PLEASE PLEASE READ THE TW!: Child abuse (physical), attempted suicide, depression & self hatred. Death, blood and spoilers.
Hey hey, I'm back! So this story is going to be quite a different style from my usual writing, I just wanted to try my hand at introspective writing for the first time haha. So please let me know what you think.
This writing will not be the norm! I promise, I just wanted to try it out, I'll be sticking to my normal hurt/comforty, descriptive style beyond this so please don't unsubscribe if you dislike this.
It relates kinda back to my moon knight series, but doesn't follow the my series timeline.
I promise I have two multichapter fics in development :))
Jake.
Jake was first formed, first created to protect Marc.
That was obvious to the New Yorker as he was yanked into existence, fronting as the belt sent jolts of pain down his back.
It took every single inch of strength within him to stop from crying out as the thwack of the metal sunk deeply into his skin.
During those weeks, those welts screamed with every single movement and so Jake forced himself to continue regardless of the pain, shoving back the lingering presence of Marc in a panicked frenzy.
The reason was simple to the New Yorker - The body was in a state of agony and pain.
So Marc was never going to experience that ever again.
It was then and there that he knew, Jake knew that he would force himself through
Every. Single. Bit. of. Suffering.
If it meant they wouldn't have too.
The protector didn't even know who they were but he trusted his screeching instincts that throttled him each time they were in trouble.
It was from this point in time that Jake became Marc and Steven's protector.
His meaning to life. His only reason for living was to protect the kids.
And so, he stayed hidden in the depths of the shadows, never straying far from the front to ensure that he was always available to take the brunt of everything.
And with time they became his kids, his boys.
It didn't matter that each day left him in a constant swirling darkness of paranoia and sleep deprivation.
It didn't matter that each day was becoming an everlasting struggle to force himself out of the feeling akin to drowning.
How could it? When day in and out he was left in an agonised torture.
But he persisted.
The chorus of laughter from his kids eased his heart, eased his mind as he slumped within the darkness of his room, a soft smile twisting.
The hot tears streamed from his face.
.
.
Marc grew up.
And Jake was so proud of his kid as the American began to pave his own path beyond his so-called 'parents'.
Beyond the trauma he had experienced.
.
The first time he heard the news that Marc had joined the army, it left him reeling, startled.
He knew how difficult it felt to take a life, how each death would haunt you forever.
The New Yorker ignored his incoherent and struggling self and continued to yank Marc back from the front when the knife was aimed at his target, or when the correct shot was lined up.
It was better for the blood to be on my hands than the kid's hands. He told himself, cursing his shaky hands as another death was added to his never ending list. This is part of my job to protect them.
.
.
Then that night happened.
Khonshu appeared, tangling Marc in falsified sweetened lies and softened sympathetic manipulation in the hopes to use his kid.
Not a day passed that Jake didn't blame himself for not being there for his kid.
The New Yorker should've been there, should've sensed Bushman's betrayal, could've aided his boy in some way that didn't end in him accepting a twisting, mocking deal because the American thought he had nothing left.
And so, Jake forced the blame onto himself. Despite the fact that he had slunk into the darkness of sleep, and had been for two weeks because of the sufferings within his own mind, his mental health crumpling like a feeble house of cards.
.
.
Marc and Steven.
His kids…began communicating.
Jake's heart soared with joy loneliness .
The protector was ecstatic, listening on at their light-hearted bantering's and groans of exasperation as they irritated each other beyond belief.
He wished he could scream at them that he was there, that he was alive and real and just yearned to be noticed, to belong to their little family they constructed .
Instead, the New Yorker hid within the confines of the shadowy hidden prison of the mind, forever on high alert. Never a moment of peace.
Within the chaos of Cairo, Jake was relieved to find he was still able to shove whoever was fronting away and force himself within control of the body.
He fought with a crooked sadistic smile, blood spraying. This was all he knew.
All he was good at.
The protector tried to stay above the surface of the crashing, overwhelming sorrow and hatred when his kids would scream at each other, hurling insults at each other at the gruesome bloody murder he left.
Jake was tired. A weary anguish that touched his very soul, an emotion that ran beyond his sleep patterns.
And more so regarding his life.
He didn't want to admit it, but Jake grew closer and closer to contemplating if he was indeed needed.
.
.
The final straw was death.
Gasping within the confined jail of wood, his hands blotched with purple and blue as he pounded upon the sarcophagus, voice hoarse and desperate as an emotion he had never felt before sunk its teeth into his heart.
Fear .
Then he heard them; the floated, muffled voices of his boys.
With a renewed strength, he used every inch of his adrenaline to slam on the cover and he screamed for them to help him.
Please Steven!
Marc!
Please, let me out!
The protector knew they heard him, he knew they ignored him.
That hurt more than any belt, any punch, any stab wound or bullet.
It fucking destroyed his very core, ripping him to shreds.
Eventually, he gave up. Arms sagging as blood caked underneath his fingernails, tears smothering his calm façade as everything dawned on him.
He was stuck here. Perhaps forever.
It was then that he came to the frayed conclusion that they would never care for him.
.
They left him out of the agreement with Khonshu.
Of course they did, they didn't know who he was.
Surely they suspected?
He could feel the beady eyes study him within the mindscape, Khonshu grinning to himself at his sheer luck.
.
Jake's eyes widened with horror as the staff tore at Marc's soul and with everything he had, he ripped Marc backwards, in a blood-thirsty tinge for revenge the New Yorker slaughtered them.
He destroyed each and every enemy that stood within his way, he wouldn't let them get away with hurting his kids.
This after all, was his only purpose in life. He had to protect them even if they didn't wish to acknowledge him.
.
.
.
It was his mistake that they finally had met.
The quiet atmospheric morning had his eyes fluttering closed.
He hadn't been able to sleep properly after the occurring's within the Duat, every single time he shut his eyes he was plagued with darkness and bubbling fear of being trapped.
Just as Jake was about to embrace the restless sleep, his protective instincts pierced through his hazy clouded mind, jolted him upright and he shoved the door open and sprinted to the front.
The New Yorker's alarmed, guarded look crossed his gaze as two wide eyed sets of eyes bored into him uncomfortably.
The cocoa eyes floated to the beading blood trickling from the body's hand as he connected the dots together.
Fuck, Marc had just cut himself cooking.
He must've been more tired than he originally knew.
The silence was suffocating within the air, their eyes seeming to glare at him, demanding an explanation.
"Hey, name's Jake Lockley." The words felt foreign within his dry mouth, unwilling to touch upon the blooming hope that finally, perhaps this could mean he could create a place within their family.
Jake remembered someone warning him that hope was a dangerous fleeing emotion that could and would leave you as a tumbling husk of yourself.
Marc scrunched his eyebrows together, glancing at the reflection of the unfamiliar alter, his expression guarded as the puzzle pieces connected effortlessly.
"You're the one that killed those people in Cairo."
Jake averted his weary gaze, hiding the flinch that threatened to shake his entirety as the accusation was flung venomously from his kid.
"Yeah." He replied, forcing his calm facade that nothing fazed him.
"Was that you when we were trapped by Harrow?" Steven cocked his head and despite his soft tone, Jake could feel his world caving in on itself.
"That was me." The protector admitted, nodding to his kids.
"So what? You're a dangerous murderer? And you think we're just going to accept your greeting. What do you want?"
Jake found himself reeling at the suspicious question; luckily able to hide the tearing sensation of his hope within the deep engrains of his soul.
He couldn't admit that he didn't like killing because that would be a fabricated lie, but didn't Marc need him?
Isn't that why he was created?
…
"Look, I'm sorry. I'll just…" Trailing off, Jake forced himself to shuffle away from his the kids and deeper within the shadows of his room.
It was only then that he fully succumbed to his emotions, the soft cries of heartbreak were unheard by anyone else as he realised that he was well and truly alone.
Didn't they realise everything he did was all for them..?
A choked gasp tore itself from his throat as his unravelling mind tried to make sense of what to do next.
It was alright . It wasn't. Jake's breath shuddered, rattling in his chest.
It was ok . He didn't feel ok . I can live in the shadows, I can continue this role as their protector. Could he really? He was already barely hanging on as it was.
He didn't want a family. He did
He didn't need a family… He did
Jake was balancing on a tightrope of life, precariously within the air. The end nowhere in sight and craning his neck to study the whistling heights that would ultimately kill him if he fell.
Would it be better if he fell? If he gave up?
The blood stained his hands was unable to be washed clean, it was forever his sins to carry.
Despite this, he didn't regret it for even a second, didn't regret killing to keep the blood off of his the kids.
.
.
Sometimes…
Sometimes, within the silent embrace of the night, Jake would sneak to the front; would numbingly walk through the icy abandoned streets and onto the well-known path.
The well-known garage where he would smile fondly at his beauty. Run his hands on the steering wheel and drive through the darkened nights.
Always to the same place.
The rooftop of an old rickety apartment, which he had discovered by accident.
Jake would stand upon the roof, watching the world pass by, pondering his life.
Contemplating life.
Jake was so weary. So tired of everything.
It was that night that he lingered longer than he should've, mind blanking in a surprisingly comforting blanket of peace.
The red and orange hues stretched across the sky, in a breathtaking glow of life.
Jake stepped closer to the edge of the rooftop, his feet precariously hanging off.
.
Marc groaned, stretching as he fought off the lingering feeling of sleep off.
Only to freeze at the sight of London outstretched below, the body dangerously close to the ledge and he could feel the fear climb in his throat.
"Steven?"
Jake would have laughed at the small feeble gasp that was Marc's voice, except his mind was elsewhere.
The protector let the silence envelop Marc, who twisted around frantically, only to realise that Steven's room was shut.
A muttered curse fell from the mercenary's lips as he finally understood that it was the unknown suspicious alter in charge, not the Brit.
"You plan on killing us now?" Marc remarked harshly, narrowing his eyes in disdain.
The New Yorker let a sigh spill from his lips, shutting his eyes briefly, for a millisecond before answering.
"Khonshu wouldn't let you two die."
"So what?" Marc didn't even try to hide the growing bitterness within his tone. "You're here to admire the view?"
Jake shook his head softly.
"You just don't get it, do ya Marc? He wouldn't let you two die because I've had this conversation with him before."
The guarded expression upon the American's face faltered, alarmed at how tired the New Yorker sounded.
"But you…?"
"But me." Jake twisted his gaze to glance down at the bustling city.
"Wait!" Marc shot forwards, a helpless fear gripping at him. "We can talk about this."
"You don't like me Marc, I get it. I'm not a good person. But you needed someone to do all that shit, to take Wendy's beatings."
The mercenary flinched at the realisation that passed through him.
Jake had been there that long?
"...to kill. To protect you both. But I can't protect you if you don't want me too."
Another hushed sigh floated in the air.
All he ever wanted was to just belong, to be able to share conversations with others, to laugh.
To be a part of something greater than himself lurking in the shadows.
"Wait. Jake please…" Marc reached out, unable to place into words how scared he was that his words had impacted the alter in such a way.
Jake stopped, waiting for the American.
"I am so sorry for the way I talked to you. Step down, please and we can talk about this."
"Slright." Jake's voice was barely audible within the symphony of the city life below. "The body won't be harmed."
And he tipped forwards…
"No!" Marc screamed in terror, heart clenched in dread; unable to do anything.
A bony hand clenched tightly to Jake's wrist, dragging him from the staggering heights and onto the safety of the roof.
"Khonshu." Jake snarled angrily.
"Jake Lockley." Khonshu's raspy voice responded, equally as grated.
"Fuck you."
"I need you alive at the moment Jake Lockley." He merely answered, before disappearing.
Muttering a curse underneath his breath Jake slunk into the mindscape, seeming to freeze at the sight of Marc and Steven's wide-eyed startled glances.
The New Yorker tried to slink away, into the inviting presence of the shadows to no avail, craning his head to regard the clammy hand encircling around his wrist.
"No." Marc reached out, a stubborn expression morphed on his face. "We need to talk."
Steven nodded, a concerned glance which tore at Jake's heart.
He didn't deserve that look.
"Look kids, I know you don't like me, so all I'm asking is that you let me protect you, I promise you won't see me any other time." Jake's forced smile seemed fake, even to himself.
The cocked eyebrow and concentrated stare of Marc was the immediate you have to be kidding me answer.
"Not what I'm talking about Jake."
Fuck.
They were being nice to him.
A rush of panic spurred him into blurting the first thing that came to his mind.
"I killed Harrow."
The grip on his wrist slackened and immediately, Jake freed himself from the grip; with all the intent of shutting himself in his room.
Before he could even take a step, Marc's tightened tug on his shoulder halted him in place.
"Stop doing that. You're not getting out of this." The American advised, keeping the hand on the New Yorker's shoulder even as he sagged in resignation and slumped down upon the couch.
"So Jake, what do you like doing?" Steven asked, regarding the curious alter with an expression Jake was unable to place.
What did Jake like doing?
He didn't know…
"I like driving." He offers, hoping that it's enough for the kids to stop asking him questions.
"Anything else..?" Marc prompted, confused at the hesitation Jake stumbled upon.
"No.." Jake admitted, ashamed. "I don't know anything else…"
Marc opened his mouth, ready to remark on the bizarre obvious attempts that the New Yorker tried to dodge the direct question.
"I only really front when either of you are in danger." He interrupted, trying to swallow the lump within his throat, to no avail.
The sadness emitted off of Steven within waves and Jake couldn't bring himself to meet the kid's eyes, he shifted uncomfortably.
"But you've been here the whole time?"
"Yeah." He nodded. "But I don't mind. I don't need to enjoy anything, as long as you kids are alright."
"Well that's changing." Marc announced a note of regret in his tone at how quick he was to judge Jake, judging the New Yorker who spent each moment protecting them.
"From today, we're going to find things you enjoy."
Jake couldn't hide the astonishment on his face, even if he wanted to as he soaked in Marc's words.
"Why?" He muttered, the single word cracking at the sheer emotion he felt.
"Because you're part of us." Steven chimed in, a gentle smile framing his face which Jake couldn't believe was directed at him.
"Thank you for keeping us alive and now, it's our turn to help you stay alive." Marc added, his tone full of unbridled support and love.
Those words sunk in and Jake trembled to maintain his calm façade, unwilling to break down in front of them.
"It's alright." Steven soothed.
And Jake cried, sobbing as he clutched tightly to his kids; embracing the sheer relief, the warmth that he was finally seen.
.
Marc.
Marc yearned for many things that a child should not.
He pleaded with god to take Randall's place, because wouldn't everyone be overjoyed if that was the case?
He cried, longing to return back to a time that his mother would glance upon him with love and adoration. The child knew this was pointless as each and every second he plodded downstairs would result in the accusatory gaze and venomous words hurled with deadly accuracy.
Was he selfish for wishing it all to stop?
Yearning desperately for happiness, for peace when he deserved everything, because mum was right.
It was all his fault.
.
.
Eyes glimmering with childlike wonder, he replayed the movie again; mouthing each word off by heart, grinning to himself at his hero saved the day once again.
Dr Steven Grant.
Marc wanted more than anything to become braver, stronger.
Just like Steven!
He gripped this idea to his chest each and every second of the day, rehearsing the lines so much so they became his one refuge in the darkened nights.
Marc stumbled over the words, voice wobbling as he picked himself off the carpet, wincing at the scarlet handprint upon his cheek.
Steven Grant has no fear…
Steven Grant wouldn't kill his brother, wouldn't be punished.
Perhaps mum would be happy if Steven was her son. A son with no fear, no mistakes that she could love accordingly.
.
.
Steven was formed, created and Marc couldn't shake the giddy ecstatic feeling from his chest.
And slowly, each day became slightly easier to bear with the knowledge that he wasn't alone; that there was someone that could take over within an instant.
Mum hurled insults at Steven but he ignored her and Marc's heart soared for joy, his grin lightening up.
Steven of course would not falter at pathetic insults like Marc did!
He had no fear, he was loved and cared for.
Unlike Marc.
.
.
Marc's days as a mercenary were beyond brutal; blood, hanging screams and hoarse begs which would always fall upon deaf ears.
It was this period within the American's life that he couldn't bring himself to care about anything.
The snarling red-hot rage consumed his heart.
They deserve it. He would growl at himself. They deserved every single fucking ounce of pain he gave them.
There were nights that seemed to last forever, nights where he would be continuously scrubbing at his hands till the water trickled cold. Trembling with frustrated tears he would stare at his raw and bleeding hands, desperate to shove off the building disgust of the caked blood on his hands.
Somehow, each and every time this happened, he would arise with carefully bandaged hands, with no drowsy knowledge of binding them.
Anger was his one constant within life.
Fury was easier to deal with, simpler to manage than the writhing, twisted mess of pain and trauma and abuse.
The anger was prickly, but he embraced it; shoving everything else into the back of his mind, unwilling to deal with it.
The rage was his friend, it kept him safe and he thought of it akin to his lifeline.
.
.
Bushman.
The betrayal left him in a spiralling abyss of nothingness.
His crew was shot, left for dead within the frozen nights of the desert.
Bushman was gone, on a deadly killing rampage.
And Marc?
Marc continued to drag himself through the sands at an unbearably slow pace, agony consuming him mercilessly as he suffocated through his own snarled curses of idiocy to trust anyone beyond himself.
The moon was the only witness to his anguish, glittering within the distance; seemingly jeering at his stupidity.
It was then and there that the mercenary's anger abandoned him, doused and he had to battle the wave of overbearing remnants of emotions that he had shoved aside for far too long, emotions and pain that threatened to crumple his very soul.
Marc was so tired .
What was the point anymore in fighting?
His pain filled eyes dropped shut and the frozen metal barrel was shoved under his chin, unwavering.
The click of the safety echoed deafeningly within the sea of the desert.
And then…
Khonshu happened.
The moon god saved him. enslaved him
Gave him a renowned sense of purpose. Manipulated him.
The American wanted beyond anything to slink into shadows hues of nothingness.
No more pain, no more betrayal.
Just a peaceful stilled silence.
Khonshu persisted, his voice thrumming with power as it echoed around him; Marc was too tired to care, to argue with an Ancient being so he resigned to his fate.
Agreeing to the twisted mess of conditions the moon god constructed and he became his avatar.
.
Marc hated that he relied heavily on Moon Knight, upon his forced role which he could once again shove his anger upon those that deserved it. Targeting the snarling hate to someone other than himself.
.
.
Everything fell apart, a trapdoor plunging him into the never ending darkness of emotions when he received the phone call.
Dropping to his knees, he willed beyond everything for the tears to halt.
Instead he curled upon himself, unable to stifle the cries despite his yearnings.
She didn't deserve his cries, nor his grief and yet, his mind was a confused wasteland of anger, anguish and loss as it sunk in.
His forever pent up emotions flooded down, cascading over him and Marc did the only thing he could.
He stepped back, letting Steven take control as he slunk into the shadowy safety of his room.
.
.
Marc was finding it increasingly difficult to keep his handwriting free of trembles, biting his lip to blink away the gathering tears in the edge of his vision, he skimmed over the scribbled postcard for Steven.
Why?
Why did he continue this charade?
Because Steven was innocent, naïve.
Marc couldn't stain someone else's life with pain, so he kept up the façade, the lie.
Steven was supposed to live the life Marc was unable to, if Marc couldn't be happy then he would dedicate everything he had to ensuring that the Brit was.
.
.
.
Steven's persistent snooping resulted in his realisation of the confined snarls of truth.
The hatred shone in the Brits eyes and despite the fact that he knew the Brit was just trying to accept everything, it didn't make his hurled words hurt any less.
Get out of my life.
Get out of my life.
Get out of my life.
I can't. Marc wanted to scream, wanting to grip onto Steven's shoulders and shake him. I want to, believe me I do. But I can't.
.
.
"I am broken." His voice trembled, forcing his building tears back as his blurry gaze drifted upon the gods. "I am."
Perhaps, he was yearning for an outstretched hand. Hoping that they could help him, offer support. Instead the pitiful glances snapped him from his trance and he shoved all his emotions back inside.
In the end he would always be left alone.
.
.
A rushing panic gripped him as his eyes darted from the confines of the psychiatric hospital; a building terror that Steven wasn't answering him and nono he couldn't have made everything up because if he wasn't moon knight. If he had invented everything then his life had no meaning.
Marc didn't know what possessed him to open the sarcophagus, but suddenly in the fight of him against the world.
He wasn't alone.
Steven was there.
Steven kept the unbridled terror at bay as he embraced the Brit, holding him tightly; hoping to reassure himself that this was indeed real.
.
The journey through his memories was horrific, leaving him wondering if it was worth fighting to survive anymore.
He hurt Steven, could see the poorly hidden betrayal upon his face and it was only when the Brit finally realised the full truth that he understood.
Marc felt at peace.
.
Steven's expression twisted in fear and he lunged at Marc, shoving the mercenary back as he tumbled off of the boat and Marc could only scream in horror.
.
The field of reeds was too quiet.
Too peaceful.
Too unnatural.
How the fuck was he supposed to enjoy eternity while Steven sacrificed everything for him, suffocating in stone forever?
Marc ignored the serene landscapes, sprinting to find his brother; each step noticeably harder than the last.
Steven's frozen figure was located and Marc couldn't stop himself as his emotional wall tumbled down, his babbling speech rising, thick with tears.
And beyond any miracle, it had worked.
Their hearts balanced, they were back.
Alive and more importantly, not alone.
.
.
Settling into everyday life was shockingly simple. The motions of each day brimmed with jokes, banter and mundane chats.
Marc enjoyed it, beyond enjoying it; he shockingly looked forward to it.
A feeling nagged persistently within him that he was missing something.
That something was terribly wrong.
The American couldn't bring himself to care, unwilling for the joy he felt to be torn to the ground if he questioned it.
So he left everything as it was.
And everything seemed perfect.
Until…
.
Until he accidentally sliced his hand, the stinging pain building as the blood bead to the surface.
And suddenly, the knife reflected another alter and everything made sense, it all connected together perfectly within the confines of a puzzle.
Cairo.
Harrow.
"So what? You're a dangerous murderer? And you think we're just going to accept your greeting. What do you want?"
Jake didn't rise to take the bait, instead he dipped his head, hair obscuring his eyes and he slinked back into the mindscape.
Steven twisted towards the American, yelling that he couldn't treat him like that. A deep disappointment was obvious within his face as he stormed off and Marc still couldn't bring himself to care.
Marc didn't want to share his body with a fucking killer, wanted nothing to do with the alter.
It touched upon the worst parts of his life, a time of blood and screams as he held onto the rage that would thrum deep inside him.
The feeling of the barrel pressed tightly within his chin was a feeling that would never be forgotten by him.
.
.
Shaking himself from his slumber, he twisted open the door and the sight of what greeted him chilled him to the bone.
Rooting him into place.
How had he missed the signs that Steven had?
"Steven?" He called out, trying to break the Brit from his thoughts in the hopes that they could talk about this. His heart thumped rapidly, blood chilling as the terrified emotion raced through him.
The silence brought Marc back to his senses, his mouth pulling down into a scowl as he realised that it wasn't Steven in control of the body.
"You trying to kill us now?" The American pursed his lips, scanning the plummeting heights below. There was a reason why he didn't trust the new alter and this, was the exact reason why.
"Khonshu wouldn't let you two die."
Marc scoffed at the answer, rolling his eyes in irritation.
He shoved the blaring warning that the New Yorker's tone reflected his own tiredness within the deserted depths of sand that specific night.
"So what? You're here to admire the view?"
"You just don't get it, do ya Marc? He wouldn't let you two die because I've had this conversation with him before."
The dots still weren't connecting and Marc scrunched his eyebrows confused at the soft implication within his tone.
"But you?"
"But me." Jake shut his eyes, a smile playing on his face and finally Marc knew.
The panic throttled him and finally Marc understood.
The mercenary knew, but he didn't want to admit it; yearning to leave that part of his life untouched, forever hidden-despite the lingering knowledge that he now had no choice.
"Wait, stop." Marc had to shove the words from his throat. No matter how bad Jake seemed, he didn't want him to die, despite everything the alter was still a part of Marc's life.
"We can talk about this!"
"You don't like me Marc, I get it. I'm not a good person. But you needed someone to do all that shit, to take Wendy's beatings."
Marc recoiled, a dread seeping into his stomach, his emotions running haywire at that sentence.
Jake had been there that long?...
"...to protect you both. But I can't protect you if you don't want me too."
Marc snapped back to his senses when the New Yorker continued, despising the sheer weary that was clutched deeply within the protector's voice.
The American hadn't meant to hurt Jake, hadn't considered that the alter was doing everything, what he had done for them.
"Wait, Jake please… " His voice cracked, pleading, begging for the alter to listen, in the hopes that he could talk to him.
Could somehow tell him he understood and that they could figure this out together .
His unsaid ramblings chorused through his mind and died on his throat.
"Look I'm sorry for the way I talked to you. Step down, please and we can talk about this." The mercenary pleaded instead, lamely.
"It's alright." Jake's hushed promise somehow echoed in the mindscape. "The body won't be harmed."
Marc had almost sobbed in pure relief at Khonshu's appearance, hating the nagging feeling that Jake was still intertwined within the grips of his manipulation.
The grip on Jake's shoulder was unwilling to be loosened, forcing the alter to stay and talk to them; in the hopes that this would never happen again.
And he finally understood the protector.
Marc understood the need for a fabricated mask; to seem invincible, to seem as if nothing bothered him.
It reminded him too much of his own mask of rage.
Everything Jake did, he had done for them and suffered the consequences.
The American brought the New Yorker into a hug, relaxing into the feeling that the three of them were not alone.
Never again.
.
.
Steven.
Would always be considered the innocent, young Brit.
.
Each day was a bright shining day; but soon enough, he noticed things.
Things out of place, food eaten, money spent.
After a few shockingly terrifying occurrences of sleepwalking, he propped up cameras, in the hopes to record himself, but each and every time he awoke; the cameras were all unplugged or the crushing's of the memory card scattered chaotically upon his floor.
He tried to stay awake during the nights, unwilling to wake in some foreign place and despite his yearning persistence; it didn't stop anything.
Instead, it gave him a deep fatigue that left him scrambling, late each day for the bus.
.
It was days like that when Donna's harsh quips were harder to ignore, harder to shove aside and not let the hurt bubble upwards.
.
Dylan…
The soft realisation that once again he messed up, unable to even keep track of time or deep sadness that perhaps he was destined to be alone.
.
.
And then Marc happened…
He despised it, the overbearing feeling that everything he was doing was being analysed.
It was during that time of confusion and spite that he hurled insults to the American, because within the stifling darkness of his mind; it was all he could do.
He didn't know how Marc did it, he couldn't stand the disgusting feeling that this was wrong, watching Marc in his body, unable to intervene.
Forced to become a bystander without much of a choice.
.
.
Dying left him in a plunging rollercoaster of emotions.
Steven rapidly slammed his palms into the smooth stoned sarcophagus, the tears dripped from his eyes, blurring his obscured vision.
The grating sound reached his ears and he winced as the light flooded within his jail, scrambling out desperately as soon as the gap was large enough.
Eyes wide, on the brink of hyperventilation, he gaped at the sight of Marc, for once embracing the feeling that he wasn't alone.
.
.
Steven was made up.
The reality of Marc's lies spilled out within his memories and the Brit could feel his entire world crumple in response.
A stress toy to take over when Marc got stressed?
Who was he?
Did his life even matter anymore?
.
.
Randall…
Marc admitted to what happened that rainy day, tears choking him and Steven shoved his own emotions back, strongly reminding Marc that it wasn't his fault.
.
The terrified panic spurred him forwards when he saw Marc tipping backwards.
Steven didn't think, just blindly reached out, shoving his brother back into the safety of the boat as he twisted into the endless sands.
The stone smothering him into the depths of forever.
.
.
Marc's speech would've left him in a twisted numbing anguish if he was able too.
The heart balanced and Steven couldn't stop his scolding.
"What the hell is wrong with you?"
He couldn't hide the smile in his voice, the joy that consumed his being as they stumbled through the doors, escaping the clutches of death.
.
Life seemed to return to a falsified sense of normalcy and Steven eventually relaxed into the feeling of never being alone.
And yet…
There were still things that didn't add up.
Small cuts and scrapes healed too quickly as well as the nagging feeling of what happened to those people, to Harrow never escaped far from his mind.
.
And all the pieces fit perfectly when they met Jake Lockley.
Steven immediately recognised the brief crossed hurt at Marc's harsh words, watched the glowing fiery hope dim within his eyes.
Steven fumed with fury, twisting to Marc with a demand.
"What is your problem?"
Marc shot back, voice taunt with rage that Jake was a murderer, a killer.
Steven had barked bitterly at the irony within the American's statement.
"You don't know him, you can't judge him based on what he's done. I didn't judge you like that."
And the Brit had stormed off, the rest of the day passing easily as he desperately searched for the mysterious alter, to no avail.
.
.
Steven had suddenly awoken from his slumber as Marc's piercing cries reverberated within the confines of the mindscape. The Brit lurched out of bed, rushing forwards to the front; only to see Jake flailing.
Falling .
The shock coursed through him, forcing him to stay transfixed to that spot; unable to move.
Khonshu.
Steven was right in his theories, Jake was still with Khonshu. It pained him greatly that they had created the way out without Jake, that they had excluded him from the bargain and the god had created a loophole.
Steven despised the bird with a passion, for destroying his life, Marc's life and now, Jake's life. However, within that single moment, Steven was forever grateful, forever thankful that Jake was still alive.
The New Yorker had slunk back into the headspace and glanced cautiously at the faces reflected back at him and almost immediately seemed as if he was going to run.
Marc gripped his wrist, unwilling for Jake to go through what the American went through alone.
"I killed Harrow." The blurting's of the confession seemed to shock Jake as much as it surprised Marc.
Steven couldn't hide the sadness that clutched deeply within his heart, because he honestly wasn't surprised. Khonshu was a fucking dick and it seemed that Jake as the protector, would do anything for them, including obey the harsh, spiraling orders without a second thought.
The Brit's face twisted into a painful somberness at Jake's hushed confession that he didn't know what he enjoyed.
Steven felt his heart tear painfully in response to that. Jake had been there the entire time, but they had never known, they had never cared to know beyond the scope of unexplained deaths and blackouts.
The Brit could feel his eyes water as Jake broke down, finally accepted.
It was then and there that he finally realised that being together, as a makeshift family was better than the dark, haunting shadows of being alone.
So how did I do? :)
I really enjoyed writing so much, but it definitely was a challenge :D
And I hoped you enjoyed this fic as much as I did writing it! And if you didn't I promise my next fic will be back to my normal style :))
Take care
Xxx
Rae