Jacob wandered the grounds for about 20 minutes, his hood the only means of stealth he had to his advantage if he happened to come across a random neighbor. And if he did, then where would he be? The only people who didn't know about Joe Carroll and his Followers were people who didn't own televisions, computer, cell phones, radios, and pretty much lived under rocks.
He didn't have anyone to get their hands dirty in his stead. Emma was… well, who knew where? Besides Joe, and Roderick, Charlie, and probably other Followers that he didn't even know existed. Like Hank, who was dead on some slab in some lab being poked and prodded by the disgusting goons who deemed themselves worthy of being called law enforcement.
Paul couldn't do the heavy lifting if they were discovered, either. He was barely able to get himself off the couch and into the bathroom; Jacob's main job recently had been fetching him water and food and helping him get to the toilet when nature called. And worrying, but he tried to keep that to himself.
What if he needed something right now? What if he'd gotten up to go to the bathroom not ten feet away from where he had been stuck on the couch, face looking as pained when Jacob had stormed out as it had the morning after that night. What if he'd gotten up but fallen and Jacob wasn't there to help him and he popped his stitches and Jacob wouldn't even be able to witness any minute beauty in his death because he was out here having a fucking breakdown?!
Everything that had happened since they left their townhouse (no, not 'theirs; there was no 'them', no 'us' between he and Paul; it was all an act, every bit of it) had seemed, at first, like a perfect dream come to fruition. All had gone as planned. Joey was coming out of his shell and learning the truest art, he and Emma had been reunited after the long years apart. It had all been going accordingly until Paul had allowed his frivolous and unfounded jealousy to taint their chapter.
Bringing Megan to the farmhouse had probably been the ultimate wrench in the machine they were supposed to be cogs in, chugging along the path Joe had outlined for them.
Why? Why did Paul do this to them?
Jacob had been allowing his feet to lead him as he turned these thoughts over and over in his mind. When he looked up he was by the rear of the cabin. The shades were all drawn but he could see that the lamp in the main room wasn't lit. That meant Paul had been on the couch long enough to pull the drawstring on the only thing in his arm's reach, and Jacob knew that the other man wasn't stupid enough to try to navigate the cabin in the dark.
He assumed Paul was sleeping, or was at least being kind of enough to pretend to be for whenever Jacob returned. Because that's what Paul did; he walked on egg shells, he never pushed (until recently) and he took excellent care of Jacob. Had from the second they'd been told they were to be in love, and flawlessly so. Maybe even before that…
Jacob walked around to the front of the cabin, feeling as pathetic, confused, and guilty as he had when he left. But he also felt a longing, the one he associated with the guilt, which pulled him towards the wounded but incredibly strong man stuck prone on the ratty old couch inside of the creaky, drafty safe house they'd gotten themselves stuck in.
Maybe Paul was right and they didn't have to label everything. But that's what had drawn Jacob to Joe Carroll so strongly. He had lived with uncertainty his entire life. His parents had moved him around, never staying in one place for more than a school year (if he was lucky) until his junior year when they were murdered in front of him during a home invasion. The murderer, a deranged man who'd escaped the local prison, had gutted them like animals, all the while singing and humming and laughing to himself while Jacob watched from his parent's closet.
But what he remembers the most about that day, besides the sounds and smells and the RED, RED, RED EVERYWHERE, was how fascinated he'd been by the madman's precision. Jacob had heard the man enter the house because he was reading his graphic novels instead of sleeping as he should have been. By the time he got to his parent's bedroom he could hear the footsteps in the hallway outside the door. Instead of waking his mom and dad (which always took effort, since they both depended heavily on their dear sleep aids) he had darted into their closet. The disheveled man that entered the bedroom had slit his parent's throats quickly and efficiently, playing with their insides for about eight minutes or so until the authorities arrived in response to tripped silent alarm. Jacob had only one thing to say to the police, after saying he hadn't seen anything while hiding in the closet.
"Took ya long enough, but I guess that's what they get for moving us into the middle of fucking nowhere."
He's pretty sure that statement is the first thing in his psych records.
When he'd first come across Joe's story his fascination in the art of death, which had been building since that day in the closet, or maybe even before then, had come to a head. He'd visited the man who would become a mentor; the only person who had ever seen Jacob for what he was and put him on a pre-laid course.
But now he was leading his own two feet again, and to help himself from falling off of the precipice he steered them through the front door towards the only form of comfort and familiarity he had left.
His destination henceforth, until Joe could outline a new one, would be Paul.