The Permanent Efficacy of Grace

3.

Jacob hears her fist hit the wall opposite his head, but given that it's not followed by a scream of pain or more thumps that might signify that she's properly tearing up the room, he doesn't change his plans. He heads downstairs.

He doesn't want to do this.

John had called him up a couple of days ago, to tell him the Deputy had just left the ranch and to give him the heads-up that his cover, such as it was, was blown, that his plan for Eli and the Whitetails was shot as a result. He claimed he was just being helpful, though Jacob suspected he heard a certain smugness in his tone. (John is used to being the family fuckup. From a neutral perspective, Jacob can't quite begrudge him the little thrill that he must have gotten from seeing Jacob be the one to ruin things so spectacularly. From a decidedly not neutral perspective, Jacob wants to shave John's fucking head while he sleeps.)

He has no doubt the news has spread like wildfire by now. If Joseph doesn't already know (unlikely), he'll find out soon. Jacob knows it'll be best if he appears to confess on his own recognizance, instead of making Joseph summon him to drag it out of him. Even so, he doesn't have any desire whatsoever to talk personal shit with his little brother, especially personal shit that's jeopardized everything they've built since they came to this place all those years ago.

The Faithful are staring at him—they're wary, never looking for too long, he tends to draw the smartest of the bunch (the bald one from before who had attacked Rook notwithstanding), but it still gets under his skin. If they didn't know about his thing with Rook before, they at least suspect something now, after how heated things got inside, and especially now that Rook is not with him but not in her cage, either. As he exits the building to a swarm of followers going about their work, he announces loudly, without breaking stride, "Next person looks at me's gonna get fed their own eyes."

That seems to do the job pretty well. Everyone is pretty eager to seem busy after that, bustling about and pointedly not looking at him. He reaches the bank of trucks they keep fueled up and ready to go and hops in alone, and no one dares to ask if they should come with him. (It might be safer to have backup, especially with the Whitetails still a problem, but Jacob thinks he'll probably break the neck of anyone who talks to him before he reaches Joseph's compound, so it's for the best.) He peels out as he leaves the veteran's center, not intentionally, but he doesn't currently have the patience to move slowly. Best to get this over with.

Fortunately, the only cops in the area are currently being held underground, so he gets to drive as fast as he likes. He doesn't see much by way of Resistance (not too surprising, it's midday and raining), and even the wildlife seems to be keeping off the road. If Jacob were the superstitious type, he'd read this all as portentous, but fortunately, he's not—it's just a dismal, cold day, an indicator that winter is drawing near, and everything and everyone with sense is curled up somewhere warm, under cover.

The drive down to the lakeshore is about thirty minutes, even with him going as fast as he is. Jacob's not usually a man who minds being left alone with his thoughts—greatly prefers it, for the most part—but he's also not used to having so many of them, or such conflicting, complicated ones. He's starting to second-guess his decision not to bring someone along. At least being annoyed at the Faithful would be a distraction.

Because, of course, he doesn't want to think about the fact that the Deputy is right. Possibly about more than one thing, but the only one he can even sort of grudgingly semi-admit, even just to himself, is that he did screw this whole thing up, from start to finish. So what if she'd made the first move? She was always doing stupid shit like that. He was the controlled one, the strong one—it had been his responsibility to tell her to knock that shit off, or, at the very least, to consider the possibility that they weren't as alone as it appeared. All he had to do was not make out with her like a horny teenager, and he'd fucked that royally up—more than once, but specifically that first time, the time that tipped the Whitetails off to the fact that their sweet little Rookie wasn't as infallible as they liked to believe.

No, she was right—he'd let loose on her because he was frustrated, unbearably so, all that careful planning down the drain, but this was on him. He should have known better than to forget for just one second what she was: a means to an end, and his enemy.

He doesn't like the look of that fucking hole in her side. It looked like it had been a couple of days old before that bald idiot bashed it open again with the rifle stock—Jacob had been across the courtyard and had witnessed it from a distance; he'd started over to intervene immediately, but the guy had done even more damage before he was able to reach them. She'd do well to listen to his order to clean it up, and if she had half a brain in her head, she'd give herself a solid week to heal before embarking on any of her typical bullshit.

(She won't, though. It's a trait that sparks something like grudging respect in him, something he'll never tell her about—she doesn't seem to know how to slow down, let alone quit. As someone with a hell of a stubborn streak, himself, he can appreciate that, at least when they're not directly butting heads.)

Old Mad Seed. He sucks his teeth at the intrusion of the thought, making a sound of contempt, and tries to focus exclusively on the road. He doesn't want to give that accusation another second's thought—it hadn't deserved any in the first place. He knows now as well as she did then that she was just probing for soft spots, scrambling for a weapon to make him back off. It's not the same and she damn well knows it. They're on opposite sides of a goddamn war. It's not like he's keeping her cowed and barefoot in the kitchen, or beating kids bloody with his belt buckle.

Except, says that little voice in his head that he can't seem to shut up even when he really wants to, except, except—she's not just the enemy. Not to you. Not anymore. That thought is of exactly no use to him, so he ignores it.

The rain has slacked off to a drizzle by the time he reaches the docks. A couple of Faithful are there guarding the boats and they don't look surprised when he climbs out of the truck, meaning someone with a brain in their head probably pieced together where he was headed and radioed them with a warning.

"Would you like us to come with you, Brother Jacob?" asks one as he approaches.

"No. Stay at your post. Just point me towards the quickest boat."

Soon enough, he's headed to Joseph's island. The light rain and the spray from the bow make an icy mist in his face, clearing his head, bracing him. It's something he's never missed about Georgia, and Iraq after that—even as a kid, the heat had beat down on him, an inescapable force, and he'd lived with it his whole life, until they'd come here. Here, even the summers were only ever just warm.

(Jacob knows he'll never leave this place.)

The compound is practically empty, has been since the raid that night, since Joseph sent his people out into the world to do their work. There's a skeleton crew of guards, some women, and all the children Rook had been asking about not a week ago. One or two of the kids wave timidly at him; badly out of practice interacting with children (he doesn't think he's even spoken to one since John was little), Jacob chooses to ignore them and heads straight for the church. He'll find his brother there.

Sure enough, Joseph sits in the front pew, hands laced together in front of him, glowing slightly in the light of the cross. Jacob approaches quietly—even if he's not particularly religious himself, he feels a sense of reluctant reverence in this place, if only because it means so much to his brother—but Joseph, not bothering to look behind him, says, "Jacob. I was hoping you'd come by soon."

Jacob had stopped being impressed by that trick years ago. He drops into the pew behind Joseph and says, "You need better guards at the gate. They didn't even notice me till I was right up on 'em."

Joseph turns slightly, laying his arm along the back of the pew. Accounting for the cold, he's dressed a little more than usual, white shirt under black vest, not a hair out of place. He's smiling faintly, and he says, "I was under the impression that the Junior Deputy was in a cage."

"The Junior Deputy isn't the only threat to the project," Jacob counters.

Joseph tilts his head, acceding to the point, but he says, "I would be very surprised if any of the other Resistance leaders attacked us here. They'd have quite a task making it through the rest of you."

Jacob grunts disapprovingly, but by some freakish twist of nature, out of all of them, Joseph is the most stubborn, so he doesn't push it. Instead, he goes to address his reason for being here—and finds himself tongue-tied as he realizes he has no idea how to talk about this.

Joseph, attentive as always, watches him for a few moments before prompting him. "You have something you need to tell me."

"Mm," Jacob grunts. Jesus Christ. How's he supposed to do this? He doesn't want to do this.

Joseph lets the silence linger for a little longer, but the two of them have never been able to afford to be cruel to one another, and he takes pity quicker than he might with anyone else. "I imagine it has something to do with the rumors I've been hearing."

Just fucking say something. Coward. "If those rumors have to do with me and the Deputy, then yes," Jacob says finally, gruffly.

Joseph nods slightly. His eyes behind the yellow lenses are inscrutable. He's always been like this, impossible to read, even when they were little kids and Jacob was his smarter, savvier older brother who was supposed to know everything. "How long?" he asks.

"Couple of weeks."

"And you're coming to me now instead of then because…?"

Jacob lets his eyes stray from his little brother's face. Easier that way. He focuses on the illuminated Eden's Gate cross at the back of the church and says, matter-of-fact, "The Whitetails found out. They don't trust her anymore. The plan to get rid of Palmer is blown."

"Ah," Joseph says eventually. He lifts his arm from the pew's back, bringing his hand to his mouth, rubbing gently, thoughtfully at his jaw. He's silent for long enough that Jacob drags his gaze back to him, trying to read what he's thinking, feeling, even though he knows his attempt will be futile. Joseph's eyes have dropped to the floor; he might be praying under his hand, it's hard to tell.

Jacob feels an abrupt surge of impatience. "Go ahead," he says. "Tell me I'm a moron."

Joseph's eyes lift to his again, and there's a look of genuine surprise in them. He drops his hand and says, "You're many things, Jacob. A fool has never been one of them."

"Maybe not before now."

"Stop."

Jacob obeys him. Joseph can't stand deprecating language applied to his siblings, self-inflicted or not, figures they all got enough of that growing up, and Jacob tries to refrain around him for his sake. Joseph is silent for a long time, a full minute, perhaps, thinking, and sensing that patience is part of his penance, Jacob stays quiet, looks at his boots, and just waits it out.

Finally, Joseph speaks. "I have no doubt you've said worse to yourself than I could or would even want to say to you about this. Listen to me when I say that nothing that has happened here has been an accident. He may not always tell me every detail of His plan, but that doesn't matter—the important thing is that there is a plan." Jacob's arms are folded tightly over his chest; Joseph reaches forward and touches one wrist, drawing his eyes again. "I know that can be a difficult thing for you, specifically, to accept. You must trust me."

"I do." It's the truth. Joseph pulled him out of that shelter where he'd gone to die, and every step of the way since then, he's guided him right. He doesn't tend to linger on it, because it's unhelpful, but he feels ashamed of it sometimes, that he made his little brother have to take charge, have to drag them all out of their own rotting pits and give them some sense of purpose again, Rachel included. Jacob was supposed to be the one to look after his little brothers, but he'd kind of thrown that responsibility in the trash when he'd snapped that night and set the barn on fire.

(He'd known they were going to take him away from his brothers for that, it was what had held him back before that night, but that fucking Harry Parkinson—he and his wife weren't interested in even pretending to act like parents; they'd gotten the boys to call them Mister and Missus—had reminded him that he needed to get up before five the next morning to start painting the barn before the day got too hot, and he was wearing the smuggest smile Jacob had ever seen, and he'd just fucking snapped. He hadn't been able to think of anything else until the animals were clear and the fire was raging bright and loud in the pitch black night, hadn't even been able to think about the consequences and regret the act until he was in the back of a squad car and his brothers were being taken away by a social worker. For a long time, his last memory of John was of him crying and straining against Joseph's arms to try to reach Jacob. He should have thought about that shit before he started slinging gasoline around.)

Joseph nods. There's something pleased in his eyes, just a flicker, before it vanishes. "Where is she now?"

"Locked in my office."

Joseph makes a small sound that might be the faintest groan of dismay and Jacob tightens his folded arms a little defensively. He doesn't see how the office is any worse than a fucking cage—but maybe Joseph figures he should be approaching it differently now that they're involved in some way. Whatever he thinks, he's not the one who has to handle her. Joseph doesn't comment further on it, though, asking instead, "And how does she feel about all this?"

That's a good question. Jacob leans back against the pew, lifting one hand to rub thoughtfully at his mouth. "I lit into her," he admits. "She lit into me right back. So: angry."

"Angry."

"I guess." He frowns, remembering something he'd been too mad to really take notice of during the screaming match. "She said something about next moves. And… I think she was headed up to St. Francis's to talk to me anyway when I had her brought in."

Joseph's eyebrows are up; he's already read between the lines. "You think she's more amenable now to joining us?"

"I don't know. I've tried talking her around to it a time or two before, but… she's real hardheaded, Joe."

"Yes, well, then the two of you have something in common," Joseph remarks, dry as a bone. Jacob scoffs and shakes his head, because he's one to talk. Joseph taps the top of the pew, sits a little straighter, and Jacob's ears sharpen, because he knows this signifies something, an end to the discussion. Sure enough: "I need guidance before making any long-term decisions about this—but you'll agree that she shouldn't remain with you in the meantime, given that she clearly makes you waver."

Jacob doesn't flinch; he's been waiting for that gentle reproof the whole time. Nor is he surprised at Joseph's judgment—he'd known from the second he decided to come talk to him that he wouldn't get to keep her. Kindly as he is, he doesn't reward bad behavior, not ever. He clears his throat, loud in the silence of the church, and then nods his agreement.

"You'll send her to John immediately," Joseph decides. "She's been baptized, but she still must confess and atone if she's to join us."

Jacob thinks that his brother might be putting the cart before the horse (things are never that easy with Rook), and he feels a stray stab of anger at John for no good reason, but he doesn't say anything, just gets up. Joseph's eyes track him to his feet. "Have faith," he tells him. "This will turn out to be a blessing. You'll see."

I don't know about that, Jacob thinks, but he doesn't say it out loud. Joseph has handled this whole thing with grace and kindness that Jacob doesn't deserve even a little bit; the least he can do is sit on his doubts for his brother's sake. He turns to go, pauses to listen as Joseph speaks, softly, one more time: "Immediately, Jacob."

He grunts something that can pass for agreement and leaves the church. He doesn't even notice the Faithful carefully watching him as he heads for the gates, too mired in thought to see them. He's frustrated, annoyed, because he thought that telling Joseph would give him some sense of relief, that handing this mess over to his brother and letting him decide what to do with it would make him feel better, the way it has ever since Joseph found him again.

It doesn't.

Instead, dread curls up tight, high in his chest.

The door is solid wood. Rook's already coping with injuries; she doesn't see how beating herself bruised and bloody against the door will help (though the idea of just screaming incoherently till her voice gives out appeals to her, if only because she thinks it might help spook the Peggies). There are windows in the room, but all three are boarded up—she opens them anyway, presses at the boards, thinking maybe she can kick one out, but they're all more solid than the plywood she expects and thoroughly nailed on. Shit.

After she rules out escape, she ditches her shirt. Jacob might be acting like a tool, but he's right—she needs to stop the bleeding and get a bandage on before infection sets in. It takes longer to do than she'd like, and by the time the bleeding slows enough for her to move on, the wound is still throbbing in pain in time with her heartbeat, but she just grits her teeth and tapes the biggest bandage in the kit over it. Once she's patched and cleaned up, she goes rummaging until she finds some clothes hanging in a coffin-sized wardrobe, and she takes one of Jacob's gray undershirts, because fuck him, he's the reason hers is all bloody to begin with. "I was coming to see you anyway," she mutters, in a bad temper as she wrestles the shirt over her head.

It's big on her, the arm holes exposing practically her entire bra band—which is a tremendously unsexy shade of beige—but it's something, and it's a little loose around the torso and waist, which she sees as a win. She opts not to take any more, because although it's a cold day, the radiator on the wall is running and keeping things toasty. Instead, she checks out the office, unabashedly snooping, because she figures Jacob ditched the right to privacy the second he locked her in here against her will.

There's a ton of information—charts, maps, computer files. Too bad she can't fucking read any of it. She doesn't know if Jacob's handwriting is intentionally shitty to obscure valuable information from prying eyes or if it's just shitty, but either way… it is unbelievably shitty. She can barely even make out the letter J in his signature, let alone the rest of his featureless scrawl. Is it cursive? Is it code? Is he secretly illiterate and unlettered, pretending to write and banking on his intimidation factor to carry him through it without anyone daring to call him out? Her guess is as good as anyone's.

The computer files are all password protected, and the whole thing shuts down and locks her out after she tries and fails to guess it three times (Joseph1976, John1980 and shitIatemybestfriendMiller when she was getting frustrated). She hopes he'll have fun getting it back up and running, and gives up on the intel gathering.

Or at least, changes course. By all accounts Jacob lives in his office, and the last time she'd been here she'd been a little too preoccupied with dashing off a note and not getting caught to take much of a look around (and at the time, she wouldn't have gone prying—she felt more kindly towards him then than now). Now seems as good a time as any to see what his living space says about him.

First of all, John is right (although, as always, she hates to admit it)—that cot is just sad. She doesn't even know how he fits on it. It doesn't look like she could stretch out comfortably on it, and he's got an easy five inches on her. It doesn't have sheets, just a blanket and a pathetic little flat pillow. He needs to do something about that.

The cot's in the section of his office that seems dedicated to living space, with the wardrobe where she'd found the shirt against the wall, a row of file cabinets (all locked), and a table where he probably takes his meals, when he's here for them. Next to the table is a little humming mini-fridge; she opens it to find a decent stock of beer, and laughs out loud. "Cigarettes and beer, we've got a rebel," she announces to nobody, and takes a bottle, using the edge of the table to blast the cap off.

It's Guinness, normally she wouldn't drink it (normally she doesn't drink beer) but beggars can't be choosers. She finds herself loosening up as she drifts around and looks at his stuff. He has creepy deer skulls on the walls, just straight up bone and antler. She likes them, she decides, better than the taxidermy that's all over the county (though she'd never dare to say so to Ms. Mabel). She'd always felt a little bad for the taxidermied deer heads and their glass eyes and their perpetually-surprised expressions. Skulls, at least, feel a little more honest.

She searches the drawers at the head of the cot. There's an unloaded pistol (no ammunition nearby—she checks) in the drawer beneath it, as well as a worn-looking elastic-banded black notebook. She thinks about it for a while, then slowly returns both to the drawer. Not like I could read a thing he's written, anyway.

Overall, aside from all the cult shit, he doesn't seem to have very much. That doesn't surprise her. After a quick inspection of the cot to make sure it's not gross (it's not made, another strike against his drill sergeant, but seems clean enough) she hops on and kicks her boots off and works on the beer.

She's nervous about whatever Jacob's up to over at Joseph's. She doesn't like the idea of them making decisions about her without her involvement—but then, what else is new? She figures if they try to pull some shit, she can just escape like she always does. The Guinness helps. She drinks it fast and gets drowsy even faster, because she's injured and the adrenaline rush during her fight with Jacob left her feeling drained and because Bliss sleep is always shitty sleep. At some point she lays her head down on the pillow, smelling that bonfire and gun oil smell she tends to associate with him, and drifts off.

She jerks upright again when she hears a key turning in the lock. Jacob enters the room, and she glances towards the window for some indicator of how much time has passed, forgetting that they're boarded up. "What time is it?" she asks, rubbing her eyes with the heel of one hand. Her voice is scratchy from his attack on her earlier.

"Getting close to sundown," he says, and his tone is terse, making her take a closer look at his face. Bad news, she realizes, seeing the tension in his shoulders and his mouth. "Get up."

She obeys, more because she can read a room and wants to be on her feet with a wall behind her than because she cares to do what he says. "What's up, Jacob?" she asks, way too casually.

"Time for you to go."

"Go where?"

He meets her eye, briefly. He doesn't look the least bit ashamed to tell her, "Holland Valley. You're gonna stay a while with John."

Her response is reflexive, immediate: "The hell I am."

"Deputy," he says in the soft, calm voice that she associates more with sessions in his chair than anything else. "I'm not arguing with you."

Shit. She needs to move fast. Talking with Joseph has clearly got him right back to the same old bullshit, the thing where he doesn't even see her as a person anymore, much less someone he should care enough to argue with. Well, she can use that to her advantage. If he won't fight her, he probably won't stoop to drag her kicking and screaming from the room in a hurry, either. If she's smart, she might have several minutes. She takes a deep, calming breath, stays firmly where she is, and says, matching his tone, "Good, I don't want to argue. Let's talk it through."

"Nothing to talk about." He's looking a little more closely at her now, like he's starting to figure out that she's up to something.

"I disagree." Jacob draws a short breath in through his nose, the only concession Rook can see to the annoyance he must be feeling, but she's never made life easy for him—why start now? "So," she starts, slowly, thoughtfully, "Joseph wants me with John?"

"That's what I said."

"I'm assuming he wants John to carry on with all that… atonement bullshit." Jacob doesn't respond to that, which she takes as a yes. She shakes her head and says, "If I've got to be with anyone in your family, I want to stay with you."

"That isn't happening."

"Why?"

That breaks through the calm, cool, collected act just for a second, just long enough to make him tilt his head and shoot her a narrow-eyed look that says, clearly, really? She returns the same look in turn, but doesn't press the point—he already knows that she knows Joseph wouldn't just be cool with them carrying on, not after it got in the way of the cult's plan for Eli. (She finds, now that she's slept on it and the horror has dimmed somewhat into a pissed-off acceptance, that she's feeling somewhat smug about that.)

"Okay, fine," she says. "Hypothetically, let's say I played along—that I was good, that I went through atonement and eventually joined forces with you guys." Maybe when pigs fly, she thinks, but she doesn't share that part. He's tense and frowning, waiting for the other shoe to drop (but still waiting, that's a good sign), and she dips her chin and looks meaningfully at him and says, "You think Joseph will send me back to you, once I've done everything right?"

She can read his answer plain in his face, even though when he speaks, it's to be vague and noncommittal. "I have no idea."

"Yes, you do," she contradicts him. He sets his jaw and looks even more annoyed, which is as good a confirmation as any. "You don't think he'll let us be together, no matter what."

That gets a reaction out of him, a sharp, incredulous little laugh—at her phrasing, she thinks, the concept of being together, but hell, she figures that if she doesn't get her cards on the table now she'll miss her chance entirely. He lifts both hands to his face, maybe to hide that laughter, rubbing hard at his eyes, and she watches him intently as she continues: "And you're just… totally okay with that?"

He drops his arms. "Am I okay with… the best interests of the project I've committed over a decade of my life to?" The delivery is heavily sarcastic—Jacob is a big believer in the existence of stupid questions—and he lets it sit in the silence for a moment before going on offense: "What the hell are you fussin' and fighting about, anyway? This shit's been moving towards its end since it started. I thought you knew that."

Rook is shaking her head without really thinking about it. "I don't accept that."

She doesn't know how this kind of thing still startles him, but he huffs, eyes widening for a split second before narrowing into a glare, and he steps forward, pointing threateningly at her. "You need to grow the fuck up," he snaps. "This isn't make-believe, hypotheticals, what-ifs. We are on opposite sides of a fucking war. There was never the possibility of a happily-ever-after here."

"Yes, Jacob, thank you, I'm not twelve," she says, her tone absolutely frigid—she knows she shouldn't be letting him get to her, but even with that idea at the forefront of her mind, nobody gets her back up like Jacob Seed.

"Then why are we still talking about this?"

"Because," she says, "even after everything, I'm tied to you in a way I'm not tied to anyone."

Briefly, he looks at her like she's crazy (or like he is, like he thinks either she's talking nonsense or he's hearing it). That look soon simmers down into contempt, and it stings, but she'd known she was risking it the second she decided to talk feelings with him, and she weathers it just fine. He says, "That's the brainwashing talking, Rookie."

She scoffs. "That's why all your other victims are wandering around with hearts in their eyes for you too, right?"

That puts him on his back foot. She actually sees a flash of discomfort in his expression before he recovers. "How much time have we spent together, actually?" he jabs. "Ten hours? Twelve, maybe?"

"Are we counting the time we spent sleeping together or just times we were both conscious? Does my time in the cage count?" she jabs right back.

He shakes his head, looking at her with something close to pity. "You're a kid with a crush." She rolls her eyes so hard she nearly strains something, but he continues undeterred: "You think I'm going to choose you over Joseph? Over my family?"

That, too, stings, but she absorbs it, holding on to her focus. "It's not about choosing me, Jacob."

"Yeah?" he fires back, clearly agitated despite his efforts to keep control—normally happy with letting her talk herself into trouble on her own, he tends to only get this verbal when he's upset. "What is it about, then?"

"It's about allowing for the possibility that maybe there could be more to your life than just being Joseph's fucking weapon!" she snaps, frustrated and finally giving in to the temptation to raise her voice. He's already shaking his head again, wearing a mocking little smile that doesn't go anywhere near his eyes, but she presses the issue: "You're a person, not just some… meat suit walking around; I don't care what you spout to your followers. You need more than what he's giving you—some words of affirmation, a hug and a forehead press every now and again—like, what is that? That's nothing."

"Jesus Christ," Jacob says loudly.

"Don't Jesus Christ me; I'm right."

"You're delusional is what you are."

That sparks a flare of rage in her so strong that she has to fully close her eyes and take a long, deep breath in through her nose before she can talk. When she deems herself under control, she says, still with her eyes shut, "Maybe. Maybe I am. It doesn't really matter, this is the kind of thing that we both have to agree on, so if you're just… completely resolved…"

She opens her eyes and finds him. He's watching her, a hard little furrow between his brows, and she sighs. "There's nothing I can do about that. But before you make a decision you can't take back, I just want you to be sure, to be absolutely sure that that's what you want."

She loses him at the word want, if she hadn't lost him before then—she sees it in the way he shifts his weight and abruptly cuts off eye contact. Of course. Jacob the Martyr. She feels a fresh tide of rage, and she wants to knock him over and sit on his chest and yell at him in detail about how stupid he is, about how stupid this all is, to make him understand that it can't possibly be his purpose to throw his life away, but she swallows it all down. It'd be a waste of breath and energy, and she's going to need both of those if she's going to escape John before he peels off a hunk of her skin.

Jacob meets her gaze again, all resolve, and tells her, "You've got an imaginary version of me livin' in your head, kid. Best you figure that out now instead of further down the road." He lifts his hand and flicks two fingers in summons. "Time to go. Joseph said immediately."

"Well. The Voice forbid we think for ourselves instead of doing exactly what Joseph wants, huh?" It's catty, but he's a big boy, he can handle a little shit-talk—he doesn't flinch and his stare doesn't waver. She pushes away from the wall and heads past him, out the door.

He follows her closely, apparently determined to see the thing done right and to send her off himself. She can feel his tension like a physical push against her back. Maybe he thinks she's mad and foolish enough to try to run. She's not about to bother trying to escape until she's in Holland Valley, because John's people aren't as good as Jacob's and she wants to actually have a chance at not being immediately recaptured, but she doesn't tell him this. Let him worry. He's not her problem anymore.

He's pulled out all the stops. There's a convoy of three armored trucks waiting for her, all stuffed to the gills with the Chosen. She ignores the way her heart sinks at the sight of all the formidable soldiers—I'll just have to wait till they've handed me off to John to get loose, she rallies—and lets Jacob lead her to the back end of the middle truck. He opens the heavy door and inclines his head to the interior, where two hostile-looking Chosen await her, a man and a woman. "Go on."

She doesn't hesitate in turning to him, resting her hand on his shoulder, and either he's too taken off-guard to push her back or there's something else going on with him (she idly entertains the thought that he's allowing the touch because he, too, knows this is the last time they'll be this close without trying to kill each other, but writes it off as just wishful thinking on her part) and she lifts up on tiptoe to kiss his scarred cheek. She doesn't give him time to react, just steps away and climbs up into the truck without a look back.

It's as apt a goodbye as any. She hopes he chokes on it.