Archive of Our Own

Jake is extremely aware that he is firmly a part of the Beholding, but sometimes—only sometimes— he thinks it might not be so bad to be taken by the Forsaken. Because—he’s been undercover, he’s been in WitSec, and here’s the kicker, right, because he’s been put in isolation when he was framed and sent to fucking jail.

It’s a little fucked up, actually, because there were times where he could have sworn that he’d seen fog creeping in, times where he shivered from a cold that wasn’t actually there.

And shit, but sometimes he wants to disappear into wherever that bastard Lukas goes when he’s not cozying up to Jonah. 

Jake is. Jake’s fine. Lingering trauma? What are you talking about? See a therapist? The last therapist he’d gone to was a subordinate of the Mother of Puppets, and Jake will be damned before he lets himself be vulnerable in front of Annabelle motherfucking Cane. (he’d both known and Known that the therapist Amy had set him up with was a fake. It was easy, really, because he’s a damn good detective and also because the Eye never leaves him alone.)

Anyway.

Jake is alone right now, right, and he’s fine. He’s so fine that he can’t breathe. He’s so fine, actually, that he definitely doesn’t want someone to distract him. Definitely not. He’s so totally fine that he’s on the floor and wheezing because he can’t get any breath in his lungs because all he can think about is—

“Jake?”

And the voice is so familiar and so British that Jake looks up on instinct to see—

“You’re dead,” he croaks out, staring at the somehow-not-ghostly body of Gerry. “The Archivist burned your page.” How is he here? How didn’t Jake Know?

“The End took offense to me dying again,” Gerry says with a wry smile, sitting down next to Jake. “Where's your girlfriend? Why isn’t she here?”

“Wife,” Jake corrects. “She’s at a work thing, I dunno. Voluntary presentation.”

“You could have called her.”

Jake snorts, and it comes out a bit more wild than he’d have liked. “No,” he gasps, “no, she doesn’t—she doesn’t need to deal with me right now.”

“You’re not a burden,” Gerry says, taking Jake’s hand and curling it around his own wrist. It’s said with the long-suffering exhaustion of an argument that has been discussed at length, of a debate that neither side has won. Jake breathes with the steady beat of Gerry’s pulse, not answering. “Okay. So what set it off?”

“Nothing,” Jake whispers, tiredness setting in. He leans his head on Gerry’s shoulder, breathing in through his nose. “Seriously. It just…there was nothing.”

Gerry makes a sympathetic noise. 

“Wait,” Jake says, now that he can think somewhat logically. “How are you here?”

And apparently that’s Mike’s cue to wander in from the kitchen, holding a cup of tea. “Hey,” he says with a half-wave. 

“Hey,” Jake responds dumbly. He turns back to Gerry. “You voluntarily got Vast’d?”

Gerry shrugs. “It’s not that bad if you haven’t pissed off the bloke throwing you in.”

“Oh, yeah. How is the Archivist, by the way?”

“Jon,” Gerry corrects lightly. At Jake’s inquisitive look, he explains, “it’s basically—me with being called Gerard.” He wrinkles his nose.

“Ah.”

“You still haven’t met him, then?” Mike asks, dropping down at Jake’s other side. “He’s not too bad, actually. Polite. I think the Eye is a bit much for him sometimes, though.”

“Asked questions even when he was trying not to?” Jake asks. Mike nods. “Yeah, I get that. It’s hard not to accidentally Compel someone, especially if you haven’t fully accepted it or you’re still new to it.” 

“Speaking from experience?” Gerry asks dryly. Jake smirks wryly at him. 

“You’re married now, huh,” Mike says after a moment of silence. 

“Yeah. Crazy, right?” A smile spreads across Jake’s face, unable to stop it at the thought of Amy. 

“And you didn’t invite us?” Gerry’s tone is playful, teasing, but Jake ducks his head. 

“I—okay, so, here’s the thing—”

“...You haven’t told her, have you,” Gerry says. Jake smiles sheepishly. 

“Oops?”

“Jake,” Gerry says, exasperated. 

“You haven’t told your wife about the eldritch fear entity you serve?” Mike asks. “Wow, Jake. Wow.”

Jake groans and buries his face in his hands. “It’s not like I can just tell her,” he says, slightly muffled. “Like, oh, yeah, by the way, the supernatural is real except only the bad parts!”

“It’s not all bad,” Mike says, taking a sip of his tea. “Christ, this is terrible.”

“Yeah, yeah, American tea shouldn’t even count as tea,” Jake mutters. “Not all bad, sure, but you still have to deal with Simon.”

Mike wrinkles his nose. “Don’t even.”

Jake and Gerry exchange an amused glance. Then Mike’s phone rings. 

He answers it on speaker, and ragged gasps come through. 

“M-Mike?” asks a trembling voice. “This—this is Mike Crew, yes?”

Gerry’s eyebrow shoots up so far Jake’s almost scared it’ll disappear behind his hair. 

“Archivist,” Mike says, and oh. So this is the man that Jake’s Patron is so fond of. “Yes, this is Mike. How did you get this number?”

“I—I don’t know,” the Archivist answers shakily. God, he sounds terrible. “I just—I just Knew?”

“Yeah, that’ll happen,” Jake mutters. He nudges Mike. Ask him where he is, he mouths. 

“Where are you?” Mike asks.

“I–I don’t—”

The Archivist devolves into sniffs and sobs, and Jake sighs, taking the phone from Mike.

“Let me,” he says. Then, speaking into the phone, he says, “Archivist. Where are you? ”

“A wax museum,” the Archivist gasps. “in—I don’t know, they knocked me out when they took me—”

“Okay, okay,” Jake soothes. “ Breathe. ” 

“Who…who are you?” the Archivist asks hesitantly.

Jake looks at Gerry, who shrugs. “I’m…well, let’s just say I’m a fellow follower of the Ceaseless Watcher.”

“I’m not— ”

“No?” Jake hums. “You’re the Archivist. You work in the Magnus Institute. Seems pretty Eye to me.”

Speak of the devil—the Eye rumbles in the back of his mind. He’s getting a sense of approval. 

“But—I didn’t—”

“Oh, so it was non-con, got it, got it. Cool, cool cool cool cool cool cool.”

“ Who are you? ”

“Jake Peralta,” Jake answers promptly. “Wow, you really don’t know anything, do you.”

“It Appears He Does Not!” a cheerful voice says over the sudden influx of gasps and panting from the Archivist. 

“Nonono—”

The Archivist is abruptly cut off by—something. Jake assumes it’s a gag.

“Ringleader,” he greets. Fuck, he’s so tired.

“Hello, Jake! How Are You?”

“I’d be better if you let the Archivist go.”

“I’m Afraid I Can’t Do That!” Nikola replies easily. “Jonah Does Not Want Me To Let Him Go, And I Will Need His Skin For My Ritual!” 

A ritual that won’t even work.

“Okay, but…do you really want to do something for Jonah?”

Jake can hear the Archivist’s sobs in the background. It’s disconcerting. 

The Archivist is in a wax museum in Greater Yarmouth.

Jake takes out his own phone, writing that down in his notes app. He sends a pulse of appreciation to his Patron.

“I Suppose You Have A Point,” Nikola concedes. “However, My Ritual—”

“Yeah, okay,” Jake sighs, cutting it off. “I get it. Bye, Nikola.”

He ends the call before anyone can say anything else, handing it to Mike. 

“Brutal,” he says. “Do either of you have the number of anyone in the Archives?”

“You know where he is?” Gerry asks, surprised. 

Jake grins a little and taps his head. Gerry makes a noise of understanding. 

“I mean, I could just…go get him,” Mike says. “Gerry’d have to stay here for a bit, but…”

“You’d do that?” Jake asks. “I thought you didn’t like the Archivist.”

“Eh. He could be worse.” 

They all shudder at the reminder of Gertrude. 

“Okay,” Mike says. “I’ll…where do I take him?”

“The Archives is the best place for him right now, unfortunately,” Jake says. Mike nods. There’s  a sound of rushing air, and then he’s gone. 

“You need to tell her,” Gerry says. “Amy. She needs to know.”

“I…” Jake trails off, hesitating. “Probably. I just…”

“Yeah.”

“Hey, so, you’ll need a place to stay until Mike comes back—”

“I’m not telling her for you,” Gerry says quickly. 

“I didn't say that,” Jake protests. “Anyway, I meant you could stay here for a while. No strings attached.”

Gerry relaxes. “That…that sounds nice, actually. Okay, sure.”

“Cool,” Jake says with a grin. “Cool.” 

-

“You want to what?

“Look,” Jake says, glancing between Amy and Holt. “I’ve got a ton of PTO, and I have some friends in England, so.”

Amy’s brow furrows. Jake has to fight the urge to smooth it. 

“You have friends in England? Why didn't you tell me?”

“They're not—” Jake sighs. “They're not the sort of people you'd like very much, I don't think.”

“Are they bad people?” Holt inquires. “If so, then you probably shouldn't be spending time with them.”

Jake drums his fingers on his thigh. “They're not bad, I just—okay, look. This is really just a formality, okay? I’m going. I’m just—letting you guys know.”

“Jake,” Amy starts, then stops, frowning. Jake grasps her hand, squeezing it. 

“I swear, Ames, I’ll explain when I get back. Okay?”

A beat, then: 

“Okay.”

Jake relaxes, relief flowing through his body. “I love you,” he says, pressing an adoring kiss to her knuckles. She laughs, shoving his shoulder lightly. 

“Ahem,” Holt says, crossing his arms. 

“Sorry, Captain,” Jake says with a grin. “So….”

“Fine, yes, you may take two weeks off,” Holt says. “But I expect you back in two weeks from when you leave exactly.”

“Yessir, Captain, sir!”

-

Jake steps into the Institute and hates how it sort of feels like coming home. He greets Rosie with a smile and a nod and dodges Lukas when he sees the older man leave Magnus’s office, and goes down the dark steps that lead to the Archives. 

Before he opens the door, he pauses; there is yelling past the metal, and Jake is nothing if not curious. 

“—fucking paranoid arse—”

A muffled response—

“—can’t even tell us when Elias sends you on a trip—”

And that—that is where Jake draws the line. 

He pushes the door open, waltzing into the room. 

“Hi, yeah, sorry to interrupt,” he says with a grin (he is so not sorry). “I couldn't help but overhear—he told them you were on a trip?”

This, he directs towards the Archivist—Jon—who gapes at him. 

“Yeah, so?” The one who scoffs is a handsome man with tousled hair who, if Jake wasn't married, he'd be flirting his ass off with. “Who the hell are you?”

“Jake Peralta, Avatar of the Beholding,” he says. He sees the man’s face tighten, a sneer forming on his face. “Anyway, Jon was definitely not on a trip. Unless you want to count being kidnapped by sociopathic clowns and being tortured a ‘trip’ but, you know, I wasn't there, so I guess I don't really know—”

Jon chokes, and another, larger man hurries over to support him. The room is silent save for that, and then:

“...What?” 

The dark-haired man looks horrified, confused, like he doesn't know what to think. 

Jake groans. “God, I hate Magnus. Yeah, so, Jon was fucking kidnapped and your boss is trying to isolate him from having any sort of support system.”

His phone rings then, and when he checks it it's Amy, so he smiles apologetically and heads into Jon’s office to take the call, leaving the Archive workers to sort out their shit. 

-

A bit later, after the yelling had subsided in favor of strained explanations and angry curses, Jake takes the chance to open the door. He finds a clear spot on a desk and lifts himself up on it, kicking his feet lightly. 

He learns that the hot, angry man is Tim (Tim Stoker, thirty-three, used to work in publishing, not-dead brother—) and the larger redhead is Martin (Martin Blackwood, thirty-one, father abandoned him, worked in the library, likes tea—). 

“Nice to meet you,” Jake says. “I feel like it would be weird if I said who I am, because I already did that, so, you know what, I'll just stop talking.”

Jon, pale-faced and sitting down, elbows balanced on his knees, says, “You were the one on the call. The one who sent Mike to save me.”

“Yeppers,” Jake says, popping the p. “Sorry for Compelling you, by the way. I know it's not the greatest feeling.”

“Compel…” Jon's brow furrows, then smooths out in understanding. “Is that, ah, when…”

“Questions and shit, yeah,” Jake says, nodding. 

“I still don't understand,” Tim says, his eyes narrowed. “Why are you here?”

Jake looks at Tim appraisingly. “You know that even if we're not fully human anymore, we're not monsters, right? Just ‘cause I'm an avatar doesn't mean I want to hurt people. I doubt Jonny here wants to, either.”

Jon winces at the nickname, strangely enough (Jonny d’Ville, lead singer of the band The Mechanisms—) Jake shakes off the information. He doesn't need that. 

“I don't,” Jon says, soft. “I—I didn't know—”

Martin lays a hesitant hand on Jon’s shoulder. Jon leans into it, just a tiny bit, but it's interesting, the kind of thing Jake would tell Gina about if she were here. 

“Hey,” Jake says, drawing Jon’s gaze towards him. “You're not a monster. Just because you're an avatar doesn't mean you have to be a stone-cold bitch and terrorize people. There are other ways.”

Jon falls silent, and Tim looks—less angry, but still on edge. Martin just looks relieved. 

“Thank you,” Jon says suddenly, not quite meeting Jake's eyes, straying somewhere to his forehead. “For—for helping with the—the rescue.”

“‘S my job,” Jake says, shrugging it off. “I'm a cop in New York—my precinct has some of the good ones, I swear.”

“A cop,” Tim repeats, suspicion coloring his tone. Which isn't unusual, except he's fairly sure there's an actual reason—

“Oh,” Jake says. “Oh, yeah, no, I'm not like Detective Tonner. The closest one on my team to the Hunt is probably Rosa, and she's cut back on violence lately. Though she's always been more violent to things in the precinct than to any people.”

“...How did you know about Daisy?” Tim asks. 

Jake taps his forehead with a wry smile. “I get information from my patron, sometimes. I can't always stop it. It's, unfortunately, fond of me.”

“Fond,” echoes Martin in disbelief. “They have feelings?”

Jake frowns. How to explain? “Not quite,” he says, choosing his words carefully. “It's more like…impressions? I dunno. Like, I'm more favored than, say, Magnus.”

“Magnus,” Jon says, and Jake is starting to worry there's something in here making them repeat his words so often. “As in….this Magnus?” He gestures to the building. 

“Oh,” Jake says, hunching slightly as the pressure of hundreds of thousands of eyes watching him folds onto him. “You don't know. Uh—yeah, he's—he was a bitch.” 

He relaxes as the pressure decreases. He can still feel it, of course, but it's—less, now. He doesn't have claustrophobia, not like Amy, but he still feels it. 

Jon winces, and Jake is surprised, a little, because Jon is powerful if he managed to pick that up. He's the Archivist, yes, but even so, if it were the other way around, he's not sure he would have caught more than a whisper. 

“What was that?” Jon demands, aghast. 

Tim, bewildered, asks, “What was what?”

“Um. Nothing. Don't worry about it.” Jake smiles weakly. 

There's footsteps, and then a knock. The door cracks open, and Jake narrows his eyes into a glare. 

“Ah, Mr. Peralta,” Jonah says silkily. “How…nice…to see you again. In my Institute. Without being informed of your arrival.”

“Eli!” Jake says with false cheer. “How are you, man?”

“I'd prefer if you didn't call me that,” Jonah responds through barely hidden gritted teeth. 

Jake's fake smile widens. “Sorry I didn't stop by, but I had some really important shit to talk with Jon about.”

“Please refrain from using such language while you are in a professional workplace,” Jonah says. The vein on his forehead bulges. Jake's smile turns slightly real. 

Jake stares at him, looks him right in the eyes. “Balls,” he deadpans. 

“Jacob, come to my office. I need to speak to you. In private.”

Jake grins. “Sir, yessir.” He follows Jonah easily, ignoring the questions and protests. “So, how's your boyfriend?”

“We really don't need to talk until we get there,” Jonah says tightly. 

“Cool, cool, cool cool cool cool cool.” Thirteen seconds pass, then: “So which one of you have the daddy kink? Is it a mutual daddy kink? Do you call each other daddy?”

“Jacob,” Jonah snaps, and Jake shuts up, because it's entertaining to piss Jonah off but also he knows when to stop, if only so he doesn't get maimed. 

They make it to the office with no other interruptions, and Jake immediately steals Jonah's spin chair. 

“So,” he says, faux-enthusiastic, “what's up?” 

Jonah stares at him, eye twitching. Jake is so proud of himself. 

“Why are you here,” Jonah says finally, dry and unamused. 

“‘Cause you're a horrible boss,” Jake says with a shrug. “And I, unlike you, have basic human decency. Including, you know, not letting people get kidnapped.”

“You have no right to interfere,” Jonah says, frowning. “You aren’t meant to be here. This isn’t your territory.”

Jake cocks his head. “Isn’t it? Our patron likes me better than you, I’d say wherever it is, that’s where my territory is. Case in point—” He makes a vague gesture to the room. “Also. Jonah. Dude. You’re so tacky, man. No one needs this many pictures of themselves.”

“I am honoring the founder of this fine institution—”

“Yourself, you mean,” Jake says with a snort. “Like, ego, much?”

“Leave,” Jonah says flatly. 

“Hm. No.”

“E-excuse me?” Jonah sputters— actually sputters, this conversation is going great.  

“No,” Jake says. “Want to hear it in Spanish? No.”

“Jacob—”

“God, shut up,” Jake groans. “You’re so—pretentious. It’s annoying. Just shut up.”

“Do not tell me what to do, child,” Jonah snarls, eyes alight with fury. 

“Why not?’ Jake jeers. “Can’t handle being second favorite? Not even, actually, that’s hilarious.”

“Be very careful of what you say next,” Jonah warns, quiet and dangerous. Jake eyes him. Is it worth it? Maybe. Is it funny, and does that make it worth it? Absolutely.  

“Gonna kill me?” he taunts, standing. He circles around the desk, eyes flashing green. “Be a little hard to explain, won’t it? Just us two, here, in this office, alone….are you really willing to go to jail just to be rid of me? Mighty risky, don’t you think, especially with your plans—”

“OUT!” Jonah roars, and Jake grins, darting around him and out the door, slamming it behind him. He races through the building, ignoring the surprised shouts and exclamations he draws, scrambling down the stairs to the Archives. 

“I lived, bitch!” he declares, panting, cheeks flushed from the exertion. Not that he’s out of shape, but, just, pissing off Jonah, and the Eye sending gentle nudges of approval, and the laughter he’d left echoing down the halls—it was fun.

The three in the Archives just sort of gape at him. They seem better, now; not at all fixed or in a good place but better.  

“You—what—” Martin stutters, mouth opening and closing like fish. 

“Hey, so, heads up, I probably shouldn’t be here,” Jake says apologetically. “Jon has Mike’s number, though—Crew, not Distortion—and I’ll be staying with him—Crew—so if you need to get in touch, or just want to talk, or anything, you know where to find me.”

“Hang on,” Tim says, throwing out a hand to block the exit. “You can’t just—what the hell, mate?”

“I really don’t know what to tell you,” Jake says. “Just, uh, if I die, point them towards Bouchard. He probably did it. Oh, and also, don’t worry about the Unknowing—I already took care of that.”

They’re all silent for a moment. Then,

“You what?” Jon exclaims. “How?”

“Some fire here, a bit of explosives there…” Jake shrugs. “The museum is gone, and so is everything in it. Nikola is—ugh, not alive, but around. Is she alive? God, that’s so confusing. I hate the Stranger.”

All three of them seem speechless, and Jake really does have to go before Jonah decides he wants to take the risk of imprisonment, so he throws out a bright, “Ta!” and escapes up the stairs.

-

“You suck,” Gerry informs him later. They’re all at Mike’s place—the two of them, Mike himself, Oliver, Jude—tangled together in the sort of way that none of them knows where the individual begins and another ends. 

“Ha,” Jake says with a grin. He flips Gerry the bird before tucking himself firmly back under Jude’s chin. 

“I can’t believe you did that,” Oliver sighs, shaking his head. “He’s going to kill you.”

“Can’t,” Jake mumbles. “I already told them that Jonah’s the most likely to kill me.”

“He can still kill you,” Jude points out, her low voice vibrating in her chest. Jake shrugs against her and reaches out blindly to grab someone’s hand. He hums in satisfaction when he finds it—Gerry’s, from the amused snort—and starts playing with the fingers.

“Having fun there?”

“Uh-huh.”

A hand cards through his hair and he closes his eyes, melting under the touch as his scalp is scratched lightly. 

“You should sleep,” Mike comments. “You’ve had a long day.”

“Not tired,” Jake grumbles, lying through his teeth. 

“Jake,” Jude says, chiding. She flicks his shoulder. “Sleep. Idiot.”

Jake nearly protests, but thinks better of it and settles back down.

“How do you do that,” Gerry says, exasperation mixed with fondness. “I swear, you’re the only one he listens to.”

“Not true,” Jake protests. “I listen to Amy.”

“I’d be worried if you didn’t,” Gerry deadpans. Mike snickers, nudging Jake’s foot.

“Is Nikola pissed?” Oliver asks, tipping his head onto Jude’s legs, his own thrown over Mike’s lap. 

“Dunno,” Jake says through a yawn. ”Maybe? I did sorta ruin her ritual.” 

“Would it have even worked, though?” Oliver frowns, tugging lightly at Jake’s hair. Gerry squeezes Jake’s ankle. 

No,” Jake says, with absolute certainty. “No, it wouldn’t have.”

“Okay, well,” Jude says, “now that that’s covered.” She grazes her fingers along Jake’s jaw, sending tingles of warmth throughout his body. “Sleep, Peralta.”

“Yes ma’am,” Jake says, giving her a sloppy salute. He yawns again, linking his fingers with Gerry’s hand, and closes his eyes. 

-

He wakes up to his phone blaring. He groans, fumbling for it, finally dangling it between two fingers. The others are already up, and only Jude has stayed with Jake, shifting him so his head is in her lap and his legs are splayed out across the floor.

“‘Llo?” he mumbles into the receiver.

“Jake!” 

Jake whines pitifully at the volume, and Jude helpfully lowers it for him. 

“Hi, Charles,” he says faintly. 

“Oh, did you just wake up?” Charles frets. “I’m sorry, Jakey, I just figured, with the time difference, you’d be up—”

“‘S okay,” Jake says dismissively, yawning. “It’s—” He checks his phone. “It’s almost one over here, thanks for waking me up.”

“Did you get enough sleep?” Charles asks worriedly. “Jake, you know how important sleep is—”

“Charles,” Jake cuts in, “it’s fine, seriously. My sleep schedule’s fucked up anyway. So—are you calling just to say hi, or….”

“Oh! No, actually—here, Rosa wants to tell you something—”

Muffled noise, a few words. 

“Jake,” Rosa says, her deep voice tinny through the speaker. “I ran into Judy.”

Instantly, Jake’s awake, shooting up from Jude’s lap, mourning the loss of the warmth but focused on Rosa’s words. 

“You what?” he demands, distantly aware of the others returning to the living room with various plates and cups on hand. “Tell me everything right now—did he mention me? Did you catch him?”

“He mentioned you, yeah, seemed kind of put out that you weren’t here,” Rosa says dutifully. “And no, I didn’t catch him.”

“Dammit.” Jake squeezes the phone so hard that he’s a little surprised it doesn’t break right here and now. “Dammit!”
“Jake, relax,” Rosa says. “We’ll catch him someday.”

“Will we?” he hisses. “Will we? Because I’ve been trying for over a decade and I still haven’t—”

“You did, though,” Rosa interrupts blankly. “He just didn’t stick to it.”

A strangled, frustrated noise rises from the back of Jake’s throat, and he’s too tired to stop it from coming through. 

“Jake,” Rosa says. “It's not your fault. He's just too good.”

“Yeah, but—” Jake clenches his jaw. He doesn't relax until Oliver threads his hand into Jake's hair, his cool skin a balm against Jake's sweaty temple. “Okay. I—thank you for letting me know.”

“Of course,” Rosa replies. “And, hey—we all miss you. Come back soon, okay?”

A grin splits Jake's face and he laughs softly. “Yeah. Just two weeks.”

“Two weeks,” Rosa repeats. “Okay. Bye, Jake.”

“Wait, can I talk to Charles—she hung up.” Jake rolls his eyes. “Of course she hung up.”

He leans back against Oliver, grasping Jude's wrist tightly. 

“You okay?” Oliver asks, tugging lightly. Jake hums. 

“Yeah, just—I’ve told you all about Doug Judy, right?”

Oliver makes a noise of realization, and Jude snorts. 

“The Pontiac thief?”

“Yeah. We got him to drop crime for a while, but then he got dragged back in, and he just—” Jake gestures. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Oliver says sympathetically.  “Hungry?”

Jake pauses as his stomach grumbles. “Uh. Maybe a little.” He flushes as Jude snickers. 

Mike passes him an apple, and he takes it gratefully. 

“You going back to the Institute today?” Gerry asks. He sounds like he’s trying to be casual, but Jake knows him well enough to hear the bite in his words.

“Nah,” Jake says through a mouthful. He swallows and stands, stretching a little. “I might actually die if I go back.”

“Don’t worry,” Gerry says brightly. “If you die, I’ll just perform a ritual to bind your soul to a book, dooming you an eternity of pain and anguish!”

The room is utterly silent for a moment, before Jake snorts, nearly choking on his apple. Jude and Mike devolve into snickers, and Oliver sighs, but there’s an amused twitch to his lips. 

“You guys suck,” he informs them, crossing his arms. 

“Suck your dick!” Jake crows, sending them into another bout of laughter. Oliver joins, this time, his chuckles added to the cacophony. Jake is smiling so much that his face hurts. He’s pretty sure the last time he’d smiled this hard was when he and Amy got married. 

-

Jake has a plan.

He hasn’t told anyone this plan, because they’d either try to stop him or they’d try to help, and Jake can’t afford distractions. He spends the rest of the day with his friends, catching up and just sort of existing in each other’s presences, and it’s really nice. Jake’s missed them.

It’s dark, now, and Jake Knows that the building is mostly empty. He sneaks around back, his hood tightened over a baseball hat he’d swiped from Oliver. 

It’s laughingly easy to slip into the Institute, so much so that Jake almost wants to email someone with an updated security plan. There are hardly any defenses, and those that are planted Jake avoids effortlessly. Helped in part by the One Who Watches, he makes his way through the building, swerving around the few who are still here. 

When he opens the door, Jonah is waiting for him, hands steepled on the desk and he leans slightly forward. 

“Hello, Jacob,” he says coolly. 

“Jonah,” Jake responds, equally cool. He closes the door quietly, crossing the distance between him and the desk. It’s the only barrier between them. Jake’s fingers twitch towards his knife.

“You don’t have to do this,” Jonah says. His expression is blank, but his eyes are intense. He’s scared.  

“So you know there’s no way you're getting out of here alive, then.”

“If you carry out your plan, then yes,” Jonah says. “But most likely, neither will you.”

“Fine by me.”

“Is it? What about those that wait for you? Your captain, your friends—what about your wife? Do you really want to subject her to this?”

Jake’s mouth drops into a scowl. “Don’t you dare talk about her,” he snarls. “Don’t even think about her.”

Jonah meets his gaze, and though Jake has made sure that his defenses are up, though he is favored over the bastard in front of him, he can’t stop Amy’s face from flashing through his mind. 

Her smile; her laugh; her tears; her voice. He sees her, in all of her messy, wonderful, beautiful glory, and for a moment, he hesitates. 

That is his undoing. 

“Don’t you see?” Jonah croons. “Don’t you see? It will ruin her, destroy her, if you are gone. Will you really abandon her like you were abandoned? Will you really subject her to that pain?”

Jake splays his hands on the desk to steady his legs. Shit, he thinks, shutting his eyes tightly. It does nothing to stop the memories of his dad, or various others who have left him. He has people now, has friends and a family that won’t leave him no matter what, that will do anything for him, and he knows this, and he tries, tries so hard to remember, but—

“They will leave,” Jonah says softly. He sounds gentle, sympathetic. Jake hates him. “You know they will. It is only a matter of time.”

That’s not true, Jake wants to say, but he can’t speak past the lump in his throat. They’ve put up with me this long. Why would they leave now?

“Oh, Jacob,” Jonah sighs. “I know you better than you know yourself. There is a reason you are favored, child. You could join me, you know. We would make an excellent team; ancestor and descendant.”

Tears start leaking out of the corners of Jake’s eyes. He despises the reminder that he’s somehow related to the man in front of him. 

“Shut up,” he croaks, bowing his head. “Shut your fucking mouth. I hate you. I wish you’d never been born.”

“Then you wouldn’t be here,” Jonah says, soft and condescending. Jake hates him. Jake hates him so fucking much. “There’s no use in killing me. You know that.”

“Shut up,” Jake pleads, strangled and raspy. 

“Begging now, are we?” Jonah clicks his tongue. “Really, Jacob, this could all be over if you just give in.”

“Never,” Jake growls. He pries his eyes open, glaring at Jonah with all his might. “I will never give in to you, you sick son of a bitch—” He’s cut off by a stabbing pain in his head, and, no longer able to keep himself upright, even with the stability of the desk, sinks to his knees. He cradles his head in his hands, black spots dotting his vision. It’s hard to breathe. 

He hears Jonah moving, but can’t bring himself to lift his head. Jonah’s shadow falls over him, a patronizing smile adorning his face. Jake wants to claw it off. 

“Oh, child.” 

A hand runs through Jake’s hair, and he shivers, disgusted.

“Don’t—don’t touch me,” he wheezes. Fuck. He was prepared for this. He planned for this, for everything he could think of. He has their patron on his side, his defences were up, his mind should have been impenetrable—

“It was a good plan, I will say,” Jonah muses, still stroking Jake’s hair, like a parent would their own child. Jake feels sick. “But, Jacob, as clever as you think yourself, I still have hundreds of years over you. I know exactly how to break someone, no matter how strong they believe they are. And Jacob…I will break you.”

Jake sobs. Everything hurts. There’s no point fighting, there’s no point—

A whoosh of air, a gasp, and familiar footsteps. 

A voice, one that shouldn’t be in this country let alone this room, shouts, “GET AWAY FROM MY HUSBAND, YOU BASTARD!”

The distinct crack of a gun being shot, and the hand leaves Jake’s hair. He manages to force his eyes open just enough to see Jonah stumbling back into his desk, red spilling from his chest. Jonah clutches the wound, expression one of pure shock. 

Then there are hands on Jake’s face, a body blocking his view. Jake reluctantly tears his gaze from the bleeding man, but once he sees who’s in front of him, all thoughts of Jonah flees his mind.

“Amy?” he asks, his voice grating on his throat.

“Jake, oh my god,” Amy says, her beautiful brown eyes wide with concern. “Hey, hey, look at me, yeah? Are you hurt?”

“Not—not physically,” Jake says, not without effort. “I—he—my head—”

“How can I help?”

“Hold me,” Jake whispers. He reaches out, grasping her hands. “Please, I need—”

Amy wraps her arms around him, and Jake melts into her strong grip. She whispers reassurances and meaningless words into his hair, and he relaxes incrementally. 

“Sorry,” he says quietly, a few minutes later. His eyes are still damp, and as he pulls away—not completely, just enough to regain his bearings—he wipes at them, to no avail. 

“Don’t be,” she says, just as quiet. “I—okay, yes, I do want an explanation, but I’m just glad you’re safe.”

Jake buries his face into her shoulder, breathing in her scent. It’s grounding; a reminder that she’s here. And, actually, speaking of—

“How are you here?”

“Oh, uh.” She flushes. “That’s—”

“You’re welcome,” another voice crackles, static overlaying the words. Jake turns to see—

“Oh.” He blinks. “Hi, Michael.”

“Hello, Jake,” Michael says with a smile, or a grimace, or maybe he’s not doing anything with his mouth at all. “You’re welcome.”

“Thanks,” Jake says automatically. “Wait, how did you even know?”

Michael’s frown turns upside down, mouth splitting across his face. Jake has to tilt his head to register it. “The Archivist called me. He owes me now.” Michael cackles, the sound bouncing around the walls and reverberating in Jake’s still-pounding head. He winces, rubbing his temple. Then he registers what was just said. “Wait, Jon called you?” He can’t stop himself from sounding incredulous. 

“Yes. An eye for an eye, a rescue for a rescue, a Michael for a Michael.” Michael chortles. 

“Oh. That—okay.” Jake takes a moment to just breathe. “I…don’t think I’d do too well in your corridors right now.”

“No, you would not,” Michael agrees cheerfully. “Tim Stoker offered to drive you to his flat.”

Jake—doesn’t even have an answer for that. How much has changed within a day, that Tim is willing to put up what he’d called a monster twenty-four hours ago?

“Come on,” Amy murmurs, pulling Jake up carefully. “I don’t want to stay here any longer than I have to. This place gives me the creeps.”

Jake nods, holding onto her as a crutch as they slowly make their way out of the room. The smell of blood still permeates the air, still coats Jake’s tongue, still stains his hands, even as they leave the broken body of Jonah Magnus behind them. He is not a good person. He has done terrible things. This would have just been another thing on that list.

“He’s dead?” Jake asks. He needs to be sure. 

Jonah Magnus is no more for this world, the Ceaseless Watcher whispers in his mind at the same time that Amy answers with a definitive, “Yes.”

“Okay,” Jake breathes. He stumbles down the last step into the lobby. “Okay. That's good.

He sways, dizziness that has nothing to do with the continuous presence of the Twisting Deceit overtaking him. 

“Whoa, hey,” Amy says, steadying him. “You okay?”

“Uh-huh,” Jake mumbles. “I’m…awesome…”

And everything goes dark.

-

He wakes to a hand on his face, a body leaning over his. He smiles lazily up at his wife.

“Hey,” he says, coughing a little.

“Jake!” Amy exclaims. Jake winces at the volume. “Oh—sorry, sorry. Just—” She takes a deep breath. “I’m so glad you’re awake.”

“How long have I been out?” Jake asks, sitting up with her help. He takes her hand in his, the feel of her skin a familiar weight that promises him everything will be okay.

“A few hours, not too long,” she says. Jake relaxes. “I’ve gotten the footnotes from, uh, Jerry? But, Jake, why didn’t you tell me?”

“Gerry,” Jake corrects, shrinking in on himself slightly at the flash of hurt on her face. 

“That’s what I said,” she says. “Jerry.”

“Gerry.”

“Jerry.”

“Gerry—okay, that’s not—” Jake groans. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know how. It’s like you’d believe me, anyway.”

“Of course I would,” she says, drawing back. “With enough proof, of course. But—this is a huge secret to keep, Jake. I mean—fear gods? Powers? That’s…did you not trust me?”

“Of course I do!” he says, alarmed. “Amy, I trust you more than anyone else.”

“What about Jerry?” Amy says. Jake can hear the bitterness in her voice, and his heart aches for her.

“I’ve known Gerry for—a long time,” he explains. “Years before we met. He’s—don’t tell Charles—he’s my best friend. They—he, and Mike, and Oliver and Jude—we’re just…different. We understand each other in a way that normal human would ever be able to. I never want you to be a part of that, Ames, but you gotta understand why. It’s not good, being an avatar. You are a carrier, a harbinger of fear and despair, and the abilities we have—” Jake shakes his head. “They’re meant to hurt. Our patrons feed off the fear that we bring. We can use them for good things, yes, but we’re not—it’s not—”

He cuts off, searching for words.

“Oh, Jake.” Amy’s arms encircle him, holding him close. 

“Sorry,” he says again. 

“Don’t,” she replies once more. “It’s not your fault.”

“Still—”

“Jake.” She smiles at him, and it’s tight and it’s not okay, but maybe it will be. 

“Okay,” he accepts. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

-

“He’s really dead,” Jon says blankly when Jake exits the bedroom. Jon, Tim, Martin, and Gerry are there, Martin and Jon together on the couch, Tim in an armchair, and Gerry leaning against the wall, looking, as always, effortlessly cool. 

“Yes,” Jake says unnecessarily. Jon Knows that Jonah is dead, the Eye would have told him. This is just—an extra reassurance. One stated out loud, as if that makes it even more true. Jake drops down into a chair of his own. Gerry comes over to him, resting his arms on Jake’s head. Jake flips him off, but other than that, it helps. Gerry isn’t dead, Jonah is, and Jake is still, somehow, here. 

“He is,” Amy confirms quietly, perching on the arm of Jake’s chair. “I should know—I’m the one that shot him.”

“And Elias—he was really—” Tim shakes his head, amazement and a sort of detached curiosity in his tone. “How?”

“The eyes,” Jake supplies, once it’s clear that Jon isn’t going to answer. “He’d, like, carve out the eyes of the body and stick his own eyes in. He is, and always has been, the head of the Magnus Institute.”

“Christ,” mutters Martin. 

“I still can’t believe you’re related,” Gerry says, disgruntled. “And you never told me!”

Jake ducks his head. “It’s not exactly something I like to advertise. How did you even—never mind, stupid question. Dumb fucking know-it-all.” He winces at the pulse the Beholding sends him, pushing back his own annoyance. His patron grumbles, or something like that, in the back of his mind and pulls back.
“That’s…fair, yeah,” Gerry concedes. “Hey, what’s going to happen to the Institute, anyway? And have you figured out how to explain his death?”

“Suicide,” Jake says. “Something about taking advantage of his employees and long-held regrets over family that became too much. We planted a gun and note with his prints.”

“Sweet.”

“And the Institute…I dunno. But that’s not really my problem, so.” Jake shrugs.

“Maybe Peter will take it over,” Martin suggests.

“Peter Lukas?” Jake wrinkles his nose. “Ugh.”

“You, ah, you don’t like him?” Jon asks.

“Most of us hate him,” Gerry supplies. “Him and Fairchild. They’re just…ugh.”

“Ugh,” Jake agrees. Then he yawns. “Sorry, it’s been a long, uh. Day? Night?”

Amy laughs softly, and Jake turns to her, his eyes crinkling in a smile. God, he loves her. He loves her so much. This is the woman he’s going to spend the rest of his life with. 

“Why don’t we take a break from the hard conversations for a bit,” she suggests. “It’s about breakfast time.”

“Good idea,” Jake says immediately. “Awesome idea, actually. Hey, so, would anyone be upset if Amy and I went out on our own to get some food?”

“Yeah, no problem,” Tim says. His forehead is creased, but he seems calmer than the other day, and his chair is near the couch, so Jake is going to count that as a win.

“Cool, cool, cool,” Jake says. He stands, throwing Gerry off in the process. He grabs Amy’s hand. “Shall we?”

She giggles, and the sound makes his heart flutter. “We shall,” she replies jokingly, tangling their fingers together, her hand warm against his. 

Amy leaves that night, Mike ferrying her through the Vast. She texts Jake later how she got around explaining things to Holt, pleading an emergency with one of her brothers (it’s not even a total lie, but either way Jake is so proud of her, because she exaggerated! To Holt! That's huge for her!). Jake misses her immediately, but he texts her back with emojis and exclamation marks, ending with an ily <3, and when she responds with an ilyt, idiot, he grins. 

-

When Jake steps into the bullpen after two weeks of being away—most of which spent talking, and hanging out, and getting rid of anything that could assist in an entity-related ritual—he’s met, expectedly, with an armful of Charles. He laughs, hugs him back, and says his greeting to the rest of the squad. He meets Amy’s eyes, and they share a private smile. 

“Welcome home,” she says.

“Yeah,” he says. “It’s good to be back.”