annoyed he gets when he doesn't understand something. Marc hates when things don't come naturally, he feels self-conscious and makes it everyone else's problem.

Co-consciousness is a juggling act, or it feels like it to Steven and with all three of them it can be a mess. Therefore they don't do it often but Steven believes practice makes perfect and besides he's curious. Still he hangs back, wanting to see what they do on their own.

“You can use this crap on your own time,” Marc huffs. There's bottles and jars set out on the sink. Like the soap in the shower, they look fancy and expensive. Marc's holding a razor with a wooden handle and wicked sharp blades. Steven squirms a little just looking at them, he feels much safer with his plastic disposables.

“It doesn't work if you use it some of the time, idiota.” Jake snaps. “It's my face too.”

Marc glares at the products below him. “This is unnecessary, a waste of money and time.”

Steven sighs. Marc could be practical to a fault. Maybe he thought he didn't deserve little comforts, to feel nice. Steven wouldn't put it past him to think that way. It hurts to think about.

Marc sneers at the mirror. “I didn't think you'd be such a prima donna, Lockley.”

Jake bristles and Steven shoves himself into the mix.

“What's that?” Sometimes Steven forgets he's not in charge of the body, so when he points at a pot of cream mentally he's sure no one understands what he means.

“This?” Marc says, tapping a bottle with his finger.

“No, next to it.”

It looks buttery but solid, a swirl of fine lines have been carved into the surface like it's been run over by a paint brush.

“Shaving cream,” Jake answers. Steven can feel his eye roll.

“Doesn't look like it.”

“You put water on the brush and make a lather.”

Marc's eyes flit over to the thick, bristly brush and Steven makes an 'ah' sound.

“After,” Jake says pointedly, “you prepare the skin.”

Running his hand over their scruff, Marc drops the razor on the counter. “This is stupid,” he mutters.

“Marc, smell that one.”

Really, he should be trying to diffuse the situation but he's a bit enthralled with the set up, besides the cream looks like it will smell nice.

“You know what? You do it,” Marc mutters. He pulls back, giving up the driver's seat and letting the wheel drift. He probably expected Jake to take the front but it's Steven who finds himself standing in front of the mirror.

“Oh.”

Marc and Jake watch him from two separate plains of glass, a whirl of confusion circles the system that leaves them all disoriented. Steven expected Marc to retreat entirely but his scowling face stays put. Jake watches him with that inscrutable look and Steven feels like an actor in a play who's forgotten all his lines.

So he starts smelling. Picking up each pot and bottle Steven brings them to his nose and inhales, some are woodsy, others somehow smell like salty sea air. He rubs the lotions between his fingers, surprised to find how soft the textures are.

“'s nice,” he says, breathing in the scent of eucalyptus.

Jake looks away. “I like nice things.” He shrugs, it's almost casual. “Never had nice things before.”

Turmoil tangles in the back of his mind, it's not his though Jake's words break his heart. Marc retreats dragging the feeling with him but only so far. He's still there on the edge. Listening.

“So,” Steven says, looking over the line up. “Who's first?”

When Layla kissed his cheek she let out a soft 'oh' and smiled. Steven grinned like a loon.

Sharing a blanket tossed over their laps Steven and Layla marathon some grisly true crime show, the lights are low and the grim voiced narrator tells another story or murder. Four episodes in, they're trying to guess who the killer will be.

“Husband,” Layla mumbles through a mouth full of popcorn. Steven wrinkles his nose as a puffed piece falls from her mouth. She swallows the rest. “Always the husband.”

“Not the last one.” Steven's not one hundred percent sure. They've started to blend together.

Popping another piece of popcorn in her mouth, Layla shots him a knowing look. “The wife did it.”

Oh right, poisoned her husband and his mistress that one. If this program is to be believed all spouses are in danger of being murdered by their partner, no wonder Marc decided not to join them. The separation probably doesn't help. Steven worries the blanket in his fingers. It's a tough negotiation, a husband and his two alters and the life he lied about. They've been taking it slow. Everyone is getting to know each other again.

“It was refreshing seeing a woman do the killing,” Layla says with a shrug, snapping Steven out of his thoughts.

“What? Oh, yeah. Um, good on her.”

Layla gives him an odd look and Steven quickly adds, “Equality. Women can be murderers too. If they want.”

A tight lipped smile tugs pulls the corners of he mouth and Layla smothers a laugh.

“I mean they shouldn't-” Steven's cut off by Layla's bark of laughter. It's loud, un-lady like and she snorts but it's also contagious and they miss a whole segment of the program giggling.

Steven's wiping a tear from the corner of his eye when he feels the pressure. An awareness, the feeling of eyes looking over his shoulder. It's quiet, reserved and curious. Steven keeps his focus on the telly, Jake's interest is palpable and when Steven looks always so is his frustration.

The body was found encased in cement and buried in the woods behind the house, they're told.

Layla shakes her head. “Not how I would have done it. Look,” she says pointing, “he paid for the cement mix on his credit card. Idiot.”

Frowning, Steven shots Layla a little sideways glance. “Have a better plan do you?”

Shrugging, Layla watches the screen dispassionately. “Pay in cash for starters.”

“Don't use a hammer. Too messy.” Jake's voice sends a jolt up his spine.

“He made a huge mess and didn't clean it up right,” Layla unknowingly agrees.

“You gotta use the right bleach. DNA will stick around if you use the wrong kind.”

“Don't even get me started on the body disposal, it's practically in his backyard.” Layla waves her hand like a driver cut her off in traffic. Her tone incredulous, how could one man be so stupid it says.

Jake hums in agreement.

Shaking her head, Layla stuffs a handful of popcorn into her mouth, puffing out her cheeks. It occurs to Steven then that Layla and Jake haven't met, but have heard about each other.

He's not great at this, it often comes out jumbled and more a splash of emotions rather than words. Focusing on the question, Steven pushes a thought at Jake. “Do you want to take over?”

Jake jolts. A startled jump shots through them both. Once the shock wears off the feeling of Jake begins to recede.

“Wait wait! Don't go!” Steven's positive he's not communicating any understandable sentences but he shoves as much sincerity as possible in their meaning. “You don't have to talk. I'm sorry. Stay. Please?”

There's a hesitation and then Jake settles back in next to him, almost like he too is sharing the blanket. The show blurs a bit to Steven, he's too busy listening to Layla crunch her popcorn, her warmth pressed against his side and Jake's calm and relaxed presence in his mind.

The hammer is found with the man's finger prints in the blood.

“Just confess at this point,” Layla huffs.

Jake hums in agreement.

It's cool and dark and his only awareness is of his own unawareness. That is until panic blooms inside of him.

“Steven!”

The panic of others is disorienting, it comes in like a wave overwhelming his senses and overriding his brain with an instinct to run, run, run.

“Steven, where are you? Get your ass here now!” Jake's voice echoes from above. “Date prisa. Mierda. Date prisa.”

Steven's shot into consciousness like a cannon ball. The world is a watery blur, distantly he can feel icy sweat on his burning skin and his muscles are coiled tight and shaking. A low droning sound reverberates around him, a distressed noise escaping through clenched teeth echoing in his skull. He can't breath. He's frantic. He's afraid. He feels like he's going to die.

But it's not him, he's not fronting. The sensations are muted and the feelings overwhelming but they aren't his, they're Marc's.

Jake's presence is a frenzy of movement, swirling and rushing like an undertow. At first Steven has no idea what he's doing until he realizes Jake is trying to force a switch. Slamming against the door of their mind, trying to break it down to get to the other side.

Steven's swallowed up in the panic, adds his own terror and shock the already volatile mix.

“¡Quítate de en medio!”

Run. Run. Run. Run. Hide. Hide. Run. Hide.

They aren't words or thoughts but an all encompassing instinct so divided they can't move. Marc can't move. His shaking hands are clenched to the side of their head, digging nails deep into the scalp. Marc's pursued by a huge, lumbering beast sewn together from ghosts of the past. Frankenstein's monster made just for them. Through his own terror Steven feels her and it shocks him like a fork in a socket.

Jake slams again against the door and Steven wraps himself around the panicked alter, pushing a feeling of no, stop. Jake struggles but not hard enough to break free, if anything he coils into Steven.

“Marc,” Steven says, or thinks, trying to keep his presence calm. If he were fronting his breath would shudder. “ You're not in any danger. I've got you. We both do.”

The terror stays. It's a thick, soupy veil surrounding them, keeping them apart, Steven doesn't fight it but tries to let it roll through him.

“You don't need to run, okay? I'm here and your not alone.” A fresh wave of fear hits him. “It's alright, luv. We can be scared. We'll be scared together, how's that sound?”

“St'ven?” Marc hisses through clenched teeth, voice brittle and rough.

A hint of clarity pushes through the fog and Steven shoves his best comforting thoughts back; compassion, love and care. “With a V.”

The body's sense dial back in, the hard surface under their legs, the stretch on their spine. They're kneeling on the ground, forehead nearly touching the floorboards. Their body aches like they've been running for days.

Jake is a ball of anxious vibration, clinging to his consciousness like a barnacle. They're so tightly wound Steven feels less like Steven but some kind of new thing, JakeSteven or StevenJake. It's hard to do while so locked out of the body but they focus their energy on a feeling of comfort. JakeSteven reaches out and with a trembling hand and with gentle pressure rubs soothing circles on the body's back.

The ghostly sensation startles Marc and their muscles seize. JakeSteven stops and wait for the tension to ease. Bit by bit something relaxes and the door keeping them out dissolves. A rush of fresh sensation pours forward and they are nearly swept away in the panicfearpainpainpainpain.

JakeSteven is pulled in several directions at once run!hide! And givemethebody! And Marchelpme!Wemustrun!

“We're not in danger.” They don't know who says it but it works.

“We're not in danger.” They repeat and begin the soothing motions, picturing the feeling and giving it to the body. An invisible hand rubbing slow circles on it's back.

The hands in Marc's hair unclench and the nails are pulled from the scalp. He clears their throat roughly. “Steven?”

“Right here,” JakeSteven answers, more Steven than Jake but they're too entwined for only one to have spoken. “We've got you.”

The body shudders, Marc gives up control and neither Steven or Jake takes over. Instead Marc folds into them, emotions and consciousness bleeding in to each other. Marc and Jake and Steven's minds brush together, no memories are shared or personalities shifted, just an immutable statement of fact; not alone.

Tears and sweat fall of their face and their hands cupping their head and resting on the floor. They're knees burn and the bend in their back will give them grief for a while, they must look like they're praying, kneeling in the dark.

Curled up in their mind, JakeStevenMarc lets the world go soft.

“Bugger,” Steven mutters, pushing his reading glasses back up his nose and frowning at his phone.

He's gotten it wrong four times now, he's never had a great streak per se but usually he gets it in three. Usually. Steven huffs and drops his head back against the headboard, Wordle isn't supposed to be this hard.

Stretching the cramps out of his legs, even to the tips of his toes Steven tries to work out the leftover stiffness in the body. The bed is soft but in his condition it might as well be made of rocks. He's cracking his neck when he becomes aware of another presence.

“Hi Marc.”

“Hey Steven,” Marc says tentative and quiet. If he weren't holding on so tight Steven imagines he could feel Marc's shame.

“Feelin' alright?” Steven knows Marc won't want to take about it but he couldn't not ask.

“Fine,” Marc grumbles.

Humming noncommittally, Steven decides not to point out that no, you are not fine, Marc Spector, and we should talk about it, I would never judge you, I want to help, you are the most frustrating person I've ever met. Instead Steven enters another word.

“Bullocks,” he grouses.

A curious pressure leans in, like someone reading over his shoulder. If Marc knows the answer he doesn't say, instead he settles into the copilots seat. Steven glances at the closet mirror and smiles, they look awful but Marc smiles back.

“You're bad at that,” he says.

“Oi! Am not. This one's just no good. Probably not even a word.” Steven waves his phone at Marc. “You wanna give it a go?”

Shaking his head, Marc leans back in the reflected bed and frowns at the ceiling. “So Jake saw my, uh, my-” Marc waves his hand in circles in a you know fashion.

“Yeah, he was there.” Steven watches Marc closely while also searching their mind any clues as to what the other man is feeling. Marc remains closed off and his reflection is all Steven has to work with.

No follow up questions are asked or comments made. Steven should probably let Marc digest this information in his own time.

“Lucky he was there, don't you think?” Marc's eyes snap to him and Steven plows on, “I mean, I think he brought me up and he was trying to help you. Granted it was a bit confusing at times, a lot confusing. I'm still learning all this headspace stuff ya know? Like where are we when we're not,” Steven gestures between the two of them, “you know? It's like sleeping but not sleeping. A coma? I don't know where I was but I felt something calling to me and-”

“Trunk.” Jake's rough voice startles them both. Marc sits up and looks around him frantically, Steven searches the flat even though he knows the sound came from inside his head.

“What?”

“It feels like riding in the trunk.” Jake's not in any reflective surface but Steven can feel the press of another consciousness, it's tentative and he's sure if he moved to suddenly it would be gone.

“You mean the boot?” Steven asks, Americanisms still confuse him. “Of a car?”

Jake huffs, or whatever the mental version of a huff is. “Yes, Steven the boot.”

Marc's frowning again. “Sounds bad when you say it like that.”

A psychic shrug is felt in their system. “Not bad. Sometimes it's more like the backseat. You can see the road, sleep if you want to, hide from the driver.”

“Yeah?” Marc bristles. “You do that a lot?”

A sensation of unapologetic surety spreads out from Jake. The absolute certainty that hiding and watching was fine because, and Steven's sure he didn't meant to share this, it meant Jake could protect them.

“All the time.” Jake says bluntly. Settling in a little closer, his emotions become easier to discern. “I have to protect you two idiotas.” Suddenly Steven feels the fondness and frustration of the parent of two accident prone, possibly slow children. It's condescending and a bit sweet.

“You don't have to protect us.” Steven says gently.

Like a light switch being flipped their system is hit by a rush of emotions so fast it's hard to grasp any one of them. Grief, fear, anger, concern, guilt, and something underneath that pulses like a heartbeat, a purpose, a duty.

“Yes, I do.” Jake's voice is firm and final. “ I watch, I hide, I keep us safe. Without me we would have died a dozen times over. We didn't live an easy life, did we Soldado?”

Marc's expression twists with anger and guilt.

“Even when we were kids I-” Jake cuts himself off. The swirling miasma of his anger retreats into itself, not managing to hide completely as it shifts into shame. Their emotions are a fog and it's hard to tell whose is which.

No one says anything. Marc is frowning at his hands in his lap and Steven absently runs his fingers over the bumps on his phone case. Jake remembers their childhood.

If they were to rank who knew the most about their lives he knows he'd be dead last and while that still grinds his gears he's trying to make peace with it. He'd assumed that Marc knew the most since, well, since he was the original but Jake, mysterious as ever, has thrown a spanner in the works.

Jake knows more about Steven than Steven knows about himself, and he doesn't know Jake at all.

“What's your favorite color?”

“What?”

“¿Qué?”

“Your favorite color, what is it?” Steven looks at Marc who stares back with a deep, confused furrow in his brow.

“I don't have one because I'm not six.” Marc deadpans.

Steven waves him off dismissively. “What about you Jake?” There's a beat of silence and Steven wonders if maybe Jake left, went to boot again. “Mine's yellow. It's cheery you know? Can't really wear it, doesn't work with my- our complexion but it make's me happy when I see it. Lot's of nice things are yellow; the sun, some of the better flowers, ducklings...” Steven trails off, maybe favorite colors are for children.

“Green.” Jake adds thoughtfully and hesitantly, like he had to comb through his thoughts to find the answer. He doesn't offer up any particular reason why and Steven doesn't push.

“Great choice,” Steven says with a grin. He turns that grin to Marc who looks at the ceiling in resignation.

“Fine.” Marc wrinkles his nose in thought, searching for his own answer. “Blue.” His tone implies he didn't think hard and picked something at random but Steven's seen his wardrobe and it makes sense. Marc only wears one color.

“Thank you, Marc,” Steven says in the tone of a kindergarten teacher speaking to a stubborn child, “for participating.” Ire and annoyance bubbles up in their shared feelings and Steven grins wider. “Not as good as green or yellow but-”

“Azure,” Jake says out of nowhere.

“What?” That's a kind of blue, Steven thinks, light and rich. How many favorite colors does Jake have?

“The word, on your game.” Jake nudges their hand, the one with the phone in it. “The word is azure.”

With a frown, Steven pushes his glasses back up his nose and enters Jake's suggestion. The letters go green and a little box pops up with a 'phew!' Steven wasn't going to get that, of all the guesses he was going to make it wouldn't have been this one.

“Don't pout,” Jake teases. “You would have guessed it eventually.”

Marc laughs. “No, he wouldn't.”

“I'm not pouting,” Steven says, pouting a little. “And yes I would have, Marc.”

Marc turns his attention to Jake. “I don't know how a guy who reads as much as him spells as badly as he does.” Steven's indignant cry is ignored but Marc glances back at him. “I've seen you write 'business' three different ways and all of them were wrong.”

“I know the meaning of the words but sometimes I forget the-” Steven gestures vaguely. “-Shapes.”

A rumble of disbelief and laugh roll off Jake. “How the hell did you learn to read hieroglyphs?”

“Alright!” Steven climbs out of the bed and throws the bed sheet over Marc's grinning face in the mirror. “Piss off. Both of you.”

He stomps off to the kitchen, ignoring their little taunts and despite himself, enjoying their laughter and company.

He's not fronting, he'd been in that strange sort of sleep again, the backseat?

A smell lit up their neural pathways and Steven was pulled forward by the urge to investigate. Hot water rains down on their head, and slides down their body. The shower door has trapped all the mist in the stall and the room is pleasantly warm.

There's a new bottle on the shelf, a different shade of green but clearly by the same company that made the first. Marc rubs his thumb over the label, blinking water out of his eyes.

“What's that?” Steven leans in, trying to take hold of their senses. "What does it smell like?"

“Shampoo and I thought you didn't want to take tandem showers?” Marc's voice is gruff and teasing but he gives in and brings the bottle to their nose.

“Oh,” Steven hums. It smells clean and fresh, like trees and sky and outside and Steven doesn't know how anyone could make a scent that is so indescribable and familiar.

“'s nice.” Marc contemplates the bottle before pouring some of the shampoo in their hand, when he works it into their hair Steven's surprised by a gentle tingle on their scalp. He'd had every intention of leaving after discovering the smell but now he decides to stay, awkwardness be damned.

Curled up with Marc's consciousness, Steven enjoys the feel of the body. On the very edge of his awareness Steven thinks he can feel something beyond the tingle in their scalp and the warm water running over their skin; another curious mind wanting to share the sensations.

Steven makes list of what he knows about Jake. His favorite color is green, he has strong opinions about how to cover up crimes, he's scared of storms, he likes nice things, he's been watching for a very long time, he's killed people and he protects them.

If yellow is the color of happiness then maybe green can be the color of safety.