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yikesitskennawrites · 1 year

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Transitions- Chapter Thirty-Six: Confessing To Your Neighbor

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Pairings: Steven Grant x (platonic) Reader, Marc Spector x (platonic) Reader, Jake Lockley x (platonic) Reader, Layla El-Faouly x (platonic) Reader

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The hilt of the knife was warming with the body heat of your palm as you raised it in the air and drove it into his neck. The sound of the blade penetrating flesh and the gasp that he made fills your ears and you try not to gag at the noise. You watch him quickly remove his hands from his face, the bleach stick poked out of his eye and blood ran down his face and pooled underneath his head. His left eye was wide and staring at you with confusion and then fear as he must feel you try to pull the blade out of his neck before you realize how stuck it is. You grip the handle a little tighter before you wiggle it a little to help loosen it, with one strong tug, you pull it from his neck. One. Your chest rose and fell as you watched him stare at the bloody knife above him, the liquid splattered onto your hand as you shifted it a little in your grip.

He was in shock, that much was obvious. You watched his eye stare at the knife, the wheels turning in his brain as he processed what was happening. He failed his mission to kill you, but the deity firmly tugs the knot as if saying no. Okay then, he had other plans with you and either way, he failed them. Another tug and a warm breeze brushed against the back of your hand. They wanted you to get the job done. You were doing a job, a service to the community of protecting others and absolutely not just doing this for shits and giggles. You try not to think too much about what you were doing as you drove the knife into his neck again. This time, the blade sticks in the middle of his neck and unlike before, it was easier to pull out. Two. His hand grabbed onto the blade of the knife and you pulled it out of his grip, cutting his palm open in the process.

It took a moment for you to register due to all the adrenaline running through you that you heard his breath wheeze through the holes in his throat. You must have hit his windpipe. His hands fly up to his neck and you smell the metallic scent of his blood as you breathe in through your nostrils and out through your mouth. You needed to remove his hands from the wounds so you could continue. It’s for the best, you thought, it’s to keep them safe and anybody else. One less cruel person in this world. You shift the knife in your grip, the red light reflects in the pool surrounding his head as you reach for his wrists and try to pull his hands away from his throat. He pressed down harder against the wounds and you nearly stopped there.

But, a warm breeze surrounded the hand you weren’t holding the knife in and urged you to try again. You did and this time you thought you felt something glide between your fingers and settled on the back of your own hand as you pulled his hands away from his throat. You took the opportunity to stab him again and pulled the knife easily and just as quickly. Blood spayed high into the air, it nearly reached your ceiling and it coated you and any surrounding objects. You hit an artery. Three. You felt the blood soaking the sweatshirt you wore and the pants along with it, it stuck to your skin as you tried not to throw up at the sight before you stabbed again and pulled the knife. Four. Stab, pull. Five. Stab, pull. Six. This is to protect them. Stab, pull. Seven. His eye began to stare blankly at the ceiling. You drove the knife one last time and pulled. Eight.

You hear his last breath as a wheeze through what remained of his throat and perhaps his lips if the air made it that far. You breathed quickly, your chest raised and fell as you dropped the knife. It makes a loud noise as it clangs against your wooden floors. You stare at his eye until you can confirm that there was no light behind it. Nobody was there, just you and the body of the person you killed. You sat on your knees in a puddle of blood and stared at the corpse in front of you. You just killed somebody. You just killed somebody. You just killed somebody. You just killed somebody. Your heart raced as you felt the warm breeze envelope you as if they were placing a blanket around your shoulders. You just killed somebody. Your hands shook as you trailed your gaze away from the body and to your hands. They were coated in the blood of the victim and the fluid dripped from your fingers and into the puddle you sat in.

You just killed somebody. You blinked several times, trying to ground yourself as you felt the warm breeze pushed you gently as if they were trying to get you to stand. A shuddered breath left you as you let the breeze bully you into standing. You just killed somebody. Your legs wobbled beneath you and the room spun. You need to get out. You need to go to Stevens. The knot tightens in agreement but you still couldn’t get over the fact that you just killed somebody. You turned your head, in the red lighting you can see the photos of your parents smiling at you. You thought that some spots of blood covered the glass of the frame.

It’s been hours since you read to Marc and ever since he fell asleep halfway through the book, your mind has been replaying the crime that you committed. You cleaned up the glass shards of the broken bottle of whisky, you washed the glass you drank out of, you set Marcs shoes he kicked off by the door, and you righted Stevens book pile that Marc knocked over; and while you did all those things, your mind was consumed by your actions and the guilt that came with it. Marc only threw up twice and both times you made sure he wasn’t sleeping in his own vomit and choking on it throughout the time he slept. You don’t know what you’re going to tell them about the intruder and the body in your flat. It’s not like there's a guidebook on telling your neighbor about the murder you committed.

How do you even bring it up? Like, hey there's a body in my living room, oh do you want toast for breakfast? No, that's a terrible idea of breaking the news to them that you straight up killed another human being. Do you tell them as they’re inevitably throwing up in the toilet as you rub their back or do you wait until they aren’t completely hungover? You can’t wait much longer, the body will be in the beginning of its decomposition stage and soon your flat will stink and your neighbors will become suspicious if they aren’t already. So, waiting for their sickness to get over is not an option. Oh man, will they even help you get rid of a corpse or will they call the police on you? You would understand if they decide to do the latter, but it's also very hypocritical of them to do so because of Jake's job.

The television in front of you was playing some game show that you weren’t paying much attention to. You are exhausted, you have not slept because you were too consumed by your guilty thoughts and actions and you were too anxious about what's to come. Part of you was worried that once you inevitably close your eyes that you will see all the people you killed yesterday staring back at you. You know that you can’t avoid sleep or rest forever but you sure as hell can exhaust your body past the point that dreams will not be playing behind your lids. Besides that, you don’t feel like you deserve any break from this reality because of the lives you took.

The sound of grunting and groans that followed was what made you shift your eyes away from the television and to the bed. You watch as Marc stands, his hair messy and a look of absolute shit on his face. He looks terrible and you know he feels even more worse as he blinks rapidly at the fluorescent lighting before swaying side to side and placing his hand on the wall next to Stevens bed to steady himself. You watch as he closes his eyes and tries to take a breath to help calm himself but instead gags and snaps his eyes open. Oh fuck, you hope he doesn’t throw up all over the floor you just cleaned not too long ago. He gags again and makes his way quickly towards the bathroom, you don’t need to get up to know that he was throwing up because of the loud retching sounds he was making.

You feel your own stomach churn at the sound and you know you don’t have anything but bile in your system since you were sure you peed out all the alcohol you consumed hours ago. You think about getting up to see what you might be able to help him with but the sound of a toilet flushing makes your decision for you. You hear the faucet running for a few moments and you try to prepare yourself for a hungover Marc or Steven to talk back through the doorway and complain about the pounding in their skull. They’re going to have a hell of a lot worse headache when you break the news to them.

“¿Estás herido?” Jake asks and the sound of his voice is loud to your own ears as you look over the back of the couch. His eyes are wide as he looks at you, his balance is a little off as he walks towards the couch. He asks, “¿Te he hecho daño? ¿Te hemos hecho daño?” You watch as his eyes scan your body. You know a little Spanish but not enough to understand what he was talking about. He stumbles around the sofa and lands on the cushions.

“What happened?” He asks. “I don’t see any wounds or injuries but there's bloody clothing in the bathroom and-” He pauses and stares at you, “Did I hurt you?” The question was unexpected, you didn’t think that his mind would jump to the conclusion that he was the cause of the blood.

“What?” You say. You completely understood the question but you were surprised by it. He repeats it slowly and you watch as he raises his hand and rubs his temple. The headache must be hurting him, you almost feel bad for them but they need to learn from their actions of the effects of alcohol.

“You can tell me the truth,” He says. You can hear the honesty in his voice and it nearly makes your mouth dry up. You’re going to have to tell them about the body in your flat, there's no way you can skirt around it.

“No,” You tell him. Marc did hurt you emotionally but he never laid a hand on you. He’s not the cause of the blood on the clothing. “How much do you remember?” You ask and he stares at you for a moment longer, you can tell he was trying to figure you out.

“Nothing after the first two dozen drinks Marc chugged at the bar.” He finally says. You stand up, nerves getting the best of you and they cause you to walk to the fridge and take out a bottle of water. You were a little surprised that Jake followed you because you didn’t hear him. You place the bottle on the island separating the two of you and lean back against the counter and watch him take the bottle and snap open the cap.

“Not a single thing?” You press. He tells you no before he slowly drinks out of the bottle. You were a little glad that you didn't have to tell him to drink slowly in order to not throw up the water. He probably nursed way too many hangovers in his life and maybe he was the cause of them.

“What about Steven or Marc?” You ask. His eyes glide over to the window behind you and he repeats his answer after a couple of seconds. They don’t remember anything from this morning. They don’t remember the drunken confession or the giving you alcohol. They don’t remember a single thing. They could be lying to save themselves and you the embarrassment of breaking down and telling you how they feel but you don’t know for sure.

“What happened?” He asks, “Did we do something last night to you? Marc is wondering if he said something stupid?” Besides emotionally mess with you and literally say some stupid shit to you that you doubt they are refering to? No. But their drunken confessions are something that you don’t know if you want to remind them about. You’re still hurt by Marc's words even though he was drunk and Steven had to apologize for him. You aren’t willing to accept it because they were inebriated and it's not genuine because they weren’t sober. You know that they can’t apologize for it without knowing about it and that means telling them everything that happened while they were blacked out. You were going to hold a grudge against them for something that they don’t remember simply because you are afraid that they did actually mean what they said. That they love you and you allowed yourself to become too close.

“No,” You say. “I think Marc should talk to Layla, though. None of you did anything, but Marc smashed a bottle and I cleaned up the mess.” You also cut your feet on the glass but you don’t tell them that. You choose not to tell them about the alcohol Marc poured for you because you don’t want to hear Stevens scolding.

“That’s all?” He asks, raising an eyebrow. It was obvious that he wouldn’t believe you if you were to end it there. “That doesn’t explain why you look like shit and there's a pile of bloody clothing in the bathroom.” You haven’t slept in over twenty four hours and you definitely feel like he stated how you look. His eyes scan your face for a moment before they trail to your neck. The bruises are gone and your throat no longer aches.

You can see the wheels turning in his mind and you already know the question before he asks it, “Why are you healed?” He looks into your eyes and you think you can see a tiny bit of panic and anxiety behind them. “Did you say yes.” It wasn’t a question but a statement.

Did you say yes to a god who asked you to become their avatar? You can see the puzzle forming in his mind, the bloody clothes, the lack of somebody to protect you, the god asking you and you agreeing, and your body becoming healed and no aches or pains remain.

“No,” You say and pause for a moment to watch the anxiousness transfer to relief. “I wouldn’t say yes even if they asked me because of how shitty you are when you come back. The missions take a toll on you and Marc and Steven.” You honestly tell him. He only grunts and finishes his water bottle before putting the cap back on and letting it rest on the countertop.

“Then what happened?” He presses and you bite the inside of your cheek as you cross your arms over your chest. You know that you were going to tell them, but there was no easy way to tell them about the body and the trauma you experienced within the last day. You swallow and decide to begin where they last remember being with you.

“Marc left and I cleaned up before Layla called me. She talked to me about the mall and apologized…I was waiting for a while for you guys to come back before I decided to follow through with Marc's wish and give him breathing room. I went to my apartment.” You tell him.

“You didn’t try to look for us, right?” He asks and you shake your head.

“No. I thought about it but didn’t.”

“Good.” He replies. You try not to look further into the sound of relief in his voice as you spare a glance down at the floor. It was clean and spotless after you swept the area. You decided to mop too since you had time to kill and you knew that you weren’t going to fall asleep until exhaustion completely took over and your body had no choice but to let you rest. You killed somebody and you know that it was self-defense, that it was your life or his. But you still took his life. You made someone stop breathing. You feel like you’re going to throw up.

“What happened?” He asks, his voice the softest that you have ever heard from him. Usually, Steven spoke in that tone, but it was so wild to hear it come out from Jake as if he was trying to lure a stray cat to him.

“A guy broke in.” You say, your hands begin to shake.

“A guy broke in.” He repeats and you nod after a few moments. A lump forms in your throat and your fingers grip onto the cloth of the sweater you wore.

“He tried to kill me and I couldn’t get out.” You tell him, your voice cracking halfway through. He stands up straighter, no longer leaning against the counter as color fades from his face while he processes what you’re telling him.

“Why couldn’t you get out?”

“My door handle is broken or jammed. I couldn’t get it to unlock but he locked it so easily in, like, less than thirty seconds when it takes me minutes to do it.”

“I-I don’t understand, dove.” Steven says. You stare at him for a moment, your mouth parting in surprise. You can tell that he pushed his way to the front especially since he keeps looking at the window behind you, Jake didn’t allow the switch but Steven fought for it.

“I almost died in my flat.” You say, “He broke in and locked my door easily, like it was nothing, when I struggle with it every time I enter and leave my apartment.”

“Are you okay?” He asks. No, you aren’t. You glance away from him and your mind replays the murder again. Suddenly the sweater you’re wearing makes the room feel too hot and the collar of it feels like it's choking you.

“The blood isn’t mine.” You say. “I killed him.” You don’t feel real as those words leave your mouth. You don’t feel like your body is yours and nor does the voice leaving it. You are not real, this cannot be real.

“What do you mean?” He asks. You know that it was a lot of information to drop on them at once but there was no easy way to do it.

“I killed him,” You repeat. “I-I stabbed him.” It feels like your throat closes in on itself and it’s difficult to breathe. You wonder for a second if this was how he felt when you drove the knife into his throat.

“You stabbed him?” He repeats, he sounds like he’s at the end of a tunnel. You don’t look at him and instead stare at the floor.

“Why didn’t you call us, dove?” He asks. “We would have been there in a heartbeat.” Your breath shudders and you can feel your heart constrict in your chest. You don’t have the strength to tell him that you wanted to die and you were saved by a deity who suffocated your overwhelming feelings of guilt and anxiety for the people you killed in the mall. You see his bare feet before you feel his palms cup your cheeks and tilt your head up to look at him. His thumb brushes away a stray tear trailing down your face.

“Dove?” He whispers. You press your lips together and clutch your sides with enough pressure to almost leave a bruise. Why didn’t you call them? You can’t just tell them that you were willing to throw everything away, they wouldn’t understand.

“I think it would be easier to show you.” You tell him as you side step from him and out of his grasp. His hands fall to his sides as you backtrack to his dresser and grab him a pair of sweatpants and a shirt. It would be weird for the neighbors to see him walking down the hallway and to your apartment in a pair of slightly damp boxers.

“Why you didn’t call us?” Marc asks and you don’t look at him as you hand him the clothing. “You think it would be easier to show us why you choose not to?” You don’t say anything but you can feel his eyes on you. You don’t need to look at him to know that the wheels are turning in his head, the connections he has made with no tangible strings except self-blame and doubt.

“You didn’t call us because of me.” He says. “Because you felt like you couldn’t.” You open your mouth for a moment whether to agree or to lie and protest that it wasn’t true but his words from last night rang in your head like church bells. He is not your friend, he is not your parent, he has a job to do and you are that job; there is nothing pleasant about spending time with you. No sound leaves your mouth and you shut it as Stevens' words of trying to get you to believe him that they love you also ring in your head along with it. You don’t know who to believe and whether they both were truthful.

“C’mon.” You say, “I’ll show you before I feel like I’m about to pass out.” You didn’t want to go back and look at what you’ve done, but you had to and the thought of going back and seeing his corpse was nauseating. He was quiet as he pulled on the shirt and pants. You lead him to the door and grab your lanyard from the bowl before walking out into the hallway and down to your door. You don’t smell anything which is an okay sign, you guess. You know that it takes hours for the stages of decomposition to begin and at least your neighbors won’t smell anything.

“Hey,” You hear to your right. You look down the hallway and see your neighbor who asked you if you had a lover's quarrel, poking her head out of her doorway. You stare at her for a moment, waiting for her to say something else. “Is everything alright?” She finally asks. You think she was waiting for you to greet her back but you’re not in the mood for it. “It was loud at your place last night, it sounded like there was this bang and then grunting…” She trails off. Fuck. You know that the bang from the gunshot must have woken people but you didn’t think they would actually press you about it.

“Yeah, I was just renovating.” You lie and you know it's your voice because you watch her reactions carefully. She scrunches her brows together.

“At two in the morning?”

“Couldn’t sleep.” You shrug. “Uncle Marc- Steven,” You quickly correct yourself, “Is about to help me with some more, so y’know, sorry for the noise.” You can feel the corners of your mouth turn up in a smile but it comes out more like a grimace.

“Okay..” She says and you wait for her to disappear back into her own flat before you turn your gaze to the door handle and feel your heart drop at the sight. Dried blood rested on the knob in the shape of your fingerprints. You hope that none of your neighbors have noticed as your trembling hands reach for the key on your lanyard and you stop at the sight of the matching color on the key. You did wash your hands in your kitchen sink before you left but you must have not washed it well enough. Your hands shake as you try jamming the key into the lock several times before Marc eventually takes it from you and does it for you. It takes a few times before he’s able to turn the knob enough that it can open.

You knew that you left the body in the same spot, you didn’t touch it since your last stab. But what you did do is that you took the blanket from the couch and twisted it enough and blocked the cracks of the door to stop the blood from flowing underneath it and into the hallway. Which is why it was more difficult than it should be to get the door open enough to slip through the crack and close the door. Marc poked his head through the crack and gasped at the sight on the floor.

“Holy shit.” He says. You urge him inside and shut the door behind you and struggle with the lock. It took a couple of minutes before it twisted and locked and you stare at the wooden door, trying to gather enough courage to turn and face what you did. The wet blanket on the ground squelches underneath your bare feet and you gag as the feeling of cold blood rises between your toes. You shakily step to the side to get out of the puddle before you turn your attention to the body. He was still lying flat on his back in the pool of blood that you left him in. The pool was more dry than wet but you can tell that it wasn’t completely solid. The body was bloated and it stinks, but it wasn’t a strong enough stench for anybody outside of the flat to quite smell it yet. Give it a few more hours and maybe they could if they were to pass by your door.

The red light was still on and it didn’t make seeing the body any easier in the slightly dark light. Your eyes trail to the butter knife you dropped in the puddle, there was no saving that and you don’t want to. Man, you hope that the blood didn’t soak through the floor all the way because that’s going to be difficult to cover up if the landlord asks.

“What is that?” Marc asks as he bends down slightly towards the face. “Is that a pen?” You didn’t need to look at the body to know he was looking at the eye you wounded.

“Bleach pen.” You tell him. You nearly gag at the memory of shoving it into his eye and hearing the squelch of the flesh. You take a shuddering breath, metal and the taste of death filling your mouth and it makes you actually gag. You killed this man and here you are observing his body as if it was an art piece in a museum with your neighbor.

“You just stabbed it into his eye?”

“Had to.” You supply, there really wasn’t a choice. You knew that and you were still feeling guilty.

“You didn’t try using the gun?” He asks, your eyes trail from the knife and to the gun resting a few feet away. It was resting at the edge of the pool of blood, you recognize some dark spots on the weapon that aren't hard to determine as blood. You did bash the side of his head with it a couple of times.

“I did. It just didn’t go off.” He gently pushes you to the side and scoops up the weapon before he checks the chamber.

“Empty.” He states. His eyes scan the room around him before landing on the hole in the wall caused by the bullet. “Just one gunshot?” You nod.

“Who goes into a home invasion with one bullet?” You ask.

“Someone who expects to get the job done the first time.” He answers. You watch his posture slouch a bit, not enough for it to be Steven but enough to look relaxed. But you doubt Jake feels that way, especially with how he put his hands into the sweatpants pocket and kept his eyes trained on the hole. You can tell without needing to see his face that he was calculating something. You stand next to him and stare at the quarter sized hole. You knew you were never going to get your deposit back a long time ago but it was still difficult looking at the damage done to the apartment.

“Or,” Jake says, nearly startling you. “Someone who tried to scare you enough to get you to leave with them.” You blink at that. What?

“What do you mean?”

“Why would this asshole break into your apartment, be able to lock your door in a shorter amount of time than you just did and point a gun at you and miss the killing shot, especially when he has one bullet?” He says. You keep your eyes on the hole. It made sense, you don’t like it but it did make a lot of sense. Especially how everything unfolded from the moment Marc left. You knew that they followed you to your apartment months ago on the bus and they know where you work because Amanda Bright showed up to order a sandwich. What you don’t know is how they knew which flat you would be in. You were in Stevens apartment for a while and then you moved over to yours. Your eyes trail over to the reflection in the photo frame of your parents, the red glow was bright against the glass. Maybe they saw that your light was on? But your blankets are over your window, so the only way possible was through the cracks of the makeshift curtain or the light underneath your door.

“How were you able to outsmart him?” He asks, shifting his attention to you, “You said that a deity showed up, do you know what god it was?”

“Not Horus.” You say. “Horus was at the mall. I think it was him at least.”

“How do you know?”

“Too many similarities between a falcon and a symbol I carried around for months.” You say. “Horus is a bitch and he demands attention. This one- this one chooses to be…nice.”

“But it’s not confirmed that it is him.” He states and you nod. No, it’s only a suspicion. “Who else do you think it is?”

“I was thinking Taweret…” You shrug. You had all morning to think of this and the only other goddess you can come up with is the deity that Layla serves. She did say that she healed you in the stairwell, but you have no idea if she did it again this morning.

“Taweret wouldn’t do that.” Jake scoffs. “She’s only able to stick to the boat or around Layla.” You roll your eyes at his disagreement and tell him about the stairwell.

“Layla is her proper avatar now.” You say. He frowns at that reminder before he reaches up and rubs his temples.

“But that was a one time thing, do you think that she would appear again just to help you?” He asks. You don’t know. You don’t know how far Tawerets kindness will extend. Would she heal you if you were on your dying bed and Layla begged for it? Or would she simply allow you to pass? Is she keeping an eye on you because Layla asked her to and that’s why she stepped in last night by guiding you and numbing any guilt you had enough to push through and survive? Or was it another god?

“I don’t know.” You shrug. He turns his body to look at the corpse on the ground.

“There was no way you could walk out of here alive unless a gun was pressed against your head with the intent to take you to a second location.” He states. “And you got out of here without a scratch on you.” You feel like you didn’t walk away without any trauma. You’re going to have nightmares for the rest of your life. Ones that consist of glassy teenagers eyes and stabbing the intruder to death. You don’t correct him on his statement. Your eyes trail to the blood stained arm that had the scale symbol you were too familiar with.

“How many times?” He asks.

“What?”

“How many times did you have to stab him?” He asks.

“You think I’m a psycho and kept track?” You say. You did, it was eight, but only because the god told you it would take eight times to kill him.

“It looks like you were more than past the defending stage and killing.” He shrugs, you shift your eyes to his face, careful not to look at the gross and bloody mess below you. “You massacred him. Maybe two or three stabs would have worked, but this-” He pauses. “I see about nine different stab wounds.” He was right, three stabs would have worked because you hit an artery- You gag at the memory and turn your body to walk away from the corpse.

“The god told me it would take eight.” You say after you were sure you weren’t going to upchuck anything. Did he say he sees nine stab wounds? Did you stab an extra time and just didn’t realize it? There's no way because you’ve been reliving that moment over and over again and you did it eight times. Right?

“Told you?” He asks. “Like they spoke in your ear?” You try to put that question on the back burner and focus on the conversation at hand.

“No, they did it through feeling.” You breathe in, metal filling your senses. “I know it sounds crazy-”

“Steven says it’s not.” He tells you. “He would front but he’s worried he has too weak of a stomach for this.” You and me both, you think as you listen to him walk closer to you. “He says that overwhelming feelings and sightings are the first steps to being near gods. To be fair, he didn’t know about Khonshu until he was put into the role of Mr. Knight, but he thought he was going crazy.”

“So, these gods are like..” You trail off, a little too worried that if you were to say it out-loud that it will become true. They weren’t just fucking with you for the hell of it. “These gods are like testing the waters to pop the question?”

“Or demand you fill the role.”

“I will say no-”

“You don’t know that.” He cuts you off with a soft tone. It was so soft coming from Jake Lockley that it nearly made you uncomfortable because it was coming from a man who always kept his distance.

“I will.” You state.

“What if they hold you out the window again and demand it from you; and if you say no then they will drop you.”

“Then I die hitting the pavement rather than selling myself to serve a god.” You say. He stares at you hard, his unwavering gaze nearly makes you turn away. “I don’t think I’m fit to be an avatar.” You admit. You don’t want to deal with any more sleepless nights or the guilt of killing others. You just want to be a normal teenager who only has to worry about bad grades and prom dates and whether you have something stuck between your teeth; not the amount of blood staining your hands.

“You want to die.” He states and the statement makes your heart drop and it sounds weird to your ears because nobody has ever said that aloud before. You feel like you’re underwater as you process his statement.

“What?” You ask, it doesn’t sound like it comes from you.

“You want to die.” He repeats. “That’s why you didn’t call Marc or Steven.” His realization and the tone coming from him makes you feel defensive. He figured you out and it doesn’t feel right.

“Yeah, Jake.” You say. “I don’t want to serve a god for ten years and turn out bitter like Marc. So, yeah if that makes me choose death over serving, I guess I do want to die.”

“Don’t speak to me that way.” He says. “You want to die.” You feel overwhelmed, the confrontation, the body, the smell, the taste in the air, the last twenty four hours, everything was beginning to make you too stimulated and you want out. You want to be anywhere but here and you can’t leave until you get rid of the body because you still have to clean up the remains. With the look in their brown eyes, it made you feel even more defensive. You hate that he was right, you hate that he’s trying to have this heart-to-heart conversation with you after the shit Marc said early this morning; and you know it’s not fair to be upset at them for something that they don’t remember, but you do.

You remember and it is shitty. Marc hasn’t even apologized for telling you to let him breathe; and yeah, you will give him his space but he didn’t have to be rude about it. Especially since he demanded it after you both went through something traumatic. You can’t rely on them, you can’t trust them, no matter how much you want to believe that they are telling the truth that they love you. They lied about a lot of important things, this is just another one. Cut them off, set boundaries and start anew, do whatever you need to do to not get hurt again.

“I’ll be out of your hair once the body is gone.” You say. He stares at you with a little confusion.

“What are you talking about?”

“I’ll stop by everyday after work until I turn eighteen so you can physically see that I am alive-”

“Stop-” He cuts you off.

“So you won’t have to worry about me-”

“Where is this coming from?” He asks. “What happened?” You don’t say anything but tears burn your eyes. Back to square one, starting over. He walks a bit into your view so he could get a better look at you and gently, the softest that he has ever been with you, cups your cheek with his palm and turns your head to look at him. Jake being this gentle with you was never on your bingo card for this year and seeing and experiencing almost scares you. You don’t exactly know what he sees, but in the reflection of his eyes, you can see your face. You feel like shit and you think he can tell.

“You’re staying with us.” He says after a long moment. “And if you don’t want to, you can stay with Layla. Either way, you are not leaving us.” You gently pull away from him, everything was feeling like it was too much to handle. The warmth from his hand lingers on your face.

“I am so sorry that you had to go through this.” He sounds so genuine that it breaks your heart and yet, you don’t know if you believe him. You cross your arms over your chest, the stench of death is suffocating you along with everything else.

“I don’t think I can do this anymore.” You admit, quietly. “It’s just too much.” He nods slowly, this conversation was more of something for Steven and you can tell that he is struggling with finding the right thing to say to you.

“Bien, pequeño.” He says softly. “Who do you need right now?” You don’t want to talk to Marc at the moment, and Steven fronting would just make the situation worse because of the body decomposing a few feet away. Jake was the person you were the most scared of months ago and now you were seeking comfort in him despite how terrifying the idea is. You were too close to him in order to want him, and you need to push him away; yet, you say, “You.”

“Okay,” He breathes out. “We’re going to take care of this and then you’ll go to Laylas, does that sound alright with you?”

“I’m sorry,” You whisper. You feel terrible despite knowing that you kind of had the right to be upset. You were overwhelmed with everything and a break was something that you needed. “I don’t have any clean clothes or a bag...”

“That’s okay,” He says. “We’ll give you some clothes and a bag and Steven will do your laundry for you.” You sniffle at that.

“I should be taking care of you guys.” You say. You should be shoving everything down and pretending it doesn’t exist and making sure that they are good. “You guys are sick, I should be taking care of you. I should make sure that you’re hydrated and eating and sleeping.” They were grown adults and you feel like you have to care for them, just like this morning when Marc came back drunk and you tried to make it easy on him so he wouldn’t have a terrible hangover when he woke. You cleaned up the mess that he left in the wake of being drunk, like a parent picking up a toddlers mess.

The frown was visible on his face as he shook his head, “No, you’re just a kid.”

—

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yikesitskennawrites · 1 year

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Transitions- Chapter Thirty-Five: A Argument With Your Drunk Neighbor

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Pairings: Steven Grant x (platonic) Reader, Marc Spector x (platonic) Reader, Jake Lockley x (platonic) Reader, Layla El-Faouly x (platonic) Reader

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The couch at Stevens place was much softer and more comfortable than the one at yours. That was evident enough when you finally sat on the cushions after changing clothes and taking a long shower. It was mainly just standing underneath the running water and staring blankly at the shampoo bottle until you snapped out of it enough to take the washcloth and scrub your body of the blood from the person you killed. You killed. You took a life to protect others and you were now beginning to feel the effects of that. You told yourself repeatedly that it was for the best, even as you listened to him breath through the hole in his neck, even as you watched him reach for the knife and grip the blade and you had to pull it out of his grasp and cut his palm open before you stabbed with a force you didn’t even know you had into his neck again and again.

Eight times. It took eight times for the light in his eyes to begin to fade and his body to fall limp. He was still in your apartment behind a locked door that you struggled with opening and locking shut. You didn’t know what to do as you walked down the hall in a blood stained sweat shirt and pants with no shoes on because for some fucking reason you were worried about tracking blood when you were literally Carrie from Stephen Kings novel. The feeling of the deity being present disappeared on that walk from your flat and to Stevens. You were left with the feeling of guilt and too fucking aware of what you just did; and no matter how many times you told yourself that it was for the best, you were still left with the feeling of guilt and the idea of taking one more life.

Not anybody else's, just yours. End it all, do one last vengeance for the kids and people you killed today. Do it to no longer have to suffer and cause suffering to others. You considered it: taking your own life for the thousandth time since you came back from the blip. You could go up to the rooftops and see the stars one last time before stepping right off. You could take the night bus to downtown and drown yourself in the icy river. You could dig through Stevens medicine cabinet and mix some prescriptions and just end it all. Throw in the towel and go wherever you’re destined to go after death. Fuck, Ammit would have loved you. She would have killed your ass right away because of how terrible the decisions are that you have made. Why did you listen to that deity in your flat? Why did you stay? You could have turned around and left as soon as he was on the ground and too distracted with the bleach pen you shoved into his eye.

You could have called Jake and told him what happened. You could have called Layla and asked for her to come over. But you didn’t because they hate you and everything just happened so quickly. The deity smothered any concerns you had for yourself, you recognized that when they left and you remained with the feelings of fear, anxiety, and guilt that you carried before they stepped into your place. They smothered it and made it like television static, you just felt too calm despite the knowledge that taking a person's life was wrong. You were too tuned down and out that the only thing on your mind was that you had to kill him. In hindsight, you could have left.

You changed after the shower, a pile of dirty and too red stained clothing in the corner of the bathroom. The person in the fogged mirror was not somebody you recognized, just like the person in the reflection of the knife you used to kill. The bruises on your throat were gone, the ache of it too, every injury you had gained within the last twenty four hours was healed. You knew it was by the deity, they took the opportunity to leave you with metal scars and relinquish you of any physical evidence on your body of the last day. It is frightening to think about how yesterday morning you woke up to Steven making vegetarian pancakes and today, you are sitting on the couch with all the lights on, waiting for Jake, Marc, or Steven to walk through that door.

It was nearing four in the morning on a Sunday and they have yet to make their way back to the building. Maybe they did come back but noticed that their light was on and decided to stay outside in the cold or go back to the bar or crash at someone's place. You haven’t called them, mainly because you still wanted to try and give them their space and let them breathe like Marc demanded. But, you were worried. Maybe they got attacked and because they were too inebriated they couldn’t fight them off very well.

How else would this plan have gone for the cult members? Because Harrow's cult must have been keeping an eye on you long enough to learn your schedule and routine, to sit outside of the building and watch Marc leave before sending in an asshole hours later to kill you. Because how else would they know to come to your apartment when your neighbors aren’t occupying the building at the same time? How did this fucker lock your door so quickly when you struggle with it? They already knew where you lived because they followed you home months ago. They know where you work because Amanda Bright walked right into your job and ordered a sandwich. You wonder if they are sitting outside of the building right now and waiting for their member to return to them or if they gave up and left.

The sound of jingling keys outside of the door and the handle being turned made you look at the only entrance and exit of the flat. Your heart pounds against your chest as you stare with wide eyes and the feeling of fear and anxiety flooding through you. The door opened and there Marc stood in the hallway, squinting at the brightness of the lights and his hair disheveled and shirt messy with new stains. He still wore the brown jacket you last saw him in. His eyes land on you and you think you see a series of emotions turning behind them.

“You’re still here.” He slurs out as he lets the door shut loudly behind him. You think he left his keys in the lock. “I thought you would be long gone by now.”

“I’m still here.” You say. He peels off his jacket and lets it fall to the floor before he kicks off his shoes, they go flying in different directions of the apartment and you make a metal note to check the lock in a few minutes.

“I thought you would be too mad at me to be here. You always go hiding and don’t speak to me for days.” You watch him as he sways in one spot, you can smell him from the couch. He stinks of cheap cigarettes, smoke, and alcohol. Your nose wrinkles as you watch him make his way towards the kitchen, knocking over a pile of Stevens books. You get up from the couch and pick up his shoes and place them next to the door before you open it up and take his keys from the lock before placing them into the bowl next to your own orange lanyard. You pick up his jacket and fold it over your arm. It needs to be washed, it smells too much like what Marc currently smells like and it was gross.

“You need a shower, Marc.” You tell him as you set the jacket into the laundry basket. Tomorrow, well later today, you need to go down to the laundry room and wash clothes. You need to do normal things after killing a man. You still don’t know what to tell them, it was obvious that Marc wouldn’t be able to wrap his head around what you did at the moment. He was too drunk and honestly, you would love to be just like he is right now: to be too drunk to properly deal with anything. You’ll tell them tomorrow when they’re sober and hungover. For now, you’ll try to pretend everything is fine and that there isn’t a dead body decomposing in your flat. Fuck, you hope the blood doesn’t soak through the floor and go into the ceiling of the neighbor below you.

“I don’t need a shower.” He protests and waves you off, “I need something stronger.” You almost snort as you watch him open up the cabinet and take out a Jack Daniels whisky bottle.

“Only if you’re willing to share.” You say as you lean against the island between you, the same one you carved pumpkins on Friday. He turns around, you can tell that the room was spinning for him by the look in his eyes.

“You’re not of legal age.”

“The U.K says I gotta be with adult supervision, actually.” You shrug, “But since you don’t remember, I’m twenty on paper past legal age for the U.K.” He scoffs. “They kicked you out of the bar?”

“It’s three in the morning, they said they were closing.” He answers before he turns slightly and opens up the cabinet door and takes out a small glass and places it on the surface you’re leaning against. You watch him unscrew the half empty bottle and pour about a quarter of the alcohol into it. He gently pushes it towards you before he takes a swig out of the bottle. You reach for the amber liquid, the glass cold in your hand as you pull it towards you and look down at the drink.

“It’s actually four am.” You tell him before you lift the cup and down the drink in one go. It burns in your throat on the way down and it causes you to wince.

“I would have thought that you never had alcohol before if it wasn’t for you taking it like a shot.”

“You’re not supposed to take it like a shot?”

“No, I would have poured it in a shot glass if you were supposed to.”

“Oh.” You say. “I thought you were supposed to…”

“Have you ever had alcohol?” He asks. You shake your head.

“I have not.” You tell him. Your parents rarely drank and didn’t bother keeping alcohol in the house because of your mom's father being an alcoholic. She said that she didn’t care for drinking since she grew up with her dad being drunk all the time as a kid; but on the occasions that she did drink such as anniversaries and New Years, she only had one glass and your dad did too. Neither of your parents offered you some alcohol because they said it was terrible for your young liver and not fully developed brain, and you weren’t interested in stealing any sips when they weren’t looking.

“I was fifteen when I had my first drink.” He says. “It was some cheap wine that was left over in my mothers glass when she passed out at the dinner table.” You swirl the little bit left in your glass, it wasn’t enough to drink and with the bitter taste in your mouth you didn’t want more. “I drank the rest of the glass because I knew that when she woke, she wouldn’t remember if it was half empty or not. It wasn’t as good as I thought it would be since she drank that all the time.” He takes a swig of the bottle.

You knew that he had some baggage on him, hell you carried some baggage yourself. But you never knew what it was for him since he was like a mystery to you. You knew each other for a few months, and about two of those were spent with Jake taking the body out for a spin. So, now that you were thinking about it, you don’t know Marc very well. It was a little weird having that revelation after spending so much time with them. You know Steven better than you know Marc and you met them both the same day. From how his story sounded, it seems like his mother was an alcoholic. You trail your eyes away from the small bit of amber liquid and to him. He took another swig and kept eye contact with you throughout it until he removed his lips from the bottle and swallowed.

“Steven says you look different.” He tells you. You watch his eyes trail over your face and down to your neck. Fuck, you feel different, you almost correct him. “Where are the bruises?” He sets the bottle onto the island and leans against it, keeping his eyes on your neck.

“Healed.” You say. Your nose wrinkles at the stench wafting off from him.

“You didn’t make a deal, right?” He asks.

You shake your head and answer, “No.” You watch as relief settles into his features. He picks the bottle back up by the neck.

“Do you want more, kid?” He asks and despite not wanting more moments ago, you suddenly do. Everything was getting too real and you just wanted it to be muffled for a while. You know that you’re using alcohol as a coping mechanism and you hope that it doesn't stick. You nod and he pours about another quarter full into it. You stand in silence and tap your fingers gently against your glass before taking a small sip this time. It still doesn’t taste better the second time around.

“I thought I lost you.” He suddenly says, breaking the tension between you. He sounds the most sober that you have heard from him since he came back to the flat. You look down at your glass, your stomach churns with more guilt. “You hung up and those eleven minutes I just kept thinking about how you were dead and it was all my fault; I didn’t know if you were alive and- and I kept thinking about the best place to bury you. Because you sure as hell are not getting dumped into the Thames River.” Your mouth dries as you listen to him take several gulps from the bottle.

“I thought about calling the police on you at the bar. Damn near should have.” He says. “Steven stopped me. Said how you were safer with us than anywhere else. Sure doesn’t feel like it. Can’t even protect you right.” He slurs. Saying sorry doesn’t feel like it would cover anything but rather placing a childs size band-aid on a massive head wound. But you say it anyways because there’s not much else you can say to express how much guilt you feel for your suicidal action of staying in a burning building with a cult shooting up the place.

“I’m sorry,” You say. “I know that it's not enough and I will try to make it up to you.”

“What about that handshake deal you made with us, huh? What about staying on the line in something as shitty as today? How can I trust you again?” He presses and takes another swig. Your fingers press against the glass a little harder, not enough to crack it but to release a little bit of the building pressure inside of you. How fucking rich was the question coming from him. You try to swallow down the hurt as you listen to him speak. “Go on, tell me how.”

But, of course, you weren’t successful, “What about telling me the truth about your fucking marriage and not being blipped?”

“Our deal was to be truthful with things that will affect us, not to go into our personal lives. I am not your friend, I am not your parent, I am your neighbor trying to keep you alive.” Your shoulders tense and you inhale a sharp breath. You try not to show him how much his words affect you.

“It fucking effects me when you lie about something that I experienced. I lost five fucking years of my life, Marc.”

“Millions of people lost their lives! You are not special.” He retorts as he glares at something in the distance. Part of you hopes that Steven or Jake is trying to talk some sense into him, but another part of you doesn’t because at least now, he’s showing how he truly feels. You know what they say about how drunk thoughts speak sober words.

“I lost my parents.” You say, “I lost my whole fucking life. I was supposed to go to college, and graduate high-school with a cap and gown, and I was supposed to celebrate my sixteenth birthday with my family. I was supposed to do all these fucking things but now I’m here. Being harassed by a cult and some god that has their head so far up my ass that I’m sure they’re in a whole other universe.”

“Join the fucking club, I never had my parents.” He says. Another swig, this time the liquid leaks out of the corner of his mouth and wets his shirt. “You did this to yourself. You could have stayed in New York and had your shit put together there instead of being dragged into this mess and meeting me.” Tears burn your eyes and you try to hide it behind your glass as you one shot the whisky again. He’s such a fucking asshole. He fucking hates you. They all hate you.

“Pour me more.” You demand and he does. This time it reaches nearly the top of the glass and you wrap your hand around it, alcohol splashing across the surface of the counter and onto your sweatpants as you bring it to your mouth and take a large gulp. You set it onto the counter as your throat burns and your intestines match it. You still don’t understand how people enjoy this stuff.

“How can I trust you?” You ask. “How can I trust the intentions of my neighbor to keep me alive when they lie about shit all the fucking time?” Okay, maybe you stretched that, but it was a valid question. How can you trust someone who lied about being blipped and being married and acting like a prick? How did Layla fall in love with him enough to even say yes to his proposal?

He laughs sarcastically and downs the rest of the bottle before smashing it on the floor. Glass shards scatter across the floor and you wince at the noise of the impact. You’re not wearing shoes and when you walk glass will cut your feet. You watch as he rubs his face with his hands.

“I guess we both have the same problem, don’t we?” He slurs once he removes his hands. You move your eyes back to your glass, the amber liquid was filled a little over half way. Your fingers wipe against the condensation of the glass as you both wait for the other to speak. Your thought about how much they hate you became true. They really do hate you and you can’t blame them. From how Marc has been speaking, you were a chore, a job, for them and not a friend like you thought you were for a long time. You told Steven that you considered them friends and went with it. Everything hurts. You did everything for them. You took a person's life to assure their safety and others and you were just a problem.

You pick up your glass and down the rest of the liquid. You weren’t drunk, maybe a little buzzed and it made everything worse instead of better. You just wanted your mom, not Layla, not Steven, your real mom; and you can’t have her because she is dead and she’s not coming back. You set your glass on the table, deciding to deal with it in the morning- or later today in this case. You turn your body and take a step away from the island, the bottom of your feet pinch and you stifle a yelp at the feeling as you walk towards the sofa and sit down before inspecting your feet. Glass shards stuck out and you pluck them out with your fingers as you try not to cry. You heard Marc stumble towards you and you hope that he wasn’t planning on giving you any more of his mind because you have nowhere to go if you wanted to leave.

You weren’t going to ask Layla to come pick you up at four in the morning and you weren’t going to return to your apartment. You will tell them about the body when Marc is sober, he will lash out on you if you tell him now and it will upset you more. Then you can clean up the blood, and you’ll be out of their hair for good. Only show them that you are alive and well by knocking on their door everyday after work but never enter the apartment. You’ll keep your end of the deal until you turn eighteen and then you’ll move cities, maybe continents again. Start new, fresh, away from them. Take yourself out of the equation and block their numbers. Don’t let yourself become attached again.

“Look at you, getting hurt, because of me.” He says, his voice causes you to jump and you whip your head to look at him. His eyes are on the blood rising from the cuts on the bottom of your feet before they trail to your red eyes that are becoming blurry. You hold your breath, waiting for him to say something mean but instead you watch as his posture slouches.

“Oh, dove, I’m so sorry.” Steven slurs, falling halfway over the back of the couch. His cheeks land on the cushions and he pulls the lower half of his body over the back of it. He rests his head on the armrest of the sofa and his legs curled back before he pushes himself up into a sitting position. His own eyes were bloodshot and had tears in them, crying wasn’t a good look for them.

“Marc loves you, he’s just scared he’ll lose you too.” Steven whispers. “The bloke is an idiot who doesn’t know what he’s saying half the time.” You wince as you pull out a big piece of glass and place it on the coffee table.

“Here let me,” He says. His hands wrap gently around your foot to bring it closer to him.

You jerk your foot out of his grasp as if he was on fire, “Don’t touch me.” You hiss at him. He frowns and you turn your eyes back to your foot to care for your wounds and to try not to feel guilty about the tears running down his face. He sniffles and you know that this isn’t fair to treat him like this. He hasn’t done anything wrong to you and he was terrified for you in the mall, but you just can’t get it out of your head that you are a job for him too.

“Do you want to talk about it, dove?” He asks. You can see out of the corner of your eyes that he curled his hands into fists and he was holding onto the pants he wore like it was his lifeline.

“Don’t call me dove.” You tell him as you pull another chunk of glass out of your foot and set it next to the other one. “I am not your dove, I am not your friend, Steven.” The words hurt to say aloud but it needed to be said.

“You really believe what that idiot told you?” He slurs, he says your name to catch your attention and you force yourself to focus on your foot. “He’s doing this to be an asshole to you to push you away and you’re letting it work.”

“He’s just speaking the truth, Steven.” You say, you finally look at him and your heartbreaks at the sight of him crying and trying to not let it show.

“He’s not.” His voice cracks. You feel your own tears run down your cheeks. “Please believe me that he’s not.” You bite your wobbling lip and he reaches out for you with shaky hands.

“He- he loves you, dove.” You let his hands settle onto yours. “I love you so much that it’s not funny.”

“You’re just saying that because you’re drunk, Steven.” You tell him, he shakes his head vehemently.

“He was telling us how you’re dead in the headspace on the way over, how there's no chance that you are alive, and I think he was squashing any hope he had for you to be alive so it wouldn’t hurt him.” His thumbs rub against the back of your hand. “I was thinking about how you’re a fighter and there’s no way that you are dead; and if you were… I didn’t get a chance to tell you how much you mean to me.” Your nose strings and you choke out a sob.

“I’m a murderer, Steven.” You protest. Your hands shake. None of this was fair.

“No, you- you didn’t kill anyone in that mall today.” He cups your cheek, making you look him in the eye. “Don’t even think that for a second.” He places his hand on the back of your head and pulls you towards him to place a kiss on your forehead. You shake your head once he removes his lips from your skin. The words build up in your throat to tell him about the dead cult member in your apartment, but you can’t get them out when you feel his arms wrap around you and pull you against his chest before you’re both laying on the couch. Your legs are slightly draped over his and his arm wrapped around you, hugging you to his side so you won’t fall off the edge of the sofa.

“You’re like my own child.” He laughs through a sob. You bury your face into his chest, your fingers wrapping around the cloth of his shirt. “And I thought- I thought I wouldn’t ever get to see you again. Marc almost had me fooled, damn him.” That nearly causes a laugh to bubble out of your chest but instead, a sob erupts and you feel terrible about all the intrusive thoughts you had today.

You turn your face away from his chest and say, “You’re just saying that to make me feel better.” You feel his arms tighten around you just a fraction.

“I’m telling you that because it’s the truth.” He says. “You don’t have to believe me, but I hope that you will one day.” You swallow harshly, your throat still kind of burns from the drink. You try to calm yourself down enough to think clearly, you still feel pretty wrecked from everything that has happened. You don’t know if you trust Steven completely, but part of you hopes that what he said is true.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He asks, you tilt your head back to look at him and he tilts his head down to look at you. “About everything that happened today.” He clarifies. You trail your eyes away and to the backrest cushion of the couch. Eight times, you thought, eight times it took before he was dead. The red light in your kitchen made it worse and that deity, it definitely wasn’t Horus. Was it Taweret? You’ll need to ask Layla about it.

“No,” You say. “Not right now. Tomorrow.” You pause. “When you’re more here and not, y’know. Drunk.” Maybe he’s so drunk that none of them will remember this conversation. He hums and you watch his eyes close.

“Okay.” He whispers. You can feel his chest rise and fall and you watch it for a moment. Everything you did today in your flat was for them. So, they can continue doing what Steven is doing right now: breathing. You get up by placing your hand on his chest and push yourself off of him and he grunts at the pressure on his chest. You take out the remaining glass shards and place them next to the others before you’re shaking him awake. He groans as his eyes slide open.

“Get up Steven,” You urged him. “You need to take a shower and drink a few bottles of water before you sleep.” You shake him a little more. “Get up, you stink and I don’t want to deal with you having a massive hangover.”

“I’m sorry, kiddo.” Marc slurs and you nearly freeze in your movement. “I’m sorry for what I said.” You were still rightfully upset at him but you don’t feel like leaving him to his own devices especially when it will affect Steven and Jake.

“We’ll talk about it in the morning.” You tell him. You pull him up by his arms and he groans. “C’mon. You do actually stink and I don’t want to smell it on the couch I’m sleeping on tonight.”

“You’re sleeping on the couch?” He asks as you throw his arm over your shoulder and guide him to the bathroom. “Why’s that?”

“Because I can’t deal with sleeping next to you right now.” You sit him on the toilet and he sniffles.

“I’m sorry.” He says. He sounds like a child who got in trouble for something they did by accident. You grasp the edges of his shirt and pull it over his head before dropping it to the floor and making him unbutton his pants before tugging it down his hips and off of his legs. Soon, his socks followed and he was left in his black boxers. You frown at the sight of some glass sticking out of the bottom of his feet.

“Stay still,” You order as you crouch down and begin to pluck out the shards and toss them into the trash can next to you.

“I’m sorry I hurt you.” He tells you as you inspect his other foot. “I hurt everyone. I hurt you. I hurt Steven. I hurt Randall. I hurt Layla. Layla is mad at me. Do you think she will forgive me?” You glance up at him, wasn’t Randall his brother that died decades ago?

“I think you need to talk about some issues with her.” You tell him as you stand.

“I love Layla.” He admits and you were surprised that he was open enough to admit that. “And Steven was right,” He adds. You stare at him blankly. What the fuck was he talking about? He was saying that he loves his wife, but now he was saying that Steven is right? Steven told you that Marc loves you and you took that information with a grain of salt. You know that Marc is drunk, and you know that he would never openly admit his feelings, that he would rather eat a bullet before those three words would ever leave him sober. But, he sure as hell was giving you whiplash.

You must have either made him uncomfortable enough to change the subject or his drunken mind got distracted because he looked away from you and to the corner of the bathroom you left the bloodied clothes in.

“What’s that?” He asks.

“We’ll talk about it later.” You tell him.

“Did you try to dye clothes while I was gone?” He asks and you nearly scoff. You wish it was color dye rather than what it actually is.

“A cold shower is going to do you some good, right now.” You say instead. “Get in it Marc.” He groans in response before you’re tugging him up off of the toilet and helping him sit down in the shower. You turn on the water before letting it run over him. You hope that the cold will help sober him up some. Maybe you should make him open his mouth and drink the running water to help quicken the process. You sit down outside of the shower and watch as he rests his head against the wall and closes his eyes. You cross your legs into a criss-cross formation and place your arms on your knees before leaning forward.

From how he’s acting, you doubt that he will remember anything from this morning. You play with a loose thread of a sweater you borrowed from Steven. You know that you weren’t going to get any sleep tonight because your mind will be replaying the events of what you did hours ago. You can’t even tell them about it because of how drunk they are. You would have to repeat it to them when they wake up tomorrow or later today. You feel like you're alone right now and that makes you want to cry. You swallow as you look away from the thread and to Marc, you need a distraction to get rid of the sight of the man's eyes shooting open and looking up at you in fear.

“I bought you a yellow sweater and Jake a couple packs of marshmallows and Steven a miniature glass frog.” The words tumble from your mouth before you even realize it. Tears were pooling in your eyes. “I’m sorry that you won’t ever get to see them.”

“You bought me a sweater?” He asks, his eyes peeling open to look at you. You nod. “Really?”

“Yeah,” You wipe your eyes with the back of your hand and nod again. “I had to go to several stores to find this sweater and you won’t ever get to wear it.”

“I wouldn’t get the chance to.” He says. “You’ll steal it for yourself.” You laugh and he smiles at the sound of it.

“It’s okay.” He grumbles. “As long as you’re okay and alive, I don’t care.” You sniffle and he closes his eyes. You watch him for a few minutes, waiting for yourself to finally calm down enough to stand and put him to bed. Once you stand, you turn off the water and grab a towel from the shelf before tossing it onto him.

“It’s bedtime, Marc.” You say as you lean down and pat him dry with the towel. “You get to drink a bunch of water and then sleep.” He groans and you try to be patient with him to open his eyes.

“Another reason I don’t want to sleep next to you is because you’re going to be soaking wet.” You teasingly say once he opens his eyes. You push back his wet hair and he hums. He doesn’t look too good. He looks sick like he’s going to throw up. “Marc?” You ask.’

“Yeah?” He grumbles out. He leans into your touch a bit and you don’t pull away.

“If you throw up on me, I will sock you.” You tell him. You won't actually punch him but you hope that he will think you’ll consider it. He chuckles and the sound makes you feel like everything might be alright. “C’mon.” You tell him. “Don’t fall asleep on me just yet, we still gotta get some water into you.”

“I should be taking care of you.” He mumbles as you help him get out of the shower before heading to bed. “You went through so much today and I couldn’t even be there for the after.” You weren’t going to tell him that it was okay because you did need somebody. You do need someone to tell you that it wasn’t your fault and to be sober while saying it. But, that body in your flat right now, is your fault. You set him on the edge of the bed and lift up his legs as his head lands on the pillow. You leave him momentarily to fetch a few bottles for him to down, and you were careful of the glass shards as you got them.

“You know that night that you wanted to stay the first time? I didn’t want to do it.” He says. You raise an eyebrow, trying to think back to what he was talking about. The first night that you asked? That was months ago. It was understandable that he didn’t want to say yes because you were sixteen and it was weird for a grown man to let a stranger sleep in their apartment.

“Yeah?” You say as you set the bottles down next to Stevens nightstand books and crack the seal on one to make him drink it.

“But, Steven convinced me to say yes.” He tells you. You figured that they had to have some discussion on it so that wasn’t surprising. You tell him to sit up and he does after a few moments. You hold the bottle to his lips and he drinks from it and you make sure that he drinks the entire thing before you put the cap back on the bottle and let it drop to the floor.

“Steven…Steven told me to be the person that I needed when I was younger and that’s why I said yes.” He tells you. You stare at him and he leans back, letting his body fall back onto the mattress. That was something you didn’t know, you thought it had to do with pity, but no, it was Stevens advice.

“Oh,” You breathe out. Part of you wants to retort that he was doing a shit job at it, but another tells you to keep your mouth shut; and you follow the latter. You were still upset with Marc, but this piece of information was toying with your heart. You really do want to believe that everything Steven told you was the truth but it was difficult to accept, especially with the argument that you and Marc had no too long ago.

“Can you…?” He hesitates and you watch him fiddle with the sheets for a moment. “Can you read to me?” You watch his face for any sign that he was fucking with you, but he seems absolutely genuine.

“Yeah,” You say, “Scoot over a bit.” He does and leaves enough room on the edge of the bed for you to sit on. You reach for the top book left on Stevens nightstand. The yellow cover was comforting to look at and it reminded you so much of your childhood, especially with the colorful jumping fish on the cover. You have a vague recollection of your own father reading this to you, but even a more recent memory of Steven reading it to you just last week. You watch him close his eyes and you push back the drying curls from his forehead before you peel open the book.

You read, “One fish, two fish, red fish, blue fish…”

---

Work Cited: Seuss. One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish: Dr. Seuss. Collins, 2005.

—

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yikesitskennawrites · 1 year

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Transitions- Chapter Thirty-Eight: Meeting With Strangers

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Pairings: Steven Grant x (platonic) Reader, Marc Spector x (platonic) Reader, Jake Lockley x (platonic) Reader, Layla El-Faouly x (platonic) Reader

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The support group wasn’t in a café but rather a church basement. Layla found the ads for it in a local community page on Facebook, they said that they were welcoming new people every week despite the days shortening from three times a week to once. You think they shortened the days because there weren't many people showing up. It sketched you out that the only entrance into the basement was down a short hill next to the church, there is only one window and that's on the door. It was old and dirty, with dust lining the edge of it and pine needles resting precariously on it. The glass was stained with blue, red, yellow, and green pieces all cut into little sharp edges and splayed out in a collage that doesn’t make any familiar patterns.

The door was cracked open to show that they were still waiting for people, but not wide enough to let all of the cold October air into the room. There was a small parking lot large enough to fit at least six cars. The parking spaces were full and there were a couple of cars parked on the edge of the slope that leads to the city below. The only entrance was the same hill Layla drove down on her scooter which also sketched you out because that meant it was the only exit too. If you needed to get away it was going to be difficult to get out. Layla and you sat on her Vespa in the middle of the concrete parking area. Your hands and face are cold and you know that you’re going to have a runny nose by the time that you wake up tomorrow.

The helmet she let you borrow was resting on your head with the straps snapped together and snug against the underside of your jaw. It was due to rain tonight and she offered to take you there and back to her place without any complaint. She told you that she was going to wait at a café that was about two miles away just so she would be out of the rain if it begins to pour while you’re still in the meeting. She said she’ll even share her location with you if the sight of seeing where she was will put you at ease. The weatherman said it won’t rain until eight o’clock tonight and it was nearing six pm but sometimes the weather was wrong and it rained earlier than expected.

Either way, she was getting out of the cold weather and you can’t blame her for wanting to be warm. You were shivering in the clothes that Jake packed for you, today's outfit consists of a sweatshirt with a sweater underneath and two layers of sweatpants on your legs along with a pair of thermal socks and regular socks underneath that. The sweatshirt has the logo of the Chicago Cubs baseball team with a hole in the sleeve, you think it got caught on a door handle and ripped open. You wonder if they have any warm clothes to wear for the cold weather to come or if they gave it all to you.

“You ready, table thief?” She asks you, peeking over her shoulders as she rests her hands on your own that's wrapped around her waist. You’ve been sitting outside in the cold for awhile, the meeting wasn’t until six and you watched a few people enter the building and chatted like old friends outside of it. Layla decided to leave the apartment early just in case there was some traffic and to make sure that you wouldn’t awkwardly walk into the first meeting late. But, either way, you are going to feel anxious walking into a room full of strangers especially without Layla by your side. It makes you a little nervous to know that you are a new person joining this meeting when some of these people may have known each other for years or months. They have some form of history with each other while you have nothing.

What if- when they ask you to tell them your name and talk about your experience- that they decide that they don’t like you? What if they decide that your experience is too different and not like theirs at all? What if they kick you out and to the curb because you’re too much?

“Baby?” She says, this time she turns as far as her torso will allow her to see you more clearly. You don’t know what you look like at the moment, but whatever it is, it causes her to frown at the sight. “What’s wrong?” You bite your lip at her question before huffing out a breath and trailing your gaze to the damp ground below you. It already rained today, it was supposed to continue later. There is no use in hiding how nervous you are with her, she can tell when something is bothering you and she won’t stop snooping until you tell her. You might as well just tell her now instead of letting her worry for you and push you about it later.

She’ll probably assume that you’re thinking of hurting yourself since you admitted to her that you want to die two days ago. You are her new roommate until you are deemed no longer suicidal and maybe even after that. You saw a couple of tabs open on her tablet about how to approach someone who wants to kill themselves when you woke up from your nap on Sunday. You haven’t gotten a lot of sleep since your nightmares wake you so most of the time you are on autopilot and staring blankly at the television screen until she jolts you back to reality.

The bathroom door and her bedroom door no longer have a lock on them; and she took you to the hardware store yesterday to get a spare key for herself in case you lock her out of the apartment to end your life in it. You don’t want her to feel like she doesn’t have any privacy in her home, so you need to get past the whole ordeal of her believing that every moment that you’re quiet, you are thinking of ending things.

“What if they don’t like me?” You ask. The question sounds stupid to your own ears as you say it aloud. Her face softens.

“Is that what you’re really worried about?” She asks gently and you nod. “Oh baby, they aren’t going to dislike you as soon as you walk through that door.” She squeezes your hand. “They won’t even be thinking about anything like that.”

“You don’t know that.” You point out. Some people just automatically dislike other people simply because of how they are dressed. There was this girl in your middle-school who hated you because on the first day of school you picked a desk that she wanted to sit in. You refused to move all year long even when she called you mean names and laughed with her friends at you whenever you passed in the halls. Some people just dislike others because they are petty, sure you could have moved and let her have the desk next to her best friend; but she also could have just sat in one period without being next to her friend and get over it.

She gives you a look and you sigh as she asks, “Are you just nervous?” You bite the inside of your cheek and trail your eyes to the gray clouds above the two of you. “On a scale of one to ten, how anxious are you feeling?” That's the seventh time she has asked you that since Sunday. You think she picked it up from one to the articles she read on how to handle situations like this one. How to help a teenager who wants to hurt themselves. You know that one of the first Google searches pops up the international suicide helpline and followed by the United Kingdoms emergency number. But after that is the repetitive same thing in each article, let them know that they are loved and safe, and ask them a bit about how they are feeling while giving them words of affirmation.

“Six.” You tell her and she hums. You both had a conversation two days ago about what each number means, one being the lowest at risk for self-harm and ten being the highest to want to hurt yourself. Even if you were going to kill yourself, you probably wouldn’t tell her as bad as that sounds. You just wanted to be away from here and to be laying on her couch with her fingers tangled in yours as you watch some rom-com, even if that means seeing the blurry eyes of the teen stare at you from behind the darkest corner of the living-room. You’ve convinced yourself that everything you see out of the corner of your eye is the teenager or the man you killed and they are watching you, making you feel guilty for breathing. You have yet to tell her this but, you think she's catching on because you sometimes find her looking at you and back to the corner.

Another thing she did since you moved in with her, she banned dark media from the apartment until you are stable enough to watch it without her- and you- feel like you’re triggered to overthink. But that doesn’t seem to matter because here you are, overthinking about how you’re going to walk into the church basement and be automatically disliked.

“I see you. I hear you.” She says. “Why are you rating yourself as a six?” You shrug at first without really thinking about it. It kind of feels embarrassing to have this conversation with her.

“I don’t feel bad enough to go any higher and I don’t feel great enough to go lower.” You mumble.

“What do you think you’re going to rate yourself after this meeting?”

“Hopefully lower than a six.” You tell her and she smiles a bit at that.

“I think you’ll be a three, maybe even a two.” She says. You blink tiredly at her and she holds your eyes for a moment before gesturing for you to make your way into the meeting. “You have about three minutes to get into the building, not too late and not too early.” She smiles. You both sat in the parking lot for about ten minutes and during that whole time you were trying to work up the courage to go inside so neither of you are sitting in the cold for long. Your legs stretch as you stand from the scooter and she reaches up for your face and unclasps the helmet. Her cold gloves brush against your skin and it causes you to shiver a bit.

“If you need me, I’m just a phone call away,” She promises. “I have my location on and I’ll even text you when I get to the cafe so you won’t worry if the location is glitched or something.” You glance away from her, your eyes landing on a puddle with the reflection of the sky and some pine needles resting at the bottom of it along with a few pebbles.

“I’m not…” You start and stop, taking a breath to steady yourself before continuing. “I’m not suffocating you, am I?” She does have some breathing room, right? Marc told you he wanted that and then…everything else happened. Her smile falls slightly and she shakes her head.

“Not at all, table thief.” She says. “I have your number and you have mine. If you need anything-”

“You’re a phone call away.” You finish. You don’t know if you would call her if you did actually need something or were in danger. You take off the helmet and hold it between your hands. She turns on the Vespa and it rumbles loudly for a moment before tuning down a bit.

“Call me,” She says. “Really. I mean it. There's nothing wrong in asking for help.” In other words, don’t take something into your own hands that you can’t deal with later. Don’t do something stupid because you feel like you can’t reach out for anyone. You nod and swallow before forcing yourself to turn on your heels and walk to the door. You squeeze yourself through the crack and blink away the brightness of the room.

Above you a row of white lights hung from the ceiling and led to a slightly more open room of six people sitting in a circle of eight chairs while two people chatted by small snack bar. A coffee pot and a plate of cookies rest on the table cloth. The walls are colored a mint green and rough with small bumps like the ceiling at Layla's. A bald man stands from the folding chair he sat in. He wears a light blue button up dress shirt and a pair of khaki pants and black dress shoes. He smiles and it looks genuine even as he holds his arms wide and welcomes you in with open arms.

“Hello,” He greets and holds out his hand. “My name is Henry and I run the support group. You must be…” He trails off and gives you the chance to introduce yourself. You do, your name falling out of your mouth and into the dusty air that smells like coffee and apple-cinnamon candles. The soft orange glow in the corner of your eye catches your attention, you glance at it and see the air freshener diffuser plugged into an outlet. Ever since the mall, whenever you go into a new place, you have the overwhelming need to scope everything out and try to keep an eye on everything at once. You became so stressed in the hardware store yesterday that Layla thought you were having a panic attack. He says something else but, you’re not really listening as you try to take in the new place.

Your eyes land on the wall of slightly rusted metal folding chairs leaning against it as Henry walks towards them with his long legs and grabs a seat for you. He snaps it open and sets it between a teenage girl who looks to be fifteen and staring down at her phone and a woman with graying streaks in her brown hair whose legs are crossed under the other. Almost all the adults in the room are dressed in some form of work attire. Some were dressed in slacks and collar shirts and others were wearing pencil skirts or dresses reaching their knees. A couple of people wore gym clothing and were slightly drench either from sweat or the downpour not too long ago. Two others were wearing casual attire.

The girl you sat next to is wearing a school uniform, one with a plaid skirt that reaches her knees and a pair of black dress shoes and neon tights, the top two buttons of her shirt were undone. Her black hair curled down her back and her brown eyes stayed on the glowing phone in her lap. Your own phone vibrates in your pocket and you dig it out after setting the helmet on the floor in front of you. Clutching the slightly warm case in your hands as you read the confirmation text message Layla sent you. I’m at the café followed by a pin of her location. You sent her back a smiley face despite not feeling very happy at the moment before putting it back into your pants pocket.

Behind you, you can hear the two women gossiping about the mall and the estimated tally of the dead, twenty-six. The identities of the victims haven’t been released yet, but one of the women stated that their co-worker's daughter was in the mall and they are dead. You feel your throat close in on itself and you turn your gaze to the old blue carpet and make yourself focus on a stain in it. Twenty-six people, you killed twenty-six people and that's not even confirmed but estimated. Layla refused to let you watch the news because they’ve been airing updates on the events of the mall since this rarely happens in the United Kingdom; and you understood why because she was worried you’ll get triggered and do something irrational. But, it seems to not matter whether you watch the news or not because of these two people gossiping behind you.

You know that they don’t know how big of a role you played in the events that unfolded Saturday, but still you can’t help but feel like their eyes were burning holes into the back of your head as they talked. They know, there's no fucking way that they don’t, you think. Your stomach twists and you think the food you ate for lunch and managed to keep down until now was beginning to try to show its appearance. Your hands shake as you clutch the seat and you try to look as normal as possible. You think everyone in the room is staring at you, thinking about how you killed twenty-six people and you are in a support group looking for help. You don’t deserve it and they are aware that you don’t deserve it. Your grip tightens on the seat as the room begins to spin. You need to get out of here, you need to call Layla.

Your breath catches in your throat as you listen to the women pass you and sit in their respective seats. Layla will be disappointed if you were to call her, she will hate that you couldn’t even get through the first five minutes of the meeting. It will give her even more of a reason to hate you. You try to calm yourself and relax your muscles. One meeting, you think, just one meeting and then you can tell Layla that you tried it and it’s not for you. You try to steady your breathing before you burst into a panic attack. One meeting, you breathe in slowly. One meeting, you exhale. Just one meeting and then you can look at other options. Inhale, exhale. One meeting and these people will never see your face again. Inhale, exhale. One meeting, just this one.

You breathe out slowly, the room is no longer spinning and it doesn’t feel like everyone's eyes are glaring at you. You shift your gaze away from the stain in the rug and to the man who greeted you just moments ago speaks softly and steady into the room. “Welcome back everyone and welcome to those who are new.” He says, “We have a couple of new familiar faces in the room as you can see, and they are nervous just like you were when you first showed up. Please welcome them with open arms and give them the support that you’ll like to receive from them.”

He pauses and looks around, “Who wants to go first?” Your name falls from his lips as his eyes land on you, a small smile spreads across his face and you think he’s meaning to be comforting. “Do you want to go first?” You press your lips together and shake your head, you were already too nervous to even think about going first.

“I will,” A red head man sitting across from you raises his hand a bit. He looks to be about in his forties, perhaps in the middle of it. His beard was short, a bit longer than stubble and his green eyes glow brightly in the lighting as he says, “Most of you already know my name, for those who don’t, my name is Oliver and I was snapped.” A soft breeze blows through the cracks of the door and it makes you shiver. Does this place not have any heating? Your eyes trail over to the stained glass window on the door as you listen to him speak, “My wife at the time, fell in love with someone else. Someone much younger than I am. It’s funny because he looks exactly like I did when I was in my first year of university decades ago.”

Oh man that sucks. You watch as the rain hits the window, running down the glass in streaks as he says, “Mary- my therapist- says that in times of grief we look back to the times that we find comfort and solace in. Sometimes we surround ourselves with smells, or food, and I guess my wife found her comfort in a familiar looking young man.” He pauses, “We’re no longer married but, when I came back it was like a blink. It felt like I just blinked and for everyone else who stayed, they had five years to come to the terms that we weren’t coming back.” He swallows, “It felt like she no longer wanted me within a blink.”

You felt bad for him, you didn’t experience the loss of a partner within moments but that doesn’t mean you don’t feel upset for him. You can’t imagine coming back and realizing that your partner is in love with someone who looks like you from when you were younger. The rain drops steaks down the glass window and combine to make one line, you keep your eyes trained on the water droplets as you listen.

“We got a divorce within a few months after trying to get that spark back.” He says, “She didn’t feel the same as before I was gone...” He trails off and leans back in his seat. You turn your gaze over to him and watch him cross his arms over his chest.

“You tried to mend your relationship with her and it didn’t work out,” Henry says. “The best that you can do is try; and you do try everyday that you wake up and decide to start your day. I’m proud of you for doing so.” He smiles softly, “Who’s next?”

Your eyes are still on Oliver, he was looking down at something on the old blue carpet. You think he’s staring at the stain, trying to steady himself as you did not too long ago. The movement of the man next to him raising his hand slightly, catches your eyes and you look at him. He wore a green plaid flannel and his brown hair was damp and curly, you don’t think he has brushed it; or if he has, he ran his hands through it so much that it made it messy. His brown beard was shorter than Oliver's, it was closer to stubble than a beard now that you were thinking of it.

“My name is George and my nan died in her home.” He says, rubbing his chin as he speaks in a soft tone, “My family and I were taking care of her. She was about ninety and, uh, she had to have someone check on her at least three times a day since she was getting old and forgetting things. She lost almost all of her hand strength, so she couldn’t open up any of her heart medication.” He swallows and you turn your gaze away from and to his feet wrapping around the back of the front legs of the chair he sits in. You watch as his jeans rise slightly with the movement, showing the white sock he is wearing.

“Then the snap happened and both of my dads and my sister and I- we,” He coughs slightly. “We were gone….there was nobody around in our family to take care of my nan. Nobody really knew about her condition except us and she…died. Alone.” He adds the last part after a long moment. “She, um, probably had no idea what happened. She- my nan- she wasn’t the best with social media, didn’t even know how to use the cell phone we bought her the Christmas before and it was one of those big ones for the elderly. The ones with the big screen and bold letters and symbols for what is what on the keypad. She must have thought that we just stopped showing up.” He lets out a shuddering breath and leans forward a bit to rest his arms on his legs.

Oliver reaches out and pats his back reassuringly. Henry says something, but you’re more focused on George taking breaths of air to steady himself to listen to him. You didn’t realize you were copying his breathing until you felt the cold air fill your lungs and burn them as you slowly release it. You haven’t really thought about the elderly, the disabled, and the children that were left without anyone to care for them during the five years everyone was gone. You were more focused on the things that you lost rather than the stuff people had to go through during the snap. You shift a little in your seat and the all too familiar feeling of guilt pooling in your stomach.

There's people that survived the snap and lost everything, they lost their loved ones and friends, they lost their homes, and they built a life without expecting people to come back. They tried to move one and continue in a world without the people they love and when everyone came back you can’t imagine how they felt. Your aunt must have been so ecstatic before she received the news that her sister and brother-in-law are dead and their kid is presumed dead too. You are the only tie left to her sister and she doesn’t even know you are alive. You are the only blood related and breathing person who is the offspring of her sister and she thinks that you are dead. You are a selfish human being. You always have been selfish from the start, your actions of the last two years have just proven that.

“Hello, my name is Cecilia and I have been highlighting my hair to look as old as I should be.” The woman next to you speaks and it causes you to jump a bit in your chair, “I’ve been doing it for about two years now. I should be fifty-four but don’t tell anyone that.” You force out a short laugh to make it look like you are okay, but it doesn’t seem to matter because the others cover up the noise with their own laughter and are too distracted by her own joke.

“Cecilia, you don’t look a day over fifty.” Oliver says. She waves him off with a small smile as you blink. You curl your fingers inward to form a fist, your nails dig into your palm and the pain of it grounds you momentarily. You breathe in slowly, letting the air fill your lungs and expand your chest before holding it for a few seconds and releasing.

“Thank you, but that’s the opposite of where I want to be.” She says, “On my mothers side of the family, a lot of us get graying hair early among other things, and I don’t have it at all; or maybe I do. Samantha is a really good stylist.” She smiles a bit bitterly, “But when I was snapped and came back, I didn’t have any visible grays.” She pauses, “My sister she was three years younger than me before I was snapped and she had grays just beginning to show. Now she's fifty-four and I’m fifty-one. I was supposed to be the older sibling and now she is, her hair naturally has gray streaks and is not artificial...” She trails off.

“My therapist says that I’m trying to cope with being the younger sibling by dyeing my hair. Like a teenager having a crisis when they do something impulsive like get bangs or bleach their hair. For me, she says that I may be trying to be the older sister again or getting some form of control.” She says. “I was supposed to be the older sister forever.” You decide not to point out that she would only be the older sibling unless her sibling died. But, you get what she was trying to say, you are the only child your parents had but you get it with your cousins. They were supposed to be younger than you and now they are in college and married.

You look back to the stained glass windows, the rain was still pouring and streaking down it. You watch it for a few moments, trying not to cry as you think about all the selfish shit you have done since you came back from the blip. You committed fraud and moved continents making your living relatives and best friend believe you are dead. You tricked your neighbors, Layla, and Lauren into caring for you so you wouldn’t get jailed for fraud. You killed twenty-six people and that number might be higher since it's only estimated to be that many. You killed a man because you didn’t want to lose your neighbors and Layla.

Yet, here you are, nearly on the brink of tears in a church basement looking for support and maybe even forgiveness for your selfish actions. You are so fucking selfish that you don’t deserve anything or anyone. You are looking for forgiveness when you took people's lives who won’t ever get to see the same constellations you see in the night sky. You swallow roughly as Henry says something you’re not listening to until he speaks your name. You blink, tearing your burning gaze away from the colorful window and to him. He offers a too kind smile that makes the lump in your throat feel like it's a golf-ball and you’re choking on it. You’re a fraud, you’re a fraud, you’re a fraud, you’re a fraud, you’re a fraud, you’re a fraud, you’re a fraud, you’re a fraud.

“Are you ready to share your story?” He asks you. You should have been expecting to be asked but it still surprises you nonetheless. You don’t feel like you can speak without crying so you shake your head. You hope that nobody recognizes how close you are to breaking down. You don’t want their pity. You don’t deserve their pity.

“That’s alright,” He tells you, the smile still resting on his face and never wavering. “Not everybody tells their story on the first day. Some find it more comforting to listen in on others' experiences until they are ready.”

“It took me about a month to tell mine.” Oliver pitches in, your eyes trail away from Henry and to him. “You’ll get there, kid.”

“I think a week or two for me.” Cecilia adds, she places a hand on your knee before removing it after a moment. Her touch leaves a warm spot on your knee and you think she pulled away because she’s afraid you’ll poison her too.

“You’re going to get there. It gets easier the more you talk about it. It doesn’t mean that it doesn’t hurt any less, it just gets easier to breathe through.” She smiles at you, the corner of her eyes crinkling and her brown eyes bright. You nod, letting them know that you hear them and that you see them; and they seem satisfied with that as they turn their attention to someone else who begins to speak about their experience.

You tune them out as your eyes trail back to the colorful window. You don’t feel like you fit in, you are forever in the role of an outcast looking in and it’s probably best to keep you in that position. Everything you touch gets poisoned or killed and it is just a matter of time before it turns on yourself. Besides, you’re not worthy enough to spill your grief after everything that you have done. You watch the rain trail down the glass once again and feel a familiar streak run down your cheek.

—

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yikesitskennawrites · 1 year

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Transitions-Chapter Thirty-Four: A Rude Awakening From A Stranger

Series Masterlist

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Pairings: Steven Grant x (platonic) Reader, Marc Spector x (platonic) Reader, Jake Lockley x (platonic) Reader, Layla El-Faouly x (platonic) Reader

A/N: It’s finals week bby and I cranked out this chapter because I know the next few days are going to be hell. It may be 2am but the devil works hard and I will break their kneecaps and work harder and use the kneecaps for soup bowls because it is soup bowl season. I am tired.

Enjoy the Thanksgiving break if you celebrate. If you don’t, enjoy the week and mundane life. Much love and enjoy~ <3

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It wasn’t the sound of your friends banging on your door like you hoped or the sound of your phone vibrating on the table next to the sofa with the caller id showing it belonged to your neighbors that woke you. The cause of your blurry eyed, half confused state was the sound of your door handle jiggling and turning before the click of it opening and the creaking of the hinges. You sat up, almost holding a hand up to block the light from the hallway as you took in the figure standing in your doorway. For a moment, you thought it was Jake. You thought in your waking state that he broke in once more since he doesn’t have a key to your place and you somehow slept through the pounding on the door thanks to your exhaustion of the day. You thought he was checking on you, making sure that you are safe.

“Jake?” You ask quietly. You felt a little relief at the sight of your friend before the sleep was being shaken off of your brain as you slowly registered that this was not your friend. It was a strange man who was resting his hand on your door handle and staring directly at you. He was taller than your friends by a few inches. You can’t see what his facial features look like thanks to the light flooding in and nearly blinding you, but you can tell that he had short, buzz cut hair and a short sleeved shirt and baggy cargo pants. You feel yourself tense at the sight, a stranger breaks in the middle of the night or early hours of the morning or whatever fucking time it is, and he’s just staring at you. He is holding something in his left hand, it glints in the light of the hallway and even more so as he raises it and points it at you as he takes a step into your apartment.

Your heart pounds harshly against your chest as you comprehend that it was a pistol or a revolver, most definitely some form of gun being pointed at you. You open your mouth to scream for help before the sound of the gun shot wakes your neighbors or ends your life, but what he says causes you to snap your mouth shut, “You make one noise and a bullet will go straight through your brain.” His voice was deep and gruff as if he hadn't spoken in days. The door shuts behind him and as your eyes adjust to the dark red glow of your apartment, you can see that he was trying to lock the door. You need to get moving while he’s distracted. You can lock yourself in the bedroom and call Marc's number, he might not pick up but it's your only chance. You throw the blanket off of you and it rests over the back of the couch. You grab your phone resting on the table as you stand on shaky legs. The brightness of the home screen temporarily blinds you and you hope that he doesn’t notice the sudden light from behind you as you push through the ache of your eyes and unlock your phone. You scroll through your contacts as you walk quickly past the couch and you nearly screech when you brush past Marcs and your thumb hits the detail button rather than the call.

The familiar sound of the lock clicking shut makes your heart drop as you hit the back button and you’re feet away from the hallway that leads to the bedroom. C’mon, c’mon, you think. The all too familiar sound of a gunshot causes your ears to ring and the sight of the bullet hole landing in the drywall in front of you makes you stop in your tracks and whip your head to your right to stare at him with wide eyes. The red light makes everything a thousand times worse as he points the gun at you, you can kind of see the smoke still rising from the barrel with the light of the red. This is actually it. You are going to die, even after all you’ve been through today. Karma has finally caught up to you and it was not holding back its punches. You killed people today and death was coming for your throat; and you were okay with that.

You’re going to have a bullet enter your body and all life will be drained from you and you were okay with dying because of all the guilt you feel for the people you killed. Marc hates you. Steven does too, he hasn’t even spoken a word to you since before the mall. Layla and Steven are only your friends because they feel like they have to be. Lauren won’t have to work with a kid and feel like she has to parent you, and Jake will be glad that you are out of his hair because he will have one less person to look after. But most of all, nobody in your life will have to deal with a serial killer who has a target on their back thanks to a fucked up deity. Just let the bullet hit you and it will all be over, you can put down your shield and sword and stop looking over your shoulder. People are dead because of you and you have a price to pay, so pay it without a fight.

Your phone glows brightly as your thumb hovers over the call button for Marc's number. If you call him, he will hear the gunshot and maybe the bullet entering you, perhaps even your last breaths. Do you really want to give more trauma to them just because you’re selfish enough to ask for help? It would just give him more reason to hate you. Your screen begins to dim from the lack of use and you keep your eyes trained on the man. You decide that you're not going to call him. You’re not going to ask for help or beg him to save you. Is it selfish of you just to allow yourself to die when Layla begged Taweret to heal you? Is it selfish of you to let go when Jake went to the extreme of stealing a car to get to the mall for you?

Selfish is the one that you ever were. You were selfish when you moved across continents. You were selfish when you checked on Layla to make sure she was okay while a kid was dying feet away. You were selfish when you committed fraud to make it look like you were eighteen. You hurt way too many people by your selfish actions. The screen eventually goes into sleep mode; and you are back to the red fluorescent being the only source of light. Perhaps you’re being selfish by not calling them. Jake did say that your death will destroy Marc and Steven, but you know that they will cope. You know that their anger and resentment for you will burn any grief that they have.

Is it selfish of you to just want to lay down and rest and finally be at peace? You would no longer have to fight for your life every day. You would no longer have to look over your shoulder for the next god or cultist to strike. You’re exhausted and you just want to be at peace. You'll die selfishly at the hands of a cultist. You'll die in a war that you were never meant to be a part of. You played the role of being an adult for so long that you forgot that you were a child; and that role will finally come to an end with a bullet to your skull. Honestly, it was either going to be done by yourself or by someone else. You’ll die selfish because that’s what you ever were for the past two years of your life. Too selfish and jealous to notice a bag out of place.

Your stomach knots, an all too familiar tug in the pit of it and you think you feel the air change. This knot feels a little different, it wasn’t the overwhelming and tense tightness that you were used to. This one feels like a firm pressure, yet loose and warm. Softly, a breeze pushes the cold air through your shirt and it makes you shiver. The knot tightens a fraction, just enough to be noticeable but not painful. This was new. Never in the last few times you interacted with Horus was he ever this gentle. He was a presence that demanded attention, he made sure that you were aware of him since you got chased out of the laundry room. He made it his goal to make you anxious and fearful for your life. But this tug in your torso and the air around you becoming warm rather than stale and continuing its chilliness was the opposite.

You can clearly tell that this deity was trying to be comforting, the tug was like a hand on your shoulder or fingers knitting between your own. The warmth they were providing felt like a blanket wrapped around your shoulders, the feeling of blame and guilt dissipated from you. It felt uncertain, this new god trying to do the opposite of what Horus has done and it terrifies you. What made it even more terrifying was the sight of the man lowering his weapon until he dropped it on the floor and it slid a few feet from him. In the red light, he looked like he was the same as before, nothing has changed. Whatever plan this deity made was something you did not want to be a part of. The tug was a little more firm but not painful and it seems to urge you to do something.

You weren’t sure what it wanted you to do, but as you stand and stare with wide eyes and the urge to survive began to override your urge to die, you thought it was trying to give you the opportunity to escape. You don’t have enough time to process the zero to one hundred and back to fifty percent of emotion you just experienced before you realize your feet are moving towards the door and brushing past him with a few feet of room so he wouldn’t be able to grasp onto you easily. The door was locked, you don’t know how easily he was able to lock it between the time he broke in and the time he pulled the trigger, but it was bolted shut. How come you struggle with locking it for a good two minutes and he was able to do it in less than thirty seconds?

You don’t know how much time you had and that made your heart pound harder against your chest. You tried not to think of how you were willing to let yourself die with guilt and now you were fighting for your future with a clear mind for the first time since the mall. The tug pulls a little and you groan as you set your phone into the sweatpants pocket before your fingers try to turn the lock and handle. This stupid fucking lock always making things hard. Fucking hell, you should have asked maintenance to fix it for you or buy yourself a new handle. Are you fucking joking? Why is this lock the thing that fucks you over when it comes between life or death?

Arms lock around your waist and you scream as you flail your own limbs, your heels kick into his shins. A grunt is released from him at the impact as you beat his arms with your fists. You need to get out of his arm hold, he can easily strangle you if he wants. On the rooftop when neither you or Jake could sleep, he taught you some self defense moves and techniques to get out of familiar holds such as the one that you’re currently in. Step one: Don’t fucking panic. You try to stifle the anxiety bubbling in your body as you watch the door get further and further from you as he takes a step back. You don’t know where the fuck he was going but you do know this apartment better than he does and the window Horus held you out of was directly behind the two of you.

Step two: Lean forward as far as you can and whip backwards as quickly as you can. Which is exactly what you do. Landing on the floor, he groans as he lets you go. The back of your head hurts from hitting his face as you roll off of his chest and push yourself onto your hands and knees. Your knees pressing into the wooden floor causes them to ache along with the bruises around your throat from being choked hours ago. You fight your way through the pain as you try to think of what the next step needs to be. The lock is going to fuck you over, you’re going to spend too much time struggling with it and he’ll put a bullet into the back of your head. You need to find a weapon to defend yourself with. Your taser was left in Stevens apartment because-of-fucking-course it was, so next up was the knives in the kitchen and- oh fuck the gun he dropped. It was feet away, within reach if you were to crawl for a moment and grasp it with your hand.

You don’t need more blood on your hands. You just need to defend yourself, not kill him. But the thought of that causes the knot to tighten just a little as if they were telling you no, that’s not true. Okay, you thought, shoot him in the thigh or foot to make it much more difficult for him to move. A warm breeze that feels like summer in late October is pushed through your clothing and brushes against your body. It feels gentle like a mother reprimanding their child and trying to direct them on the right course without punishment. Protesting. That’s what they are doing. Horus would have let you die without trying to lift a god-damn finger or talon and this deity is trying to set you on the path to either crash and burn or success. You don’t exactly trust what this god is trying to do, but you both seem to be on the same page of getting a weapon or die trying.

You don’t know why they seem to be trying to help you rather than being an observer on the sidelines; but you don’t have much time to think about it before your hands are on the gun and you’re gripping the handle and pointing it at him as he sits up. The red light glows softly on the metal of the weapon and you can feel your hands begin to shake from adrenaline or fear of what you may have to do. You don’t know much about guns, but you kind of feel like it's as easy as pointing the weapon at your target and pressing down on the trigger. Maybe survival and action shows were part of the only base of your knowledge. Pull the trigger before he moves. That’s all you have to do. You hope that you don’t have to add him to the list of people you killed today. But, from how he didn’t hesitate to point and pull the trigger at you, you most likely will have to if you want to see the sunrise.

“Go ahead,” He daringly says. You were already uneasy but it made you even more so to hear him so willing to have a bullet enter him. You feel your anxiety bubble in your stomach as your breath catches in your throat and the knot becomes firmer momentarily as if they were trying to show their support.

“For Ammit.” He adds before he leans forward, hand reaching out past the weapon and for you. You can feel panic override any qualms you have for taking his life and pull down slightly on the trigger. Click. There wasn’t a gun shot or a loud noise that followed it but rather the noise of your head slamming against the wooden floor as hands are being wrapped around your bruised throat and the red light is highlighting the man above you. Empty or jammed, you don’t know, what you do know is that your throat hurts like a bitch. You bring up the gun and whip it against his head, once, twice, three times before he lets go and rolls off of you.

You scramble backwards, dropping the gun as you try to get some distance between the two of you. You only stop once your back hits the door and your chest is rising and falling as you catch your breath. He turns onto his hands and knees and you can see a dark brown liquid splattering against the floor beneath him. It was easy to put two and two together especially with the feeling of warm liquid on your skin from the splatters of blood the impact caused with the weapon. Getting out was not an option and neither was screaming for help. You doubt none of your neighbors would want to check on you at this time in the morning whether it would be to save their own skin or that they confused the gunshot with something else since guns are illegal in the United Kingdom.

You need a weapon, the deity seems to agree by the soft breezes that were urging you to get up. You push yourself up, using the counter next to you to help yourself onto your feet as you try to clear your frantic mind enough to think clearly. The knives were in the drawer on the other side of the counter that was separating you from it. You can climb over the counter and grab one, you look at him as he walks towards you quickly, easily closing the few feet between you within seconds. Blood runs down the side of his face and soaks the collar of his shirt and with the red lighting, you can tell he was pissed. You need something now. Something right fucking now, oh my fucking- you look next to you, your eyes landing on the stain stick remover from the vending machine months ago and you grab it.

It was cold and small in your hands but it was the one thing you have to work with. He pulls back his arm and you figure he was going to punch you, even the deity was on the same page as you with the tug in your stomach as you roll the stain remover in your hand and try to keep a clear mind enough to do what needed to be done. Wait, what are you going to do? Poison him by making him eat it? Open wide, here comes the airplane. Fuck off. You try to prepare yourself to dodge getting a black eye, but there was no preparation for you to do before his fist is flying and you try your best to avoid it by side stepping.

His fist lands into the wood, causing a hole in the door and getting caught by his clothing tugging on the splintered wood. You take the opportunity he was held still to shove the stain remover into his eye. Your stomach churns at the noise of the plastic tube going through flesh and an organ and making a disgusting squelching noise. He gasps and you try to not allow your body to throw up any bile as you climb over the counter and dig through the drawers for a knife, only coming across butter knives since you couldn’t afford any chef cutlery. It wasn’t going to be enough to kill him right away. You turn the knife in your hand, your body heat warming the handle quickly.

How did you get from the base that you just need to get out to the base of find a weapon to defend yourself and to the final base of finishing the job? Not even a job, actually, but murderer. Kill this man and you can leave, you can go to Stevens apartment and wait for them to come back or maybe call them and tell them what happened. You can hear him gasping as you turn the knife in your hand and look down at the metal of the blade, you can barely see yourself in the reflection; but that doesn’t matter, you don’t recognize the person staring back at you. A warm breeze envelopes you and you think you can feel a light pressure cupping your cheeks and lifting your head, turning it to your left. You don’t see him, but you can hear him.

You round the corner of the counter and see him lying flat on his back and clutching his eye with both of his hands. A pool of dark brown around his head was forming and the metallic scent you became too familiar with filled your nose. You know from experience that blood comes out quickly when there is an external head injury. You don’t remember hearing him fall, but that doesn’t matter much, does it? Especially with what you’re going to have to do next. You’re going to have to be fast and harsh with your stabs, it's difficult to break contact of the skin with a small blade such as the one you’re holding.

How many hits will it have to take? You wonder. You can’t imagine doing it once, let alone more than that. Your stomach tugs, tightens and loosens eight times and you exhale once it stops. Eight, huh? Eight hard swings that will have to be strong enough to do damage and take his life. Another life added to the ever growing list of people you killed today. If you don’t do it, he will come back and harm you or your neighbors or even someone on the street. Someone Mr. Knight can’t save because he’s too busy babysitting you. If you let him live, perhaps he’ll be part of another shooting or cause a another bombing.

If you take his life now, it will save someone else's. It will save another baby's parents. It will save another teenager and their friends. He told you, “for Ammit” before he reached for the gun as if he was saying it was to avenge the goddess. So, taking his life would be vengeance for the people killed today in the mall. Even though you had a role in it. He is part of the cult that helped kill those people. It’s just one more casualty in this war you didn’t ask to be a part of.

The breeze is gentle and warm, almost feeling like they’re placing their hand on top of your own in comfort or in guidance, you don’t know. You crouch down, his eyes are shut and you doubt that he heard you with all the pounding that must be happening in his ears. You’re a little glad that his eyes are closed because you don’t think you could do this if they were open. There’s no preparing yourself in murdering someone but despite that, you try anyways by taking a deep breath. The scent of metal fills your nostrils and burns your throat, making you nearly gag as you slowly release your breath, you could see the vapor in front of you. You raise your arm, the blade glinting in the red light as you bring it down into his throat.

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yikesitskennawrites · 2 years

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Transitions- Chapter Thirty-Two: A Break From Friends

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Pairings: Steven Grant x (platonic) Reader, Marc Spector x (platonic) Reader, Jake Lockley x (platonic) Reader, Layla El-Faouly x (platonic) Reader

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The ride to the apartment was tense and quiet. You were sitting in the back seat of a stolen car that Jake took with Layla next to you. You would have bitched or teased or generally said something about the thief that Jake is, but you were too exhausted mentally and physically to talk. Instead, you sat with your head leaned against the cool window and Layla's hand grasped in yours. Occasionally, you peeked at the front seat and saw Jake's eyes flickering in the rearview mirror towards the two of you. It wasn’t the limo that Jake took, it was some poor civilian's car and it was going to smell like smoke for the next few weeks. You were sure that the stench you carried from the burning building wouldn’t leave you or your clothes for a long time, let alone the civilian's vehicle.

Layla's thumb rubbed the back of yours the entire time that she held it. Your conjoined hands rested on the middle cushion as the cool window helped lower your body heat and bring some relief to the pounding in your skull. Your clothes clung to you due to the sweat your body created and you wanted to take a shower; but with the tense silence you knew that there was a ticking bomb counting down and about to explode. Your throat hurts, you caught a glimpse of yourself in the reflection of the window and you could tell that bruises already have begun to form. You don’t know what you’re going to tell Lauren on Monday when you have to go to work.

She will panic and harass you for any information on who did this to you. She’ll assume that it was your uncle and she will get the police involved, you know that she will do this because she cares and wants you to be safe. So, whatever story you come up with has to be good and believable. Maybe you have a turtleneck shirt you can wear underneath your work uniform. You have a little less than forty-eight hours to come up with something because you can’t just tell Lauren that you were at the mall with a cultist's hands around your neck. You hope that you won’t end up on the news, you desperately don’t want this to go viral and go international. As much as you miss your best friend, you don’t want her trying to get in contact with you and bitch about you being missing for the last two years. You don’t want to hear about her disappointment in you ghosting everyone.

It was Marc who opens the back door of the car and crouches in front of you when the vehicle was finally parked. He holds the brown leather jacket he let you borrow, you think that Layla grabbed it before she left and you were glad that she did because you completely forgot about it. He stares at you in silence, his eyes saying everything and nothing at the same time.

“Are you okay?” He asks, his voice is so quiet that you would have thought you imagined it if you didn’t see his lips move. You are okay, you’ve been trying not to think of the dead kid's eyes staring back at you or of the baby that is most likely an orphan now. You felt terrible that you were a little jealous of those teenagers and now they are dead. You can feel the inside of your throat close and your nose sting. You were alive and they were dead; and they were just children. They were kids caught in the crossfire of war. What the fuck did the cult even want anyways? Why would they want to look for ways to raise or release Ammit and come to the conclusion to set bombs and shoot civilians? How the fuck did they get from point A to point Z?

Was it a random chance that you just happened to be at the mall on the day that they were going to initiate this dumbass idea? Or was it hell of a lot more complicated than that? People were dead and a handful of cult members were too, but they had to have planned on dying. It had to be a suicide mission in their minds, they planned on killing people, why? Why go out of their way to kill others if they want Ammit to judge people of their evil doings before it is committed. Isn’t that counter-productive for them because it is an evil doing for Ammit? Why go for children? Why are so many children dying in the path of what they believe is righteousness?

The memory of the mother carrying the girl on her hip and the flash of orange light in the smoke from the gun fire replays in your mind. The sight of the boy's filmy eyes staring at you feels like it’s burning itself into your soul and you try to rid your mind of it as Marc says your name softly. You’re not going to get his eyes out of your mind until the day you die, aren’t you?

You nod slowly, somehow knowing that he was pressing the question of how you’re feeling without hearing it fall out of his mouth and into the tense air between the three of you. You watch him press his lips together and you can’t find it in you to care enough that he doesn’t believe you. Filmy eyes that will never blink. Filmy eyes that will never have the corners of them crinkled as his cheeks that still had baby fat press upwards from a grin. Filmy eyes that will never see another sunset or sunrise or the constellations in the night sky. Filmy eyes that were left staring at you and Layla as you both reunited in the aftermath of the bombs. He had to have his last breath exhaled as he stared at Layla clutching your own cheeks.

You being held by someone you care for was the last thing he ever saw and he died alone and scared. Marc’s fingers knit between your own as he pulls you out of the car and onto your wobbling legs. His own eyes crinkle in worry and you’re reminded that the dead kid's own eyes will never do that again. You felt guilty. Why are you still alive? Why aren’t you dead? Why were you the one who had the tangled strings to the god that let you be aware of his presence? Why didn’t you say something sooner or notice the men carrying the duffle bags around? You noticed the group of teens laughing and having fun but not a duffle bag in the mall. Why were you so wrapped up in your own jealousy that you didn’t see the red flags?

Marc carries you up the stairs on his back with your arms wrapped over his shoulders and his hands hooked underneath your thighs. You don’t process much of the journey into the apartment building or the elevator ride up to the fifth floor. Your head rests against Marc's back as you hear the jingle of keys and the sight of Gus' fish tank as Marc passed and sat you on the dining room chair that you were sitting in just hours ago. You lean back in the seat with your fingers rubbed against each other, the smell of smoke, sweat, and the faint smell of cinnamon fills your nostrils as you try to ground yourself and get rid of the filmy eyes staring at you. You look at the brown leather jacket being set on the back of the chair, you can see the outline of your phone resting in its pocket.

The same phone that you hung up on Jake. The same phone Marc bought for you so they could be in contact with you. The deal you made to answer the phone all those months ago repeated in your head. You made that deal to pick up their calls so they would know you’re alive, and you hung up on them in a burning building while a group of cultists shot up the place. Does it still work or did the heat fry it enough to make it no longer function? Does it matter since you’re probably going to be turned into the police by tomorrow? You’re going to go back to the United States and be arrested and jailed for a few dozen years and your friends won’t have to worry about you because you’ll no longer be in their life.

It’s difficult to process the consequences of your actions when you were sure that you were going to die. If you’re completely honest with yourself, you didn’t plan on being alive. You wanted to live, you wanted to see Steven, Marc, Jake, and Layla live and laugh and perhaps forgive each other for their fuck ups, but you didn’t think you would be alive and sitting in the same spot you were in this morning. You thought you would die there. A bullet to the head, a minute or two longer of a grip around your neck. Maybe the fire burning you alive while you scream in agony. But here you are, alive and not so well; and you felt guilty about breathing while so many others were not. You know you have to move on, to not let this consume you. You know you’re going to have to continue with your life but at the moment that seems absolutely impossible.

The idea of going back to your regular life and doing normal things such as the homework due Monday or the nine to five job you have as a fast food worker was something you could not comprehend. How can you pretend like nothing happened? How can you shove every emotion you have down into the pit in your stomach and force yourself not to feel the immense guilt you are currently going through? How can you ignore the filmy eyes staring back at you and telling you that you should have noticed something sooner? But no, you were too wrapped up in looking for a yellow sweater and watching a group of kids, who will now be forever the same age, have fun. It’s all your fault for not noticing something sooner. It’s your fault that a group of teenager's are dead and a baby is an orphan and a mom and daughter are dead. There’s so much blood on your hands that you will never be able to wash off.

You can feel numbness slipping over you like a blanket being wrapped around your shoulders as you stare at the floorboards near Marc's feet. His shoes were dirty from the ash of the burning building and the daily routine of going out in public. The floors were dirty and Steven was beginning to complain about them lately, you offered to clean them but he refused to let you. He’ll probably clean them spotless by tomorrow whether it's because he had seen enough of the dirty flooring or because the stress from today will make him exert energy by manic cleaning. You can see Marc's feet shuffle from side to side before he forces himself to stand in one spot. The only noise in the room was from Gus tank and the sound of the heater beginning to shake.

It was an old thing, the city didn’t seem to renovate the apartment buildings enough for new technology for the people who needed a long term place to stay after coming back from the blip. You think they had to find it at an antique store or a yard sale. Perhaps they did find it online but it was so old that it was sold at half price. Either way, the heater was running all night and morning and now it was beginning to pay the price by bringing noises to the tense silence between the three of you. You just wanted to take a shower and sleep, but the thought of your wants made you feel even more guilty. Those people won’t ever get another shower or another full night of rest. Your stomach churns with guilt and it makes you feel sick. It’s your fault that they are dead.

“You’re still Tawerets avatar?” Marc asks, his voice cuts through the tension like a knife. You can hear him ask the question clearly, but for some reason it feels like you’re in another room and eavesdropping on the conversation. “After you told me that you are no longer working for Taweret.”

“I am.” Layla says. You keep your eyes trained on the floor, there were scratch marks from years of scuff and use. A ball of lint rests next to Marc's feet as you hear him scoff. “Except I am working with Taweret, not for.”

“Why would you lie to me? Why wouldn’t you tell me?”

“Why didn’t you tell me that you were alive?” She retorts. “I thought you were dead for months until you sent me unsigned divorce papers and even then you didn’t pick up your phone; or how about you didn’t tell me that you only met me because you felt guilty that you were there the night my father was murdered.” You hear Marc inhale a sharp breath. You know that you shouldn’t be here for this conversation no matter how nosey you are. It was supposed to be a private conversation between two people but apparently neither gives a shit; at least not after today.

“I didn’t mean to get him killed.” He says. He sounds small like a kid defending himself. You can feel his statement repeat in your mind and sink deep into your bones. It felt clear and personal even though it was about two very different people.

“But you lead them there.” She states, it wasn’t a question but a fact, You feel like all air was taken from you and you think you feel like Marc does now. She’s right, you lead a god there and you couldn’t comprehend the duffle bag in time. It’s your fault so many people are dead. He doesn’t reply to her statement and it feels like a nail to the coffin for both of you. It sealed your fate, you killed so many people and there's no going back from this. You want to cry but you don’t want them to pity you.

“She isn’t like Khonshu, y’know?” She says after a moment. “I get a say in things and she respects my decisions. She doesn’t threaten me or anyone I love. She’s kind and cares for me.” Taweret already sounds a hell of a lot better than Khonshu. Wasn’t she the one who balanced Marcs and Stevens' hearts on a scale and helped them get back to life? Your head hurts and the pounding in your skull was making it difficult to think. You deserve much worse than this, you are the reason so many people are dead.

“You’ve been putting yourself in danger this whole time.” He says softly. You have been putting yourself in danger. You hung up. You stayed in the mall with the knowledge that you could die. You stayed with your friends and ignored Jake's warnings. You could have walked away but you stayed because you’re too afraid to be alone again.

“Don’t be a hypocrite, Marc.” She seethes. “You’ve been putting yourself in danger long before you met me.” That is true, you did travel over a thousand miles and cut off all contact with everyone who remained in your old life. You could have gotten killed way before you met Marc and Steven in that alley way. You could have been became a news headline for a local murder, another static for young deaths. You could have become another victim of Harrow's cult without realizing how tangled his own strings were, you wouldn’t have known who he was or his intentions unless he told you them like those stupid villain's in children's shows and books.

She takes a deep breath and you listen to her shudder as she exhales. She says, “I need a break.” You feel your heart drop at her statement. You would need a break from yourself too if you were her. She was giving up on you. You fucked up too much. She told you to leave and get to safety but you put yourself in danger and she’s upset with you. She was going to walk away from you and never look back. She’s going to block your phone number and you’ll be left wondering if she is alive or not. It sounds like something you did to your best friend. Now the tables have turned and you’re the one being left to rot. Karma was finally reaching you.

“Okay,” He says. His voice is small and you feel exactly like that. Small and unwanted. He doesn’t put up a fight and neither do you. Your throat closes in on itself as you try to wrap the numbness around yourself like it was a cocoon. You notice her feet move a few steps and stand in front of you before you feel her hand cup your cheek. The affection startles you for a moment but quickly you push it down as her thumb brushes against your cheek and she tilts your head upwards.

“Are you okay?” She asks. She looks old like the past few hours aged her enough that she was wiser and more likely to have a heart attack. She’s just asking to be nice, you tell yourself, she doesn’t really care. She knows how many you killed today. You numbly nod despite it being a lie and she doesn’t look like she believes you; but she doesn’t push you and you’re grateful that she chooses not to. You don’t think you could argue with her about how you’re actually feeling.

“I’m going to go,” She tells you and promises to call you later tonight. You’re surprised that she trusts you enough not to hang up or decline her call. You’re even more surprised that she wants to talk to you. She gives you a sad look and you don’t like that it’s directed towards yourself. She lets go of your face for a moment before bending down and pressing her lips to your forehead. You feel like you don’t deserve her pity or affection. She removes her lips from your skin before walking towards the door and opening and shutting it behind her. A break, she needs a break from you and she just came back less than twenty four hours ago. You haven’t seen her in weeks and she told you that she needs a break.

You stare at the door for a moment longer than you would like before your eyes glue themselves back to the ball of lint on the floor next to Marc's feet. You thought he would switch with Steven and let the man fuss over you and scold you or at the very least march off towards the living room and sit down in front of the television to distract himself; so when he began to speak it nearly made you jump.

“You hung up,” He says. “You could have died and I-” He stops himself, the silence between you says what he doesn’t. You could have died and he would blame himself. The guilt that has been punching you in the stomach was now aiming for your face to knock your ass out. Apologizing won’t be enough. Promising them that you won’t do it again won’t even suffice. You hung up on them with the intention of not knowing if you’ll make it out; and what makes it even worse, Steven once explained to you that they feel like they have a responsibility to make sure you are alright since they found out that you are not an adult. You put them in that situation of not knowing and that makes you feel terrible. You know exactly how he feels because if the roles were reversed, you would be just as upset or if not more than he is.

“I’m sorry,” You whisper out. It doesn’t sound like it comes from you but the voice does. You don’t know if he heard or not but either way the apology was clearly not going to be enough. Your eyes trail away from the ball of lint and to his face. He shakes his head, his eyes were red either from the effects of the smoke or the tears building up in his eyes. His hands shake and you can feel your guilt punching your jaw at the sight. Your apology was never going to be enough, you fucked up hard. He rubs his face before huffing out a breath and grabbing the jacket Layla set on the back of the chair not too long ago. He pulls it on and stuffs his hands into the pocket, and you know that he smells the smoke from the fire remaining on his clothes. You can still smell it on you and it stung your nostrils and eyes a bit.

You knew that he felt your phone in his pocket because he pulls it out and sets it hard onto the table, a loud click of the device smacking the surface of the furniture causes you to wince a little. He was going somewhere that was clear enough and as much as you want the reassurance that you’re going to be okay, that they will come and always save your ass, you couldn’t allow yourself to accept it. You killed people today, you killed several children. Everything was your fault. You bite your wobbling lip and try to sink further into the numbness.

“Where are you going?” You ask. You watch his shoulders tense before a slow breath is released from him. He was like a caged animal needing out and space, the same space that Layla wants. He needs a break from you too. He needs to think and process and feel without your presence being near him and you can respect that. But you need to know where he is so you can get his body, Khonshu can kill them at any moment as far as you know. They haven’t clearly told you why their god let them die in Cairo.

“Out.” He states. You wring your hands together. Getting information from him was like pulling teeth.

“Well, can you at least tell me-”

“Can you stop.” He cuts you off. It wasn’t a question, but a demand. “Just shut up and let me fucking breathe.” Your heart drops in your chest and you stare at him with wide eyes as his flicker to the fish tank. How can this change so quickly? This morning he was telling you to zip up his jacket to keep warm and dry and now he’s telling you that you’re being too much? That you need to be quiet?

Your eyes cast downwards to the ball of lint on the floor. You don’t want to fight him. He huffs out a breath and you will yourself to be smothered in the blanket of numbness wrapped around you. His shoes leave ash marks on the floor as they disappear out of your sight. You hear the door open and shut behind him, the lock doesn’t click and you don’t bother to get up and bolt it shut. Your nose stings and the smell of smoke and sweat clings to your senses. You squeeze your eyes shut and will yourself not to cry as glassy eyes stare back at you in the darkness behind your lids.

—

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yikesitskennawrites · 1 year

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Transitions- Chapter Forty-Three: A New Deal With Your Neighbors

Series Masterlist

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Pairings: Steven Grant x (platonic) Reader, Marc Spector x (platonic) Reader, Jake Lockley x (platonic) Reader, Layla El-Faouly x (platonic) Reader

—

It was raining when you woke, the last three days were a feverish haze in your mind. You remember waking at points, munching on saltines and soup that Steven would try to shove down your throat. You remember the awful taste of grape cough-syrup and comparing it to the remaining taste of bile in your mouth; ultimately deciding that the syrup was better. You remember listening to Stevens hushed whispers to Marc and possibly Jake as you pretended to sleep, most of it was mumbled and too quiet for you to hear so your brain decided that anything you did catch was not worth retaining. You remembered the feeling of one of your neighbors brushing their hand against your cheek before they lifted you off of the couch and took you to bed, tucking the blanket up to your chin.

You remembered counting six suckers when you woke and hiding them underneath the couch cushion so Marc wouldn’t steal more back. The fucking asshole. You skipped your blip support meeting for the first time since you began going and it was because of this disease you were suffering with. It wasn’t because you quit or because you thought you didn’t deserve to be healed, but because of a common cold that a six year-old passed onto you. It was nearing noon when you rolled out of bed and stood on your feet for the first time that day. You can hear Steven humming in the kitchen and the television playing some baseball game that you think is a rerun because you’re sure that Marc has watched this before. The apartment smells like oatmeal and tea, which you take in a big whiff of because you can finally breathe through your nose.

For a single moment, it felt like nothing happened. You would have thought that it was just a week before Halloween and this was Saturday. You just carved pumpkins with them the night before and Marc gave Millie the rubber duck because you wanted it but didn’t put it in the cart. Jake just carved a pumpkin with a cat, fronting for more than a half hour without doing any guarding or protecting, just existing. Layla called to announce that she was back in London from her extraordinary trip in Switzerland and she wanted to finish the murder-mystery game with you instead of going to the mall. All was well, nothing has happened. There was no fight for survival twice in twenty-four hours. There was no argument between you and a drunk Marc. There was no drunken admittance of how sorry they are and pleads for forgiveness and the expression of how much they love you. There was just you and your friends and a normal Saturday.

Unfortunately today was Wednesday and it was towards the end of November. Everything that you would love to chalk up to a dream or a feverish haze, was real and you were now dealing with the fallout between you and your neighbors directly rather than staying with Layla. You snatch a sweater resting at the end of Stevens bed before rummaging through his dresser drawers and finding plaid pajama pants. You were going to take a shower not only to prolong the inevitable conversation where you are completely present and not mumbling incoherent answers; but because you were sure that the last time you took a shower was five days ago and you can clearly smell your body odor. You did not want to sit through a tense conversation and smell terrible.

You tip-toe to the bathroom with the stolen clothing quietly. You hope that Marc was too distracted with the game and Steven with his cooking to notice you before you reached where you wanted to be. If Jake was around, you hope he was too busy making fun of Marc's interests to even spare a glance at you. The door clicks behind you and you lock it before turning on the light. You blink at the sudden brightness before you peer around the room, it is dirtier than you remembered. Luckily the pile of bloody clothing you left last time you remember being in this bathroom was gone. The empty toilet paper rolls scattered around the small trash can next to the toilet. The sink wasn't completely rinsed of short dark hair that was similar looking to the hair you would sometimes find in the sink after they shave. The toilet was thankfully clean but the shower looked a bit dirtier. You haven’t seen it in this terrible of a condition since you began spending time with them back in June.

You spend a good amount of time in the shower, mainly just standing underneath the running water until it begins to get cold, before you use their shampoo and conditioner and body wash. You didn’t want to have the conversation you knew that was coming. You had two options, one: call Layla to come get you, but she would most likely be hovering over you and asking questions herself; Or two: face the music and get this conversation over with. Stop running from these people and finally tell them what you’ve been locking up and drowning in for a long time. You were already here in their apartment, you might as well steady yourself and tell them. When you step out after shutting off the water and drying yourself as best as you can, you get dressed.

You push your dirty clothes into the same corner you placed the bloody ones a lifetime ago and stare at them. You are surrounded with the belongings of the people you tried to break things off with. You are wearing their clothes and have been sleeping in their bed and on their couch for days now. You have been taking the medicine they paid for and the food they cooked. You just took a shower in their bathroom. They have taken care of you when you called for them, even if you don’t remember begging for them. They came when you asked, they took you back to their apartment, they made sure you were okay and placed cold wash cloths on your forehead. They could have left you with Layla, ignoring her caller id and texts that may have stated your pleads for them.

They could have told you to suck it up and that you should have taken vitamins and supplements leading up to getting this sickness that may have prevented it better. But, they didn’t. They came and got you when you were begging for them, even though you don’t remember doing so.

You put yourself in the situation of needing a break away from them because you were so sure they hated you and you were struggling with the events leading up to one of the last conversations you had with Jake. You refused to talk to Marc and Steven when Jake dropped you off at Laylas and you even called it abandonment simply because you were trying to push them away to make it hurt less. Jake didn’t fight when he left you in her living room, he didn’t fight when you told him you couldn’t be around them anymore. He didn’t do anything but give you what you wanted; and even though you wanted to be alone, he didn’t trust you to be isolated because of your admittance that you wanted to die. He took care of you by taking you to Layla, someone that he has to trust enough to ensure your safety and the state of your wellbeing.

They care, although most of the time it's not clear and that does cause some anxiety for yourself and it sometimes causes miscommunication between you.. They express their affection through actions rather than words, except for that one time that they don’t remember telling you that they love you. Turns out being forgetful is something all four of you have in common at the moment. With a sigh, you decide that you can no longer avoid the inevitable and open the door, switching off the light. You can see the dark curly hair sitting at the table and pushing their food around with a utensil from where you stood. Their head tilts up, a small smile spreading across his face and eyes brightening a considerable amount.

“Good morning,” Steven calls out from the table. “I made some porridge. Come sit and eat.” You pad across the room, avoiding the stacks of books towering precariously along full shelves and stepping over pieces of parchment that seem to be forgotten since they haven’t been picked up. The closer you get to Steven, the more details you can see. The bags underneath his eyes are darker, his wrinkles are more defined and he looks like he hasn’t properly slept in weeks. You wonder if Jake has been neglecting the body in order to complete missions while you were out of their hair. You sit across from him, a bowl of oatmeal rests on the table with steam rising from it and a few berries on top of the food and a mug filled with green tea next to it. A spoon rests on top of a folded napkin and you scoot the chair a little closer to the table.

“Thank you.” You mumble out. Your fingers wrap around the cool handle of the spoon before you dig in. The oatmeal tastes sweet, you were a little surprised that Steven managed to find berries this time of year during November, they tasted fresh and not frozen. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see him watching you whether because he was expecting a reaction from you or because he was waiting for something else. Either way, you swallow and give him praise for how good it tastes. You smile at him before you scoop another spoonful and chew slowly. He mimics your movement and you trail your eyes back to the bowl, keeping your gaze on it as you eat.

You don’t know how to open up the conversation and from how it feels like, neither does he. Your tongue pushes out an oat between your teeth before you scoop another spoonful. It was nice to eat something other than soup and crackers and actually be able to taste it. It was even better to not have the taste of bile or cough syrup lingering in your mouth.

“Do you feel better?” He asks, your eyes flicker to his face. He was staring at you with concern.

“Yeah,” You say, nodding a bit. “I do, thanks.” You pause and an awkward silence settles between you. You don’t think things have been this difficult or weird since you began spending time with them months ago. There was no background noise besides the hum of the fish tank and the occasional honk from the traffic below the window.

“How is Layla doing?” He asks quietly. You push the oatmeal around with your spoon, as hungry as you feel, you don’t think it is a good idea to have a conversation that is making you more anxious the more you prolong it.

“She’s good.” You say. “Did you…did you not get the chance to chat with her when you came and got me?”

He shakes his head, “No, Jake picked you up and carried you to the cab. Your stuff is washed and dried, it’s in the bag by the sofa.”

“I’m going back?” You ask, your voice sounds small to your own ears. Maybe he didn’t want you around and he was giving you back to Layla so she could babysit you.

“If you want.”

“Do you want me to?”

“No,” He says. You stare at him, waiting for him to slip up and tell you that it was a joke and he did want you out of his hair. But it doesn’t come.

“I want you to stay.” He tells you, “But if you want to go, then I won’t fight you on it.” You wish you were back to June when everything was so much easier, when all you had to worry about was the heat and Khonshu messing with you. When the night is spent on the rooftop and talking about the Ursa Major, and the building of forts and movie nights were much more frequent. When the strings weren’t so tangled and you didn’t have the experience that you have now. When everything was more at peace and laughter was more genuine and not forced and smiles didn’t form as grimaces.

Do you want to stay with them again? Or do you want to come back to the apartment everyday after work and show them that you are alive only to go to yours? Do you want to watch Stevens' face fall every time you decline when he asks you if you want to stay for dinner? Or Do you want to sleep next to them at night when the feel of their body laying next to yours brings you comfort because you aren’t alone? Do you want to wake up to the smell of Marc's morning coffee on the weekends and the sound of him moving around in the kitchen? Do you want to come back and stay with them even if you must flee the country or city if Lauren ever finds out about you?

As much as you don’t like to admit it, you want to stay. You tried to distance yourself from them by telling yourself that they don’t care; and that they only keep you around because they feel bad for you. They hate you and you still care for them despite trying not to. You do want to stick around with them but only if they are willing to be honest with you.

“I think I’ll need to know some things before I decide.” You tell him. He nods, curls bouncing against his forehead with the movement. He looks hopeful and the sight causes your chest to tighten just a bit.

“What do you want to know?” He asks.

“Do you remember anything from the night that Marc got drunk?”

“I don’t,” He says. “I remember Marc arguing with you, he drank too much and that’s about it.” You nod slowly. That was their story last time, so at least none of that has changed and they weren’t lying to you. Unless they remembered the made up story they created and are sticking with it. You try to rid the thought out of your head, you have to give them the benefit of the doubt if this was going to work out between you.

“Does Jake remember anything or Marc?” You press. His eyes trail to the cup of tea and spoon belonging to him and shakes his head.

“Both of them said no.” He answers. You glance down to your own bowl of oatmeal and push the food around with the spoon. Jake was around and no longer hiding, he usually never lingers unless there was a mission to do whether that meant protecting or serving his god. But he was sticking around for this conversation or just checking in.

He looks at you a moment longer before he asks, “Did something happen? I remember you saying that Marc smashed a bottle and you gave him a shower…”

“That did happen,” You say. “But there is more.”

“More?”

“Yep,” You pop the P. “I didn’t tell you everything.”

“Is it bad?” He asks, he sounds hesitant and concerned. Your tongue darts out to wet your lips before you drop the spoon against the bowl and pick up your mug, taking a sip of the tea. “Oh, it’s bad.” He winces.

“Not…necessarily.” You breathe out. “It could be worse.”

“Oh, my stars…” He groans. “What did we do? Did we hurt you? Did- did I do something that made you uncomfortable? You told us that we didn’t hurt you, did you lie about that?”

“No,” You say. “I haven't lied about anything since we met.” Well, maybe a white lie here or there but nothing majorly concerning or important. “Marc and I got into an argument.”

“Okay,” He nods shortly.

“He said some mean things and I became even more convinced that he hates me,” You start. His eyes flicker to his cup, Marc must be in the reflection of the liquid. At least he was sticking around to hear what happened from your side. “He told me that being blipped and losing my parents and the life that I thought was guaranteed for me was not special, not really important. The whole high-school graduation, and becoming an astrophysics major was ripped away from me and he basically said that it doesn’t matter.”

Steven glares at the liquid as you speak, “And he told me that we aren’t friends.” You decide to keep out the parent part out of the conversation. That would cause this to be way more awkward than you would like it to be.

“Did he say anything else?” He asks, his voice was soft towards you but his eyes were stern at the reflection in the cup.

“Well, no…not really…” You trail off and glance down to your fingers fiddling with the handle of the cup. “You did, actually.”

“What did I say, dove?” His eyes shift towards you with a look of nervousness in them.

“Um…” You breathe out. “Nothing, like, terrible.”

“Did I make you uncomfortable?”

“No…You, uh, you said that….you loved me and that I was, um…like your own child.” You let go of your mug and stare down at your hands in your lap, your fingers twisting together.

“Oh.” He whispers underneath his breath.

“Yeah.” You say. “You were drunk and you obviously had no idea what was falling out of your mouth, so…” Maybe you shouldn’t have told him that part. It was best to forget that.

“Did I say anything else?”

“Well, you, uh, begged me to believe you.”

“Do you…?” He asks. Your eyes flicker to his face, you see that he was looking down into his own bowl of porridge and pushing it around with his spoon.

“I don’t know.” You admit. Maybe if things were different, you would believe him and be open to the concept of your neighbor loving you enough that he feels like you’re his own kid. But, right now you don't like the idea that the man you feel betrayed by is emotionally manipulating you into believing that he cares for you on the wavelength of being his child. He did lie to you and you do want to trust him again, but you don’t feel ready to trust that his drunk words were honest. Maybe you will be more open to it down the road, but at the moment you aren’t ready to consider his words to be true.

He doesn’t say anything for a few moments and neither do you. Perhaps he was gathering his thoughts on whether to defend himself or to ensure that he meant his words but instead he says, “You called me dad.” You blink at him. What? You don’t remember saying that, when the fuck did you say that? You stare at him as you search in your mind for any moment that you could have called him that but nothing comes forward.

“What?” You say, you shake your head. “I never said that. You’re lying or fucking with me.” Maybe you did call him that while you were half-out of it when you were sicker? Maybe you mistook him for your actual father?

“Why would I lie?” He presses. “That’s a stupid thing to lie about.”

“You called me your child,” You retort. “You were drunk and if I did call you dad, which I’m sure that I didn’t, I was sick and feverish and I don’t remember half of it.”

“Well, what do you remember?” He asks. You lean back in your chair as you try to remember what bits and pieces your hazy brain decided to keep.

“The fucking dum-dums Marc stole.” You tell him. The last thing you remember was that they are underneath the couch cushions. You hope that they aren’t broken or Marc found your stache and took them back. You earned those fair and square with being compliant as Steven took your temperature.

“And?” He presses. You scrunch your brows together.

“Your book?” You say. You meant it as a statement but it came out sounding like a question. Didn’t you find out that Isis was a falcon? And Osiris is the king of the underworld? Or did your brain make that up entirely?

“And?” He says. You shake your head a bit. You guess that you didn’t make that up because he didn’t correct you.

“I…don’t remember.”

“So, you’re saying you don’t remember your crying when we walked through the door with the medicine we left for; and that you didn’t make grabby hands and call us dad.” You give him a look.

“I did not do that.” You state. You cross your arms over your chest as he returns your look.

“Why would I lie?”

“I don’t know, why would Marc lie about being blipped?” You shrug.

“I’m not Marc.”

“No…but, you did lie about being divorced from Layla.”

“I told you that I was sorry, when are you going to forgive me? Why is this something that you’ve been keeping a grudge against us for?”

“I’ve been telling the truth since I met you,” You say. “Marc dug up information on my past, my G.P.A in high-school, my aunts and uncles and cousins, my old address of my apartment in New York. He tucked it all into a folder and handed it to me to confront me and I waited months before I tried searching up on him and only came up with a small handful of points of who he is. I just- we made a promise not to keep anything from each other that would affect the other; and you kept the marriage a secret, Layla kept her status as a goddesses avatar hidden, and Marc lied about being blipped for five years and I was convinced that I had someone close to me go through something similar and have five years of his life taken from him too.”

“And yeah, the marriage shouldn’t feel like it's a big deal. But it does. Why would you keep that hidden from me? Like that’s such a stupid thing to lie about. You could have said that you’re in the process of getting a divorce, or it's complicated and I wouldn't have thought twice about it. But no, you said she’s your ex-wife and Marc even agreed. I felt so dumb when Layla told me the papers weren’t signed but Marc sent them out. Because, like, you told me you weren’t married. You lied to me about that and it’s not so much about the marriage, who gives a shit whether you’re married or not? But it's about the fact that you lied about it, y’know? You just didn’t tell the truth off the bat. So my brain is thinking, oh man what else are you keeping from me? What else are you lying about?”

“I’m sorry.” He says. “I’m so sorry that I made you feel that way.” He sounds earnest and you want to believe him, you want to be back to where you can easily accept his apology without feeling like he’s not manipulating you. He adds, “I’ll try to do better.”

“I do want you to do better, Steven,” You tell him. “I want you to be honest with me.” He stares at you for a long moment, tears brimming in his eyes and you watch as his body straightens and his eyes become more hard.

“We’ll be honest with you if you’re honest with us,” Marc says. You wonder if Steven gave up the control of the body so Marc could speak with you or if Marc fought for the control and Steven tried to come off as calm during your conversation with him. You guess that it doesn’t matter since you were talking to someone else now.

“Why did you feel like you couldn’t call me when the bitch broke into your apartment?” He asks quietly. You look at your hands, wringing them together as you think about what happened that night. Marc told you that he needed space, and you thought he hated you. He told you to let him breathe and you were suffocating him. Being too much.

“I’m too overbearing and you wanted space and I just thought…I just thought that you hated me and the mall was the tipping point. You know…when I hung up and you thought I was dead.”

“I never hated you.” He says. “I disliked you being suicidal and your decision to risk your life. I…” He swallows harshly, “It would have been my fault if you died because I agreed to watching over you and keeping you safe and I couldn’t do that.” You kept quiet as he spoke, “I left you when you needed us. I should have stayed, I should have let Steven come forward, but I was too angry.” You aren’t going to tell him that it was okay, because you did need them and they left you.

He lets out a shuddered breath, “If you die because of me, because I could have prevented it…” He trails off and shakes his head. “I don’t think I could live with myself…that’s why I always come back around to: did I…do the right thing by not turning you in? Because even though it would mean that you would be behind bars for thirty years of your life in the United States, you would be safer behind those bars than lying next to us at night.” He runs his hand through his hair before leaning forward and placing his elbows onto the table and his hand into his hands.

“And you hung up and I thought you were dead,” His voice cracked. “And I kept telling myself that you were because- because when we got there and discovered that you were, it would hurt less. I wouldn’t expect that you would be alive and find your body in the dust.” You look down at your hands. Your vision begins to blur with tears and your throat is forming an all too familiar lump. “And when Jake got there, I needed to know if you were alive. I saw you and I just felt…relief; and then, I saw that bastard choking you and I thought you were dead.” You can’t imagine thinking someone you promised to care for was dead only to find out that they’re alive and then think they're dead again. You have thought that you would lose your neighbors and Layla, but you haven’t actively been in the situation that your neighbors were in.

“I thought I lost you, honey.” He whispers. You feel terrible, you’ve been thinking how much they hate you and here Marc was trying to be honest with you and you trying to believe him.

“I’m sorry,” You mumble. The apology sounds so stupid compared to his confession. You’ve been in this same position too many times before with your neighbors, apologizing wasn’t going to be enough for either of you. You wish that apologizing wasn’t as frequent as it was with them. He sits still and keeps his eyes on the table between you.

“I’m sorry I was an asshole to you,” He says. “I hope you can forgive me for reacting as I did and move past this with me.” You look at him in surprise.

“You still want me around?” You ask, you know that Steven wanted you to stay, but Marc? You couldn’t even comprehend that he would want that.

“If you let me.” He says. “If you want to stay with me, Steven…and Jake.” He was hurt and scared for you and your actions; and he hurt and scared you from his actions too. You both caused each other pain, intentional and unintentional, and it’s up to you to accept his invitation to stay or not. Part of you wants to go through with what you’ve been trying to do. Push them away and move once you turn eighteen, maybe even sooner because Lauren might find out about you and call the police. But the other part of you wants this, you want to stay and see this out. See what this might become between the four of you. Besides, you don’t know who to turn to if a deity follows you up North and hangs you out another window.

It was best to stay with them because you will be safer. Jake will protect you, Marc has his military training, and Steven…he can keep you sane with mundane things such as baking and grocery shopping. If it does come to moving around to avoid jail, Jake and Marc definitely have better ties and knowledge than you do. Staying is the better option, you just have to try to become normal with them again so sitting on their couch won’t feel as awkward or eating dinner with them.

“I think we should set some ground rules first,” You tell him. “This time all of us have to be loyal to it, that includes you Jake.” He nods in agreement as your eyes flicker to his face. “Same rules as before, no keeping secrets from each other, especially if it includes our lives. I’ll answer the phone whenever you call and I’ll stay on the line, but it applies to the three of you too.” You pause as you think of what else to add, “From now on, we have to be honest with each other. If I find out that either of you lied to me about something important, I’ll leave.”

“So, if I say that your cooking is great, but it tastes like garbage, that’s okay, love?” Steven asks, you roll your eyes.

“I don’t care about that. But if there's another situation of telling me something that you think would majorly affect me or our relationship, I want the truth; and I hope you would want that from me too.”

“Do we have to do the handshake?” He asks and you shake your head.

“No, I’m going to have to trust each of your words,” You say. “So?”

“Marc and Jake both agree to the terms and I do too,” He answers. You let out a shaky breath and lean forward a bit, reaching for your mug and taking a drink.

“Good,” You say once you swallow the tea. You set the cup back onto the table and pick up your spoon. “Honesty is what we’re all for, right?” You push around the oatmeal and glance at him. He shifts in his seat a little.

“Yes,” He breathes out.

“Something has been bothering me for a while, and I think Jake has the answers.”

“Okay,” He nods. “Do you want to speak with him?”

You nod and you watch his posture straighten into a rigid one before slacking off a bit into a seemingly relaxed one, “You said you saw nine stab wounds. I-” You stop yourself and run a hand down your face before giving him a fixed stare, “Look, there's no easy way of saying this, But I remember stabbing him eight times and even the deity told me it would take eight times and- y’know there’s nine wounds.”

“A deity told you that it would take eight times?” He says with an odd look on his face.

“Yeah, they kind of snapped me out of it and helped me.”

“Snapped you out of what?” He asks, you swallow and look away. You knew that you would have to tell him the details of what happened that night otherwise he might not be too open about giving you the answers if you weren’t compliant on your end.

“I almost called Marc and I didn’t,” You say without looking at him. “I was going to let him shoot me.” He doesn’t say anything and you feel a bit too anxious. You shift in your seat as your grip on your spoon tightens and loosens. Your palms begin to feel a bit sweaty and you fight the urge to wipe them on the pajama pants.

“Lo siento mucho, mi pequeño,” He says underneath his breath. “Siento no haber estado ahí para protegerte.” You don’t know if he’s swearing in Spanish or not but from his tone he sounds somber. “I don’t have the answers that you want.” He says. “I don’t know why there were nine entries and you were told that it would take eight and you remember eight.” You don’t want to hear that answer, but you’re going to have to accept it. Jake isn’t going to have all of the answers.

“Maybe you stabbed him nine times?” He says, you shake your head.

“Not possible,” You tell him. “I clearly remember counting.”

“It is possible to forget major details,” He says. “Most cases of crime, the witnesses mistake details such as the clothes the perpetrator wore or the eye or hair color.”

“Jake, I am the murderer. I have been having nightmares and flashbacks almost every day since I killed him. I know that I committed the crime and I kept track so I wouldn’t go over or under and leave him suffering.”

“He was going to take you somewhere and you didn’t want to leave him suffering?”

“I didn’t know he had intentions of kidnapping me, I thought he just wanted to kill me,” You defend yourself. “Besides, if someone were to stab me I wouldn’t want to be left suffering.” You don’t even want to imagine it, the cold metal piercing your flesh, the blood gushing from the wound as they pulled out the knife. Ugh, gross and disturbing.

“I’ll make sure nobody stabs you because anyone that looks your way and has those intentions is already dead.” He says. You think he was trying to be reassuring in his own fucked up way, but with his past reassurance of already looking into the people you communicate with daily, you think he is being honest.

“Okay,” You say and then awkwardly add, “Thanks.” You don’t know if you can continue with eating breakfast after this conversation so you drop the spoon and rub your hands against your pants to help dry them of the sweat. He must have picked up on your reluctance to eat after the talk of murdering a guy and him telling you he’ll kill anyone who thinks of harming you because he stands up from his chair and walks to the kitchen counter, snagging something off of it before returning.

“Here’s your keys to your apartment,” He holds up the small metal keys on a circular chain. Two pairs of matching keys were hooked to it.

“Thanks,” You say as he places them in your outstretched hand. You stare at one before deciding to unhook it from the metal circle. “I think you should keep one,” You tell him as you place it on the table in front of him and add, “Just in case I get locked out. Can’t have two keys being locked in my apartment, that would be very…bad.” You finish. He takes the key and hooks it onto his own keychain before picking up his spoon and scooping up the porridge and eating it.

“You know how to drive?” He asks in between bites and you set the keys into your lap and decide to try to eat since your nerves are more settled.

“I don’t have my permit.” You tell him.

“You know how to drive, though?”

“I know the basics.”

“Which is?” He asks.

You can tell he wasn’t going to drop this until you tell him so after you chew on your spoonful you say, “There's a brake, an accelerator, turn the wheel left to go left, right to go right. There’s a switch for the blinker but I’m not quite sure if pushing down on it goes left or right. Um, there’s a gear for park which is P and D for driving. I don’t have my permit.”

“Permits are just a certificate that states you are good to drive. But, you have the knowledge so you are fine.”

“That’s like saying you’re qualified to do surgery because you watched Grey's Anatomy.”

“Watched what?” He asks.

“It's a medical show.” You wave him off. “I have never driven a car.”

“Well, you’re about to be taught after you eat. So, eat up, kid. We got some driving to do.”

---

It was still pouring down rain as you followed Jake down the street and through several alleys. You stood about three blocks away from your apartment building with Marc's jacket hood covering your head and the zipper up to your chin. You thought that Jake would let you drive his limo or something but you were wrong as you approached a silver hatchback car and waited for Jake to take the keys out of pocket but he didn’t. It soon dawned on you what his plan was.

“You’re stealing a car,” You say.

“I’m teaching you how to steal a car,” He tries to correct you but that only causes you to glare at him.

“You’re teaching me how to steal a car.” You repeat incredulously.

“Just in case.”

“Marc made a deal with me that he wouldn’t teach me to drive a stolen car.”

“I’m not Marc.” He says. “Be quiet, you’re going to attract attention if you speak any louder.” You can tell he already had his mind set and there was nothing to deter him away from teaching you this. “Never break the window. It will cause the car alarm to go off.”

“Oh my god,” You say and throw your hands up in the air.

“So, what you are going to do-”

“I am not doing shit, Jake.” You hiss out. “I’m not going to get caught up in any possible crime.”

“It’s not a crime until you get caught.” He replies. “But if you don’t want to do it. Fine. At least watch what I do so you know what to do if you need a car.” You almost open your mouth to ask him about why you would need a car when the memory of the Harrows remaining cult members flashes behind your eyes.

“So, what you would hypothetically do is remove the handle to the car door. If you know how to pick locks, great. But, in this case, you don’t and I don’t think I have time to teach you how to pick locks without somebody passing by and noticing us. So, remove the handle. To do so, there's this screw at the end of the handle closest to the side mirror. You want to unscrew that, but since you can’t, you just pull at the handle until,” He snaps it off and holds it like a trophy.

“Tada.” He breathes out, your mouth parts open in shock as he lets go of the plastic piece and it hits the cobblestones underneath you. “Next you would press this little switch right here,” He points on the inside of the handle next to the lock and pushes it inwards until you hear a snap. With his left hand, he reaches up and grips the edge of the car door before prying it open. You wince as you wait for the alarms to sound but none came and he grins at you.

“Holy fucking shit,” You breathe out. You watch as he crouches next to the driver's seat and ignores you.

“This panel underneath the steering wheel needs to be removed.” He pats the gray plastic covering. “See these screws?” You watch as his index finger taps the small heads and hum. “You need to remove them, but since you don’t carry around a screwdriver on you, just reach underneath this bit.” His hand trails further down the panel to the bottom and his fingers grasp underneath it and pull. It rips away from the car and lands against the driver's seat. You stare with wide eyes at the sight.

“You expect me to have the strength to rip away this panel that's screwed into the car?” You ask.

“I expect you to try.” He tells you; and you don’t hear an ounce of fuckery in his tone. Holy shit, he’s not joking.

“You were only able to do that because you have Marc's military background and being a god's avatar, I’m a seventeen year-old with noodles for arms.”

“I still want you to try,” He repeats himself before pointing to something underneath the steering wheel. “You see this wire?” He asks. With a sigh, you crouch down and peer over his shoulder, he was pointing to a green piece.

“Uh, huh.”

“Don’t ever touch it.”

“I don’t plan to.” You tell him honestly.

“You see these bundles?” He points to three clusters of small wires bundled together. “This one on the far left belongs to the radio, lights, and indicators. This one in the middle belongs to the control lights such as the seat warmers or the heater; and this one is the ignition and battery. You want this one. You select the wrong bundle, you will be electrocuted and possibly killed.”

“I’m going to be honest, that does not sound very live, laugh, love.” You tell him.

He ignores you by saying, “So what you are going to do is remove this end.” He takes off the gray square covering and drops it to the floor before pointing to a red wire and a blue one. “If you have a knife on you, you are going to use it to cut off about one inch of it off of the end.”

You decide to humor him, “And if I don’t have a knife?”

“Use your apartment key or a sharp rock. Whatever you do, don’t tear it off with your hands,” He says. Has he done that before? He pulls out a knife from underneath his shirt and uses it to cut off the end.

“Next, you are going to twist these together, don’t touch the wire as you do.” He carefully twists them and leans back enough to give you a better view. You watch as the dash lights up and the radio turns on to a local channel and he quickly reaches over to the dial and turns it down.

“Congratulations, Jake, you connected the battery and the ignition wire.” He says in a sarcastic tone. “See this wire?” He points to a red one. “You want that one touch these two that I just connected. So, you need to strip it by about half an inch. Remember to not touch it because it will be live.” He uses his knife to do so. “Now, it just needs to touch the ends of these wires that are twisted, so carefully bring it over and…” He gently touches it against the battery and it causes the engine to rumble to life. “Excelente,” He smiles before he climbs into the driver's seat and revs the engine a couple of times.

“You want to do that so it doesn’t stall and then turn the steering wheel all the way to your left or right to get it to…” You watch as the steering wheel pops out of the lock and he gives you a grin.

“It’s ready to drive.” He tells you. You stare at him, your mouth parted open as you think of what to say. A croaked noise leaves your mouth and your stomach churns, a knot tightening in it. You would have thought that it was just nerves until you watch his face fall and eyes shift to your right.

“Khonshu,” He says as he gets out of the car and leans against the driver's door, resting his arms on top. Your gaze shifts to your right, the overwhelming and slightly familiar feeling of the deity's presence loosens in your stomach as the hair on your arms stand up. Jake keeps a neutral look as he listens to whatever the bird was telling him until he looks annoyed and rolls his eyes.

“She’s not coming,” He says. “I don’t care if this mission qualifies for more than one avatar, Layla is staying with the kid until I get back.” A gust of air blows past you and it would have knocked you off of your feet if it weren’t for you forcing yourself to stand your ground. “The kid is not being left unattended and I’m not taking them along.” He grits out between his teeth. He rolls his eyes at something Khonshu must have said before the feeling disappears in your gut and he flips off the direction that the god once stood.

“Where are you going this time?” You ask.

“Algeria,” He answers as he pinches the bridge of his nose and looks at the running car. You nod slowly.

“I’m not going to lie, this is terrible timing,” You say. You just reconciled somewhat with your neighbors and now they’re leaving. You know that they have a job to do but you still can’t help but feel like you’re being left behind.

“Yeah, I know pequeño,” He pauses. “Laylas going to stay with you or you with her.”

“She can go with you.” You shrug. The idea of your neighbors leaving already made you anxious and now saying that Layla and your neighbors can go was increasing your anxiety. If it helps speed up the mission and keep the other safer by watching each other's back, you’re all for it.

“No, she can’t. Not after I left you alone.” He doesn’t need to explain that he meant the murder you had to commit to defend yourself. You look away from him and he sighs.

“It wasn’t your fault,” You tell him quietly. “You can’t be there for me all the time.”

“I’m one phone call away,” He tells you. “You just dial Marc's number and I’ll answer.”

“You’ll be in Algeria.”

“I can fly.” He says, you blink.

“Then…why did you drive to the mall?”

“I needed a car to get you back to the apartments and a place to keep you safe.” He says. “So, I borrowed a car.”

“You stole a car,” You correct.

“Borrowed without permission,” He grins. “We’ll meet half-way, alright?” You try to return his smile but your lip wobbles and you have to sink your teeth into it to get it to stop.

“You’re going to call me,” You tell him. “Every night when you’re safe, you’ll call me.”

“Is that a question or a statement?” His voice sounds quiet and you try not to cry. You are worried that you’re not going to see them again even though that’s what you were trying to do for the last month. The comparison of who you were a month ago and to who you are now is wild.

“It’s a new part of the ground rules.” You say. Your nose stings. “A new agreement has to be added for me to stay with you three. Do all three of you agree to call me, to let me know that you are alive?” The rain seems to pick up and your clothes are beginning to stick to your skin.

“Marc and Steven both say yes,” He whispers. You wouldn’t have heard him if you weren’t paying attention.

“What about you, Jake, do you agree?”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment and you almost begin to cry until he says, “I agree.”

—

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yikesitskennawrites · 1 year

Text

Transitions-Chapter Forty-One: A Break With Your Friend

Series Masterlist

Previous Chapter

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Pairings: Steven Grant x (platonic) Reader, Marc Spector x (platonic) Reader, Jake Lockley x (platonic) Reader, Layla El-Faouly x (platonic) Reader

—

Laurens apartment smells like sage and rosemary, the sight of the incense sticks resting on the second from the top shelf of a bookcase tucked against the far wall as soon as you enter the apartment is the source of where the smell is coming from. You give her a soft smile as she holds open the door for you and tells you to take off your coat and hang it on the coat rack behind you. Your fingers wrap around the straps of the helmet as if the thread would warm your hands.

“You look like a drenched rat,” She tells you and you laugh despite it sounding like a rude comment. You know she means well and it was pouring down rain on the way over to her apartment on the back of Layla's Vespa. Even when you took off the helmet for just a minute, once you got off of her bike, you were even more blinded by the rain.

“Well, it’s raining hard outside.” You tell her as you peel off Marc's jacket and place it on the hook before resting Layla's helmet on top of it. You shiver, your teeth chattering lightly together and she frowns a bit at the sight.

“You want some tea?” She asks as she shuts the door and locks it. You know just by her tone alone that it wasn’t a question, she was going to force you to drink something warm and you are going to welcome it. Anything warm sounds good right now.

“Sure, thanks.” You say as she makes her way towards the kitchen and disappears from view. Your eyes trail to the couch, looking for her wife to greet her so you wouldn’t seem rude despite how awkward you feel being in someone else's space. She wasn’t on the couch and neither were the children.

“Where’s Kris?” You ask, peeking down the short hallway as if you would see her poking her head out one of the doorways simply because you said her name. You walk towards the kitchen and stand awkwardly as you watch her grab the kettle from the stove top and fill it with water from the sink.

“She’s doing some overtime for work.” She says over her shoulder. She places it on the stove top and flicks on the burner switch before leaning against the counter. “The holidays are coming up and we’re trying to save some money for Christmas gifts. We both thought that this would be a good day to make the extra money since you’re helping me take care of the children.” You hum and allow yourself to lean sideways against the counter, slightly hoping that the comfortable look will make you seem not as tense in her home. You aren’t worried that she is going to harm you or some intruder or god will appear, but more like feeling comfortable in a place you have only been to once before.

“They’re napping right now. They’ve been so cranky today that I thought that it would be best that they have a chance to sleep it off so you wouldn’t have to deal with too much of that…” She trails off and you watch her eye the kettle for a moment before she says softly, “Maybe it will be just you and me today, if that’s alright. I really need a break from them. I love them, but I just need a break…I hope that doesn’t make me sound like a terrible mom.” You shake your head. You feel something tense in your body relax a bit, you didn’t realize how stressed you were for taking care of her children until now.

“Nah, I think you’re great. You can still love your children and need a few hours away from them and to yourself.” You shrug. You feel a little bad about not visiting her sooner when she invited you back in October. So much has happened between then and now that you know you couldn’t have visited her sooner because of how you would have acted. You wouldn’t be able to hide anything from her and you know she would pry information out of you like it was nothing.

You add, “Maybe we can do something together soon? Just you and me.” She perks up a bit.

“I would love that.” She smiles genuinely. “I’ve been wanting to do something with you outside of work forever.” A ping of guilt hits you and you try to act like you haven’t been a terrible friend to her. There is so much shit that you are hiding from her that if she were to ever find out about it, it would be best to ghost her completely before she calls the police on you.

“I know but things kept coming up and we just didn’t have the right time…” You trail off and she nods in agreement. You are a bit surprised that she agrees that the timing wasn’t right.

“I could tell that something was wrong and different about you.” She admits. “I was hoping that I wouldn’t have to pressure you into telling me if it got too bad and I became too worried for you.” You bite your lip and trail your eyes away and to the steam beginning to come out of the kettle. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, but just so you know, I’m here to listen and support you. Lord knows how many times you listened to my rants about my own life. I’m available day and night.”

“Thanks,” You say. You know you have no intent to tell her what happened over the last month but the offer for her to be a listening ear was nice. You would rather keep her out of the life of cults, Gods, and murders, to make sure her and her family are safe. Besides, you don’t think she would take anything that you have been through within the last fifty days well. You lived through it all, she would only listen to your tales and perhaps send you off to a mental hospital for help, maybe she wouldn’t even believe you and tell you to sod off and laugh, that would be the best outcome if she were to find out your truth.

“I’m deadass,” She tells you. You spare a glance at her face to see how serious she is. A small smile spreads across your face at the lingo she picked up from you.

“I know you are,” You grin. “But, I would like to escape from that for a while.” A break from everything sounds really nice.

“A break, right?” She asks and you nod. She wants a break and you want a break. “So, you wouldn’t mind if I don’t wake up the children and it’s just you and me?”

“What children?” You ask and she returns your grin. “All I see is you and me in this apartment and a comfy couch and some tasty tea.” You both deserve a break from everything even if that meant throwing out the plan of learning how to take care of two toddlers.

“I’m going to go get you a towel,” She states. “You’re dripping all over my floors I just cleaned.” You can tell by her tone that she wasn’t bothered by it but rather teasing you.

“Sorry,” You say as she brushes past you. She waves you off and leaves you with the beginning to boil kettle. Your eyes trail over the kitchen, taking in your surroundings. It was just like it was last time, not much has changed in the apartment from what you remember but you do notice pictures from the trip Lauren and Kris took back in September framed and hung up on a few tacks. You only know it was from months ago because Lauren showed you almost every photo that they took when they came back from the trip. You stare at the photo with Kris and Lauren who was laughing in front of the gardens with some form of pink flower in the background. Kris was staring at her with a look of love and adoration on her face, you don’t think you ever seen anyone look like that since your parents passed.

You sometimes would catch your dad looking at your mom with that same expression, but it's been so long since you saw it on anyone that it nearly threw you off to see it captured in a photograph. You look away and to the counter, your eyes trailing over the granite and to the various items on top. Envelopes that you assumed are bills, receipts from stores, a couple of toy cars and a Barbie doll missing a pink shoe, empty packets of tea bags, and a flier for Daniel Williams. You step forward a bit to get a closer look of the missing teenager. You saw the same flier of his in the elevator just above the buttons for the floor when you entered it. It was an updated version from the one you saw months before. It was the same photo of him smiling into the camera. His green eyes were bright with crinkles at the corner of them while his blond hair was short and a little messy.

A description of his eye color, hair color, his birthday, weight, and any other way to spot him through scars and birthmarks were listed underneath the photograph. According to his birthday coming up in December he was younger than you by just a couple of months. This kid was missing and his family has not stopped looking for him since he disappeared. A couple of weeks ago, Lauren was talking to Richard upstairs, he generally runs the business by doing paperwork and ordering supplies for the toaster oven that would occasionally break down. You think she was asking him about hanging up some of the fliers in the workplace for her missing neighbor because the next thing that you knew, she was taping it to the entrance double sided. So anyone who entered or exited the building would see his face.

“He’s been gone for a long time now.” She says, causing you to jump a bit. You turn to look at her as she hands you a towel with Paw Patrol characters decorating it. You mumble a thank you and begin to pat your pants with it. “I think he’s dead and I think his mum knows it too. But, she won’t stop looking for him until the truth comes out or she finds his body.” You watch her lean against the counter in the same spot she was previously as she eyes the paper. “He was a good kid, he brought up some soil for Kris when she wanted to make a garden. He and Molly played a few times when she invited him over for tea parties. I think you would have loved him, he was just like you.”

“What do you mean?” You ask quietly.

“He was quiet and reserved until you got to know him and he was one of the kindest and funniest people I knew.” She says just as quietly as you asked. You think that if she spoke any louder, she would break and cry. “He just…he went out at random times of the day, his mum said he would leave late at night and come back weeks later with sun burnt skin and dirt underneath his nails and…he just wasn’t the same kid. She told me that the boy who came home at two, sometimes three or four in the morning, was not the boy she raised and recognized.” She pauses at the sound of the kettle beginning to whistle before she quickly removes it from the burner.

You both turn to look at the hallway leading towards the bedrooms and waited a few moments for the sound of small footsteps to come from that area. You look back at her and notice that her shoulders drop a bit before she begins to pour the water into some mugs. Neither of the children were woken up by the sound of the kettle.

“He was a good kid,” She finishes as she reaches into a cabinet and pulls out a box of tea bags. You can’t read what type they were from how her hand was placed over the box, but you can tell it was nearly empty once she opens the lid and places one tea bag into each cup. It must be good tea for the box to be almost done with.

“I think I would have liked to meet him.” You say and she gives you a watery smile. If she thinks he’s so much like you, maybe he decided to fraud papers and move to North America or some other country. Maybe he’s living in New York and working at the shawarma restaurant or a sandwich shop. Maybe he’s acting like an adult when he actually is a kid. What caused him to disappear from everyone's lives? What happened to him to cause him to act like he did before suddenly dropping off of the edge of the Earth?

You add, “He sounds like a good person to be around.” She nods and you know that she was keeping quiet because of her worry for if she were to speak she would end up sobbing loudly. She passes you one of the cups, this one decorated in pink, blue, and yellow stars with small rainbows on the surface. A small smile spreads across your face at the sight of it, Molly must have decided to take it upon herself to decorate the surface and neither of her parents were able to get the stickers off completely. This was evident because there were bits of paper still stuck to the cup that neither Kris or Lauren were able to scrub off all the way.

You follow her to the couch, this time leaning all the way back against the cushions instead of sitting on the edge as you allow the cup to warm your cold hands.

“What are you planning on getting your kids for Christmas this year?” You ask. You hope that the question will distract her from the grief she has for Daniel.

“Molly wants a phone, a real one.” She rolls her eyes a bit at that and you let out a chuckle. “Jamie wants a doll house, you know those massive ones that we don’t have room for. I think he wants the dolls that come with it more than the house though…” She says. “We went through the clothing store not too long ago and he wanted the sparkly dresses. He’s nearly three, of course he’s going to find anything bright and glittery, cool and exciting. I just worry that other parents will see two lesbian mums dressing up their son in gowns and think that we’re trying to influence him into being gay or something.”

“Nobody is gay simply because they like the opposite gender things.” You say. “And who gives a shit about what others think because of what things your child likes to wear. If he wants to wear a dress one day and the next day he wants to wear a shirt with a monster truck, let him. It’s not harming anyone and he might grow with confidence to wear whatever he wants to when he’s older if he realizes he has an awesome support system.” She smiles in thanks towards you and you sip the tea, half-hoping that the liquid was cool enough that it wouldn’t burn your mouth. It tastes like mint and raspberry, a slightly weird combination at first until you swallowed it and realized that it wasn’t bad.

“Do they know about Santa?” You ask. You were told when you were twelve that Santa doesn’t exist, that he’s just a make-believe character really created to keep children in line for the holidays. But, you already figured it out by the time you were nine when you noticed the bar-codes on a candy bar your parents put in your stocking. You didn’t push them about the topic because you were worried that you might be wrong and Santa would stop visiting your apartment because you no longer believed in him and your parents would somehow communicate with him to stop coming by. Maybe you still somewhat believed in him but were skeptical about it.

“They know that he leaves gifts for the good children and gives coal to the bad ones but they don’t know anything past that.” She says. “We give them the more expensive gifts while Santa gives them the cheaper ones, that way when they get older and want a phone it will be from their mums rather than Santa. I want them to…” She pauses, looking down into her cup of tea for a moment before saying, “I don’t want them to think about how unfair it is for other children to get books and socks from Santa while they got a phone or a gaming console. That’s pretty unfair of Saint Nick to give them these devices while their classmate got a coat for winter.”

“I get it.” You tell her. “I think that’s smart of the two of you to do that rather than let Santa take the credit for the expensive gifts.”

“Shut up,” She rolls her eyes and you giggle at her. “We’re trying to humble them.”

“I know you are.” You grin. “I think it’s pretty selfish of the man in the red suit to take the credit for the things that they will enjoy the most.”

“You think Jamie will enjoy the dollhouse more than a pair of fuzzy green socks?”

“Most definitely.” You nod, “You think when Molly is, like, ten that she will love a coloring book over a phone?”

“She better because there's no way we’re buying her a phone at ten years old.” She says, causing you to breathe out a short laugh.

“If not now, when?” You ask, “She’s going to harass you for years about a phone so when is she going to get one?”

“Later,” She says. You smile into your cup as you sip some more of the drink. “Do you like it?”

“It tastes good,” You say. “Thank you. I’m just surprised that you got tea with more than one flavor. Didn’t you get lemon tea from the café when you bought me coffee months ago?” She scrunches her brows in thought.

“I did,” She says after a moment. “Are you making fun of me?”

“Never.” You grin and she picks up a balled up piece of paper from the end table behind her before throwing it lightly at you. You giggle as you swat it out of your way and it lands on the floor softly.

“You’re an ass.” She tells you and this time your laughter is loud enough that you’re worried you woke the kids. You try to quiet down as Lauren looks past you and down the hallway with a small smile on her face.

You both wait for the pattering of feet for a couple of minutes before she says, “We have a Christmas party on one of the Saturdays next month at the shop. Are you coming?”

“It depends.” You shrug as you remove your right hand from the mug and press the towel into your pants a little harshly.

“You didn’t show up last year, you should come this year.” She says. You bite the inside of your cheek as you look down at your pants. You didn’t go last year because you didn’t have enough money for the bus ride and back, besides that parties aren’t your favorite thing to go to. Maybe you’ll show up this year for an hour before going back to Layla's place, but that seems like a waste of gas just to spend a short time there.

“I don’t know…” You trail off. “Parties aren’t my thing.”

“C’mon,” She groans. “When was the last time you went to a party?” You pat down your pants roughly as you think back on it. The last time that you remember you went to a party was for your best friend's thirteenth birthday, which was SpongeBob themed. You spent the night at her house and stayed up until the sun was beginning to glow its first morning light on New York. It’s been years since you went to a party, and you know that a Christmas party isn’t going to be like your best friend's birthday, but it might be good for you to go and hang out with people who aren’t associated with deities and cults. Look at you, thinking like Layla and trying to encourage yourself to go out and have fun and step out of your comfort zone.

“Okay, I’ll think about it.”

“Not a ‘I’ll think about it for two minutes before saying no,’ actually think about this.” She tells you.

“Best I can do is think about this for three minutes.” You say. “Maybe two-and-a-half.”

“Sod off.” She replies. You look at her, wondering if maybe she took your joke seriously but she was rolling her eyes playfully and showing clear wrinkles at the corner of them from her smile. “Before I forget, when's your birthday, again?” You fake a look of shock.

“Don’t tell me you forgot, Lauren.” You say.

“I’m sorry, I am a very busy woman.”

“Lauren!”

“I don’t think you even told me!” She defends herself and you nearly reach down onto the floor to throw the crumpled up paper at her. You know that you haven’t told her when your birthday is because you don’t want her to find out and feel like she has to celebrate, besides that you don’t care for the celebration of the day of your birth.

“You don’t know when my birthday is?” You place your hand against your chest and open your mouth a bit. “My favorite coworker doesn’t know? How fucking rude.” You bring your cup up to your mouth and take a drink.

“Perhaps, I’ll find out in your background check.” She says, you nearly choke on the tea but manage to swallow the liquid. She has a look of surprise upon her face and you don’t have to be a genius to know that she didn’t mean to tell you about that.

“My background check?” You ask quietly.

She looks down at the couch cushion as she says, “Richard asked me to help him since the manager is still on maternity leave.” She picks at a loose thread on the cushion she sat on. “Nobody is supposed to know so, you know, keep it between us please?” You nod, you weren’t planning on telling anyone. “It’s been a couple of years since the last check for everyone. It’s really just to check to see if anyone got arrested or did some criminal activity that law enforcement or the employee hasn’t reported to the business.”

You pick at the pink star sticker on the cup nervously. Everything should be fine, they shouldn’t find anything on you but still you were anxious that they would find something. Maybe they’ll notice some wrong information on the papers you faked and look further into it or maybe they’ll type your name into Google and find that you are a missing person in New York. It wasn’t hard for Marc to find your old Facebook account and family members, he has a blue folder on you sitting on Stevens dining table. You should have changed your first and last name, you should have done something to throw them off the trail. Soon you’re going to be found out and arrested and Lauren will hate you for lying to her and allowing you to be around her family when she didn’t even know you- oh fuck-

“Is there any crime you committed that we should know about?” She asks, cutting off your train of thought. Your heart pounds against your chest and you feel all the blood drain from your face. Oh god, what if she already knows and invited you over to come clean? What if Molly and Jamie weren’t in their bedrooms sleeping but Kris took them away from the apartment so they wouldn’t get in the crossfire of the United Kingdom's equivalent to the United States SWAT team barging in and arresting you? Your hands shake and this time it isn’t because of the cold.

You feel your stomach churn and you think you’re going to throw up the tea and this morning's cereal. She says your name gently and you try to give her a smile, hoping it didn’t turn out as a grimace. She purses her lips at the sight of you and you try to hold down the tea and cercal as you say, “Besides being this-?” You gesture to yourself,. “I am a crime in itself.”

“Are you feeling okay?” She asks with concern, “You look flushed.” You take a deep breath, the room suddenly feels ten times hotter and you keep your eyes trained on the mug you hold.

“Peachy,” You mumble. “I think-” You cut yourself off as you gag. “I don’t feel very good.” You tell her. Her forehead creases in worry and you try to not throw up on her couch. That's the last thing she needs from the person she thought she knew.

“I think there's the flu going around, Molly might have it and knowing how it worked last time, everyone is soon to have it.” She says. She leans forward a bit and presses the back of her hand against your forehead. “It doesn’t feel like you have a fever.” She pulls her hand away and leans back against the armrest. You try to stop the guilt from slamming into you like a basketball as you try to get your stomach to settle down.

“Drink some tea,” She says. “It might help.” Despite figuring that it would do the exact opposite, you drink some of it. She places her elbow on the back of the couch and leans her head against her arm as she looks down at the towel in your lap. “The forecast said there's a chance of snow next week.”

“In November?” You breathe out. She hums. “It’s not going to stick.”

“That’s what I said, but who knows maybe we’ll be surprised.” She says. You watch her eyes trail past you and look down the hallway, with the pounding in your ears finally settling back into normal, you can hear the sound of footsteps behind you. You look over your shoulder and see Molly standing in the entrance of the hallway with a large wet spot on her Paw Patrol pajama top and her face flushed. She looks absolutely miserable.

“Mum I frew up,” She says. You look back towards Lauren and she sighs softly.

“I knew it.” She says. “I don’t mean to be rude, but you might want to get out before you get the sickness spreading around in this home.”

“It’s okay,” You say. “I think it would be best to have my-” You pause as your stomach churns and this time everything that you were holding down comes up and all over onto the living room floor. You breathe out deeply, staring down at the liquid you consumed and the Lucky Charms you tried so hard to keep in your body.

“I’m so sorry,” You say as you feel a hand on your back, rubbing soft circles into it. You can’t help but feel embarrassed even though you really did try not to throw up.

“It’s okay,” She says. “It happens.” She sets her tea onto the coffee table and stands up, “I’m going to get you a washcloth and then we’ll call your uncle.”

“Aunt,” You say as you close your eyes and listen to her walk towards the kitchen.

“You and your uncle had another argument?” She asks as she gently tilts your head upwards and presses the warm cloth to your mouth, wiping away whatever vomit was surrounding it.

“Unfortunately.” You mumble as you open your eyes. She presses her lips together.

“Your aunt it is then,” She smiles softly. It was too kind for you to face the knowledge that she might find out about you in the upcoming weeks. “I’ll call her for you after I take care of Molly, okay?” She gently pushes you back onto the cushions. “Just rest until then, love.” You stare at the ceiling as you listen to her walk down the hallway to take care of her child before you allow the tears building up behind your eyes escape. For a woman who doesn’t truly know you, she is too kind towards you. Soon, she might find out about you and you don’t want that day to come; and if it does, you don’t know what you will tell her.

—

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yikesitskennawrites · 1 year

Text

Transitions-Chapter Thirty-Three: A Phone Call With A Friend

Series Masterlist

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Pairings: Steven Grant x (platonic) Reader, Marc Spector x (platonic) Reader, Jake Lockley x (platonic) Reader, Layla El-Faouly x (platonic) Reader

—

It was weird standing in an empty apartment that belongs to your friend without anyone else being in the place. You’ve only been in Stevens apartment once without him, his alters, or Layla being there with you and that was when you snooped through their belongings to search for shit on Marc. It didn’t feel right then and it still doesn’t now. It is too quiet and ominous; and you don’t like it at all. You’re used to the noise of the fish tank which has become a background noise for you and you’re also used to the sound of the traffic and the neighbors walking around their own flats. But the sound of being alone in your friend's apartment without the feeling of another human being occupying the same space as you felt wrong.

You were waiting for Steven to talk about some interesting fact or Marc to turn on the television and watch his sports games; or for Jake to make a surprise appearance and tease you for your bad pronunciation in Spanish and demand some knowledge of whatever constellation. But, you’ve been having to remind yourself that Marc is gone, that he took the body out and he hasn’t been back for hours;and it was beginning to look like he wouldn’t be for the rest of the night. It was nearing seven in the evening and you were sitting on the couch, picking at the thread of the sweatshirt you took from Marc since you have yet to do your own laundry and half watching television and half keeping your gaze on the door you locked before you took a shower. You smell like them. You used their shampoo and conditioner and scrubbed your body of soot and dirt with their body wash until you were red and sure that your first layer of skin was gone.

You haven’t eaten anything, you were too nervous to eat and you think that if you did your stomach wouldn’t agree and you will end up sick. You know that Steven won’t agree if he were to ask if you have eaten something but you haven’t seen him since this morning; back when they were fussing over you being warm and having enough money for the mall. You still don’t understand how things can change so quickly. It felt like a rubber band was suddenly pulled back and released, that there was no time to experience long term tension before it was flying. You haven’t tried to call them yet, you know that Marc needs to cool down and you know that you crossed a line by hanging up. They probably thought the worst during those few minutes that you didn’t keep contact with them. They must have thought you were dead and Jake did say that if you were to die, your death would destroy Marc and Steven.

Those few minutes that they didn’t know must have done enough damage for them to act like this. Especially Marc, you haven’t heard from Steven since this morning and you know that you fucked up even worse when he doesn’t have a say in anything or makes a appearance. You thought he would comfort you or say something in the terms of comforting you but he hasn’t and that makes guilt pour out of you and drown you. You’re aware that you fucked up, and just saying that you messed up was a understatement. You know you killed people today, there’s no forgiveness in that and they are aware that you killed people and that you could have been added to the list.

You guess you’re just around to experience the release of the rubber band and wait for what's next. You don’t know if you care enough for the consequences of your actions. You’re a murderer, you brought a god to a mall and you couldn’t even tell them about the bag in time. You didn’t even notice the odd sight of the duffle bags in a public area until the knot in your stomach formed and tightened and tugged until it got your attention to actually look around and take everything in. Was the God warning you? Why would they warn you? Why would they take the time to make you aware if they wanted something from you? You don’t know, but you’re sure of two things. One: There will be more strict ground rules if they decide not to turn you in. Two: You can’t stick around them for much longer.

You are a magnet for danger, you put everyone in danger, especially today. You took so many lives that you’re basically a serial killer and you deserve much worse than the pounding in your skull. If they return you in, it will make it much easier to break off the friendship you formed with them than it would be if you were to straight up tell them that you can’t do this anymore.

The picture of Layla in Switzerland was glowing on the screen with the accept or decline option for the phone call. You aren’t going to lie, you were a bit upset with her for not telling you she was Tawerets avatar still. You’re glad that she has some protection but you didn’t know for months and you were worried for her. You were also a little surprised that she was calling even though she said she would. You thought she might be too upset to call so early in the evening, it was only near seven pm and you were thinking she might call last minute before she goes to bed; or she stated that she was going to call you just to be nice and give you comfort you don’t deserve and not actually call you. But, here you were, watching your phone vibrate on the cushions of the couch with her name glowing on the screen.

For a heart fleeting moment, you thought about ignoring it and letting it go straight to voicemail, but that would be cruel to do. So, with guilt forming a lump in your throat, you pick up your phone and swipe accept on the screen before bringing it to your ear.

“There you are,” She breathes out. You think you hear relief in her voice but you don’t want to accept it. “Did I wake you?” More guilt floods your system, she really thought that you could be asleep and not debating on ignoring her call.

“No,” You say. A moment of silence falls between you and you think about how much that statement says before you’re adding, “I was in the bathroom…” The lie trips you and you don’t know if she believes you or not but she doesn’t push it. You just don’t want to hurt her feelings. You listen to her breathe on her end of the line and you can’t help but be grateful that you’re listening to her do so in such a simple action. Still, guilt tastes bitter on your tongue for others who can’t listen to their friends or family breathe tonight. You shouldn’t be breathing at all.

“Are you okay?” She asks. She probably doesn’t mean it, she’s just asking to be nice before she helps your neighbors return you in for fraud. She’s trying to get you into a sense of comfort before she does what should have been done in the first place.

“Yeah,” You lie to her. The statement rolls off your tongue a bit too easily. “Are you?” The question was honest, you are preparing yourself for the next few days of unknown things. You don’t know how your friends feel after the strings you pulled today, leading a god to a mall, killing civilians, nearly dying yourself multiple times. You need to prepare yourself for jail and going back to the United States and becoming untangled from these three people you grew too close to. You know that you said you would drag the men down with you if they ever did call the police on you, but you don’t think you will.

“Yeah,” She breathes out and you’re not sure if you believe her. You let silence settle between you and you think about hanging up to make the hurt a little more tolerable and to begin to distance yourself so that the inevitable hurt in the United States won’t be as bad. But, you don’t, you listen to her soft breaths and you silently thank Taweret for not letting her die this time.

“I was worried about you,” She says. “We were worried you wouldn’t make it out.” Your stomach knots and you feel guilty and a little sick. You swallow and try not to let the tears pooling in your eyes spill over and run down your cheeks. Your eyes trail from the television and to the soot footprints on the floor, maybe you should clean up the place and take your stuff to make it easier to disappear from their lives.

“I’m sorry.” You say, this time you really mean it. You were one hundred percent honest in how sorry you are about making them worry. “I was worried about you guys.” You weakly say. But the sentence sounds just like how you say it: weak. They’re both avatars of deities that, as far as you know, have no reason to let them die anytime soon; and she reminds you of that.

“Jake and I are avatars of gods,” she says. “They won’t let us die since we work with them.”

“But Khonshu let Steven and Marc die back in Cairo.” You protest.

“Khonshu became imprisoned in stone, that's why they died.” She pauses and you felt so stupid for staying in a burning building to help Layla and others that you killed try to get out. “Did you really think that we would die?” Your silence says enough for her and you almost cry. She says your name softly as if she was caressing your cheek with her fingers and you try to ignore the lump forming in your throat.

“Taweret wouldn’t let me die.” She tries to reassure you and perhaps herself. “She wouldn’t let you die either.”

“What?”

“That night that you got mugged.” She starts and your mouth slowly parts open. No fucking way. “Taweret just...knew something was wrong and she-she told me and I begged for her to heal you and she did.”

“At what cost?” You ask and she stays silent. No deity would heal people out of the kindness of their heart. Steven said that Taweret was kind to them on the boat but you doubt that she is kind enough to heal a human just because her avatar begged for her to do so.

“I’m no longer her temporary avatar but her long term one.”

“Fucking hell, Layla.”

“It was worth it.”

“The fuck it was.” You hiss out between your teeth. Everything when you and Marc told her what happened made sense, she didn’t question much about it but she was angry and now that you were thinking about it, she was probably angry at herself for not being there. Since Taweret was the one to heal you, is it like claiming territory? You hate to think of yourself as an object or something, but did she claim you or was it something different? Does it matter now since you’re sure you’re going back to the States?

“It was worth it,” She repeats. You heavily disagree with that. Jake was Khonshus long term avatar and so was Marc and Steven, and it was clear that they are still suffering from the effects of it. Now, Layla was going to suffer the same fate as them all because she couldn’t let you die in a stairwell. You were the reason she was chained to the life of being an avatar for a debt that will take her entire life to pay off and if not, a good portion of her life. Marc was Khonshus avatar for ten years before he was able to break off the deal, Layla was just starting out. You were the reason all bad things happened to them since they met you. You are the lantern that attracts more than just deities but bad things too, you are a magnet for terrible situations.

They will be glad enough to get rid of you and get you out of their hair. They will no longer have to deal with you. If one good thing happened today, this was it. You found out what goddess was interested in you enough to heal you; but you didn’t deserve to be healed. You should have died in the stairwell, or when he pulled the knife on you; or the first time he tried to mug you back in June. You should be dead, along with the many others you killed today. You close your eyes and glassy eyes stared back at you. He was only a kid, just a couple of years younger than you.

She says your name softly and you peel open your eyes, trying to get rid of the sight of the teens gaze looking at you. You just couldn’t get it out of your head, the last thing he saw was you and Layla making sure the other was alright and he didn’t have that. He didn’t have anyone to hold his hand as he breathed out his last breath, he must have been so terrified.

“What are you thinking about?” She asks quietly. You try to focus on the sound of the fish tank as you mull the question over in your own mind. You feel like you can’t tell her the truth about how you killed everyone in the mall, because when you’ll say it aloud she will have to agree and you don’t want to hear her accept it.

“Mainly about how stupid your decsion was.”

“I could say the same thing about you,” She says and you feel like you’re drowning in your own guilt. You don’t have much room to talk, you stayed in a burning building that was being shot up because you didn’t want to leave Layla and the other people who got dragged into this mess. You were willing to risk your life if it meant she would be safe, and she was willing to chain herself to a decade of avatar work if it meant that you were alive; and that was a hard thing to swallow especially with the lump forming in your throat. How can you say you can’t be around them anymore since she's willing to go to this great length to ensure your safety? How can you tell them that you can’t be with them because of the attraction you pull from gods and cults when Jake stole a car to reach you and Layla in time?

Maybe it will be easier for you and for them if you were to slowly disappear from their lives. That break that Layla wants would be a perfect start, you can give Marc the breathing room that he wants and you can pretend you aren’t in your own flat if Steven comes knocking. But, as much as it is a good place to begin your distance, a small part of you hopes that she doesn’t mean it; and if she does, then it would be even better to begin sooner than later. Cut all ties before you’re back to laying on your sofa, too sad to go to work.

“Do you really want a break from me?” You ask quietly, the question slips from your mouth before you even had the thought to ask.

“A break?” She asks with confusion laced into her tone. “Why do you think that I do?”

You swallow, “Because you said so.”

“To Marc, I did.” She pauses and says honestly, “Table thief, I would never want a break from you.” You close your eyes to stop the flow of tears threatening to spill over. It was going to be much more difficult to disappear from her life after she said that statement. You try to tell yourself that she’s only saying that because she’s trying to be nice towards the end of your friendship.

“I’m sorry for what I did, Layla.” You say and just like how you knew with Marc and his alters, an apology won’t be enough.

“Do you need me to come over?” She asks after a few moments and you shake your head despite her not being able to see you. “Where’s Marc?” His last words replay in your head, you never had a fight this bad before and it was more of a one way argument than both ways. You didn’t open your mouth to retaliate, you did ask him where he was going and he told you to shut up. You let the blanket of numbness wrap around you once more and you wish that it would suffocate you and leave you for the grim reaper to collect you.

“He left.” You numbly tell her. “He told me to shut up and let him breathe before he left.”

“He told you to shut up?” She asks incredulously, and you nod. Your silence was enough of an answer for her, “I’m going to talk to him, lemme know when he gets back.” She sounds protective and a little upset for you, but you don’t want to accept that. It would just make it harder to leave.

“He might be in a bar somewhere or a liquor store…” She adds. You press your lips together. You hate to think of Marc drinking away his problems because of your fuck up. He must hate you so much that he has to run away and drink away the issues you caused for him, Steven, and Jake. You know that he does hate you, but still you want to be reassured that there might not be a chance that he dislikes you.

“Do you think he hates me?” You ask quietly. She doesn’t answer for a moment and you know that her rejection of the statement will be false, especially if she’s taking more than a few seconds to answer.

“No,” She says and you close your eyes. She’s a liar, if you didn’t know her as well as you do, you would think she’s being honest. “Marc doesn’t know how to deal with his feelings well and…we weren’t sure if you were going to make it out.” You peel open your eyes as your mind flashes to the filmy orbs you can’t erase. You wish that the blanket smothered you.

“He was worried about you and he doesn’t know how to express that.” She finishes.

“I’m sorry.” You whisper.

“I’m sorry I had to leave,” She says. “I didn’t want to say something I didn’t mean and I just- I was so-” She stops herself and you sniffle. You already know what she felt because you felt it too. Worried, they were worried for you and yet, you were guilty of mass murder. You don’t tell her how you don’t deserve their worry because of the people you killed, you don’t want to hear her tell you how wrong you are or maybe how right you are. You definitely don’t want their pity and you don’t want the confirmation about how correct you truly are in believing that you killed dozens of people. You’re scared that they might actually confirm how you feel is right.

Silence settles between you again and you listen to her soft breaths on her end and you think she’s listening to yours unless she was zoning out.

“Have you thought about therapy?” She asks, you can hear a little hesitation in her tone. The question was so completely unexpected that it threw you off track. You tilt your head a little to the side as you process her question while she adds, "There's no shame in asking for help.” Therapy. Right.

“I thought about it,” You admit. It was almost a year ago that you considered it but didn’t go through with it because of the strings of fraud and the possibility of getting caught. It stressed you out so much that you had to decide that it wasn’t for you at the moment and put it on the back burner. Now, here you are nearly a year later with worse mental health and new trauma like it was a bonus prize in a video game. You don’t even know how you would talk to a therapist about the shit you’ve been through in the past four months alone. Deities, cults, near death experiences, muggings, killing people, and being stalked. Maybe your therapist would need a therapist for themselves after hearing about your life for the past few months.

“And?” She presses.

“I don’t think it’s for me at the moment.” You say, you can hear her exasperated sigh over the phone. “What about you? Have you gone to therapy for your dads murder?” You don’t mean to sound like you were pointing out her own unresolved trauma but it feels like it comes out that way to your own ears. You wince and inhale a sharp breath, waiting for her to tell you to shut the fuck up and hang up, but she doesn’t. Instead, she answers you honestly and much more calmly than you expected her to.

“I have.” She says. “It helped somewhat. It didn’t help patch up all the wounds, but it gave me the tools to help me do it myself.” You hum, a little glad that she didn’t lash out like Marc would have. “It’s okay to ask for help.” She adds. “You don’t have to push everything down all the time, you need to grow with your issues instead of around it.”

“I know,” You say. You close your eyes gently and the boy's glassy eyes stare back at you in the darkness. “I know that I can ask for help and there’s no shame in it.”

“That’s right.” She says. You need to push her away, you’re getting too close to her. It’s going to be much harder when you do eventually go through with it. You open your eyes and look ahead at the television playing some comedy show that you don’t know much about. You don’t want Marc coming back and seeing you sleeping in Stevens' bed while he asked for you to give him breathing room. You don’t want him coming back to Stevens place and seeing you there because he will lash out on you. You were in his space and he left you instead of kicking you out, you should respect his place and go back to your own. You reach for the remote and hit the power button, in the reflection of the black screen you can see yourself sitting on the sofa with your phone pressed against your ear.

“I’m going to go to sleep on my couch tonight.” You tell her.

“Is that a good idea?” She asks and you frown at her question. You felt bad that she was still worrying for you, especially since you’re trying to distance yourself from them.

“I just want to give him the breathing space he asked for.” You tell her. You shiver as your eyes trail to the foggy window. It was cold out and despite the heater running in Stevens flat since early this morning, it was still cold. Your own flat didn’t have the heater on for months now and it was definitely going to be chilly and hard to sleep since you’re not going to be bundled in a pile of blankets like you would be in Stevens. You can see the outline of your head from where you sat on the couch in the window reflection.

Maybe you should look for him, he could be passed out in an alley drunk and too proud to call you for help. But then again, he does have a deity on his side despite not serving the god directly. You don’t think Khonshu would allow anyone to harm his avatar's drunken body, maybe the god-like powers avatars receive help burn off the alcohol? You think there was a rumor of Thor not being able to get even near buzzed off of human liquor but you don’t know if it was true or not. Besides, Thor is a god, not an avatar of a god. Marc is human and he told you he wants breathing room; and he can defend himself better than you can, especially with his alter being an avatar. You would put yourself more at risk if you were to wander the streets of London after dark and you doubt that your friends would be pleased to hear you doing so. Also, you were trying to distance yourself so this would be an okay place to start.

“I’m going to leave now,” You tell her, a bit awkwardly. How do you end a phone call that felt more pitying than you wanted?

“I’m glad that you’re okay,” She says. You feel your breath catch. You are okay, but you don’t feel like you deserve to be. Those teenagers who will forever be younger than you deserve to be okay, and they are not.

“I’m glad you’re okay too.” You reply truthfully. Your heart aches as you tell her goodnight and hang up after she returns the statement back to you. You are exhausted and you know that trying to fall asleep is going to be long and terrible thanks to your anxiety and the glassy eyes staring back at you whenever you close your lids.

You can return the borrowed items of clothing in the morning or slip it into their laundry if you want to go the route of slowly disappearing rather than all at once. The key to their flat will be the last thing that you give them and you’re going to have to return the phone to Marc or block their number. Maybe, go further than that and move to a new building, perhaps a new city. You felt like you were back to square one, restarting everything. Except this time there was no blip to wipe you from existence for the next five years and make everyone assume that you are dead until you are proven not to be. You’re going to ghost the life you built for yourself over the past two years and restart again.

For a moment, you wonder how many times you will have to do this, ghosting and restarting and building only to watch it crumble and start the cycle again. It will be the second time, but you also didn’t want there to be a first. You were getting too close for comfort and Marc telling you he needs breathing room was a nice excuse to break things off. You don’t know what you would do if you lose them, so you need to ghost them before you find out. You lock Stevens' door behind you after shutting off the main lights in his flat before walking to your own. The hallway was cold, you think there was some mandatory temperature that the building must provide for its residents during the winter. But it was obviously not following the rules, you doubt they ever will and you weren’t going to complain to the manager of the building since it takes too long to get anyone from maintenance to fix anything.

It took several tries to successfully unlock your door and lock it behind you before you were standing alone in your apartment that you barely spent any time in since you met your neighbors. The window was still cracked and a soft chilly breeze blew from the cracks and into the room. Garbage bags laid underneath the window to collect any water along with a couple of plastic containers half filled with the liquid. Your couch was still in the same spot and the table was too. Everything about your apartment was just like how you left it, except your jean jacket was in the laundry basket in Stevens place rather than resting on the counter next to the door. You set the lanyard on the counter, the stain remover stick was still on the counter.

You haven’t used it yet because you kept forgetting about it and you doubt that it could remove any blood stains from your clothing with ease. The vending machine spit out the stick that day you got chased out of the laundry room; and you were still a little petty that the god- who you now believe to be is Horus- fucked with the vending machine and gave you what you absolutely didn’t need. That seems to be a common theme with him. The moon shined brightly through the window and it made you scowl at the sight. Stepping closer to the window, you can see the moon was full and peeking behind some clouds. It was like Khonshu was giving you the middle finger while silently giving you the message that he won and you lost. He has Jake and his alters while you lost them. You close the distance between you and the window before untwisting the blankets you use as curtains and blocking the light from entering your apartment.

The switch for the heater was next to the door on the wall. It was an old dial that only had the settings for on and off. You made sure that it was switched on before you lay on the couch and shiver beneath the thin blanket draped over you. Your head was a little uncomfortable as you rested it on the too soft and lumpy pillow. It wasn’t comfortable like Stevens place was, but you don’t deserve comfort after killing dozens of people today. You were exhausted, your body aches from the blast and your mental state felt like it was deteriorating quickly and yet, you were unable to close your eyes and try to let sleep pull you under. Fuck, you killed people today. You’re a murderer, you have too much blood on your hands and you are only seventeen. How many people will have to die while you’re around?

A boy in his early teens watched you as you made sure Layla was okay and he died, scared and alone. If only you were able to correlate your thoughts quickly at the sight of the bag and Horus. If only you didn’t go to the mall today. If only you stayed inside at Stevens and invited Layla over to wrap up the murder mystery game from over a month ago. Maybe things will still be the same if you didn’t go to the mall. Maybe you were so self-centered that you believe that the attack only happened because you were there. You don’t know, but you blame yourself completely for not noticing something sooner. You could have saved dozens rather than killed. The group of teens you were jealous of could still be alive if you just noticed something. They could be in their own beds or eating dinner at the dining table with their family, alive and laughing at some dumb joke. But, instead their bodies are being identified by the police and the mortuary to report to the families about their death. It was all your fault and you just couldn’t convince yourself otherwise.

It was too dark in the apartment, you used to be able to sleep in this darkness when you occupied the space more. But now that you were used to the light of Gus tank and his flat-mates, you found it hard to close your eyes and sleep. Let alone, shut off the self blame and deprecation your mind is suffocating itself with. It didn’t help that the heater was a bit too loud and not the soft hum of the fish tank. You sat up and rubbed your face as you tried to think of something other than the blame you’re drowning in. You don’t have any lamps you could flick on to help with the darkness issue, but you do have a kitchen light. A soft red color that’s not too dark but could be a little brighter if you’re being honest but you weren’t going to complain especially since it was free.

You push yourself off of the couch and trot carefully across the wooden floors to the kitchen before flicking on the light switch. The red glowed ominously but it was a little better than it was before. You cross the distance back to the couch and lay down after stretching the blanket so the end of it is tucked over your toes and the armrest of the sofa and the other end is up to your chin. It was still cold and your teeth were beginning to chatter together, but it was better than nothing. You don’t know when you fell asleep because you can’t pinpoint the moment that your brain shut off the self-blame; but you are aware that the glassy eyes of the people you killed followed you into your dreamless sleep and stared at you from the darkest corners of your mind.

—

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yikesitskennawrites · 2 years

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Transitions- Chapter Twenty-Nine: Movie Marathon With Friends

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Pairings: Steven Grant x (platonic) Reader, Marc Spector x (platonic) Reader, Jake Lockley x (platonic) Reader, Layla El-Faouly x (platonic) Reader

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It was mid October. The leaves were in the middle of turning red and brown, most of them were on the wet pavement. The rain never seems to end during autumn in London. It has been pouring for what felt like weeks and every time you go outside with Marc to go to work or the grocery store, the two of you are soaked by the time you get on the bus. Your apartment looks different from a year ago. Garbage bags were lined underneath the window to help prevent as much water damage as you can from the cracked webs of glass. It was definitely colder in the flat thanks to the occasional breeze that would go through the cracks.

Your kitchen light was replaced courtesy of Jake, he fronted one night after coming back from a mission with a kitchen light bulb. It was a little odd mainly because the bulb was out of its packaging and he didn’t have a receipt that showed that he bought it. Which leads to the conclusion for you that he was a light bulb thief. You hope that he took it for good reason and that whoever he took it from deserved it. The bulb wasn’t a regular type either, it was one of those red color bulbs so now whenever you flick on the kitchen light it was a red fluorescent lighting. It was nice of him, especially since he didn’t make you screw it into the socket, but he did instead. He has been fronting a little more than usual since you got mugged.

You think he feels guilty for it because Steven did say he was the one who bought you the telescope that now rests in the corner of your living room since Stevens place is cluttered with books and papers. Jake Lockley wasn’t the type of person that you thought would feel easily guilty for you being mugged and left on the brink of death, mainly because he made the impression on you that you were only alive because he lets you be. But, you were wrong. You were slowly accepting the conclusion that Jake is keeping you alive to keep his alters alive as he has stated before. Another thing that was different about the place you rented was that the door handle was broken. Somehow it was even worse after Marc came back to Stevens place with your pajamas after you got mugged.

It now takes about two minutes for you to lock and unlock the door handle. Marc seems to have forgotten about the issue and you feel a little weird about asking him for a new handle that his alter broke so, you haven’t pushed the issue. You looked up the prices of door handles at home department stores and the new handles cost roughly thirty-five pounds which is about forty dollars in the states. Even though you have enough money for it because all that you’ve been saving since you rarely shop for your own food anymore, you still have yet to buy it. You’ve been procrastinating on it since you would have to drag Marc to the store and tell him why you need to go to Ikea and just the thought of Marc's guilt ridden face was enough for you to continue to procrastinate on it.

Compared to what the apartment looked like this time last year, you had more photos lining the wall of the life you had before. You moved a picture frame of your parents so it hid the hole in the drywall from the deity throwing your old laptop against it. You doubt that if your apartment building did a surprise inspection but you tried to fix the place up as best as you could just in case there was one. You don’t consider your apartment home, it never felt like the home you had in New York; but this flat did have some of your belongings that show that you do exist and you are alive, and that was enough for now.

Your kitchen counter was still the place where you rest your jacket since you don’t have a coat rack and your lanyard lays next to it with the stain remover stick the vending machine spit out the day you got chased out of the laundry room. You still have yet to use it, you didn’t bother trying to see if it would get the blood out of your work uniform when you got mugged, mainly because you doubt that it would do much. Since the mugging and the mysterious healing, you have yet to discover who the god is and why they healed you in the stairwell. You ran over multiple theories in your mind and even talked obsessedly with Steven and Marc about it. Everything has been relatively well the past month and half. You still had your nightmares but they were slowly spreading out in between days, you weren’t waking up every night to them.

Jake has been secretly teaching you self defense at two in the morning, so maybe that's part of why the nightmares have been slowly getting further apart. Marc still walks you to the bus stop and rides with you to work and back, you feel a lot safer with him by your side. You popped in your SD card from your old phone and downloaded all the videos and pictures to your new phone, you were grateful and lucky that it worked. You backed up everything onto your new laptop too so you have multiple copies saved.

You’ve been spending your Saturday afternoons either on Stevens couch or in the city, the two of you have discovered some quaint shops that Layla would love. You bought her a glass rose that lights up when you set it on a small box that shines colors. You were planning on giving it to her when she comes back from her business trip in Switzerland. You don’t know what she’s doing exactly but she has sent some pictures in the group chat that you made for you, Steven, and her. You would have added Marc but he doesn’t have a phone that’s new enough for features like that and you would have added Jake but he doesn’t have a phone at all. So, the three of you share a group chat and sometimes Marc joins in through Stevens phone when he’s fronting.

Today, Layla sent several pictures of her at a beautiful sight in the country and refused to state where she was exactly, which bothered you because where would you know to look if she died? But, you didn’t ask her to cough up where she was simply because you don’t want to cross any boundaries. So, you wait on every text with anxiety and with every notification you receive on your phone that tells you that she’s still breathing makes the tightness in your chest loosen a tiny bit. Currently, you were sitting on one end of Stevens couch and eating a bowl of Lucky Charms, well, more of the marshmallows than the crunchy bits. You occasionally push around the cereal with your spoon for more of the marshmallows, but you begin to come to the conclusion that you ate them all.

A frown tugs at your lips as you ramble about your theories about the deity. You told them this a thousand times in the past month and a half and you couldn’t help but hope that something would click. Nothing made sense, why would this deity scare the shit out of you twice, once in the laundry room and the second being held out the window, and proceed to heal you? What was their endgame? Why play this cat and mouse game? Why choose you?

You only stop your rambling when you notice that Steven wasn’t listening but rather staring with heart-eyes at a picture of Layla. You will admit that she looks rather cute in this photo, it was the one where her hair was pushed back out of her face and she was posing on a cliff with the skies being a bright orange and yellow due to the sunset. The grass was brushing against her ankles and she had a wide smile on her face. You received that picture today, a couple of hours ago when the sun was setting. You had saved it to your phone and made sure that you had enough space on your SD card for it and silently you made a reminder in your brain for yourself to save it to your laptop.

You pinch a bell shaped grain between your fingers and toss it at Steven, it gently hits him on the cheek. You give him a stern look as he drops his phone into his lap.

“What is it?” He asks.

“Steven,” You groan. “You weren’t listening.”

“I was listening, dove.”

“Then why did you ask what I just said?” You raise your eyebrow at him and he sheepishly glances down at his phone that still showed the picture of Layla before trailing his eyes to the television and back to you.

“The telly was too loud?” He supplies but it comes out sounding more like a question. You roll your eyes at the excuse.

“You were too busy ogling your wife.” You say and point to the picture he was looking at of Layla. She wouldn’t be back for another couple of weeks and you were excited to see her. She’s only been gone for a few days and you miss her.

“She’s not his wife.” Marc says and rolls his eyes.

“Yeah? And you said she wasn’t yours until about a month ago.” You laugh and toss another piece of cereal at him. It hits directly between his eyes and he instinctively rubs the spot it landed on. You still haven’t completely forgiven him for his lies, it kind of made it difficult to trust anything that comes out of his mouth but as far as you could tell, he seems to regret lying in the first place. Which was a start for something, you suppose.

“I’m sorry for lying about that.” He groans. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the truth right off the bat.”

“Okay,” You say. You purposely choose not to state that you forgive as you continue on your one sided discussion. You don’t have to forgive and you don’t have to forget, but you can try to move on. “But, were you listening to what I was talking about?” His silence speaks for it all and you throw your hands into the air, spilling the bowl of Lucky Charms into your lap. You were glad you didn’t add milk to the bowl of cereal, but rather opted for pretending to eat it all but really going straight for the marshmallows. “Of course you weren’t.”

“I was actually watching the show we were supposed to be marathoning.” He says. “And you were too busy yammering through it.”

“Since I was busy talking, you should have heard at least one word of what I said.” You reply. You spare a glance at the Scooby-Doo Halloween themed episodes. Lauren let you borrow her physical DVD copies for this weekend in return that you would go over some time on one of your days off to hang out. You were sure she would have given you them if she didn’t realize that it’s been a long while since the two of you spent time together outside of work. You agreed but only on the basis that she sends you pictures of Molly and Jamie in their matching candy corn costumes. You know she would have sent them to you anyways, she loves her children and showing them off.

“Gods.” He says and you roll your eyes. That was too easy for him.

“Yeah, no shit.” You say as you scoop up the grains in your lap and put them back into the bowl. “What about them?”

“Why would a god do this and a god do that?” He sighs. You stare at him. He could at least seem a little interested.

“So, why would a fucking god hang me out a window and save me three days later when I’m about to die?” You ask. You reach for the remote between you on the middle couch cushions and hit the pause button. Nobody knew the answer and you couldn’t express how much that absolutely bothered you. When you talked to Layla about it, she seemed surprised and concerned for you. Especially about the healing part, it bothered the two of you almost to the point that you were making theory boards. You had several pages of notes about your experience with the gods' interactions starting from the night you saw Khonshus staff. Layla was upset with Marc and Steven for not telling her sooner about your mugging and healing. She gave them the silent treat for a couple of hours after your birthday before she began to talk to them about how she felt because they didn’t tell her.

Your scars had now faded completely to a white line on your cheek and forehead from where you got hurt in the mugging. You can’t see the back of your head clear enough, but you assume that it looks the same as it does for your cheek.

“I don’t know, kid.” Marc rubs his face tiredly. You pick up the spoon in your lap and wave it around in the air as if you could conjure the god with the simple movement and force him to answer your questions.

“Khonshu knows,” You state and stab your spoon into the cereal, crushing the grains with the metal. “I bet that bitch ass bird knows and is keeping it from Jake.”

“Do you think he knows?” Marc sneers. You pause in your movement and feel the corner of your lips tug downwards. Marc hates Jake, he talks shit about him whenever he gets the chance to.

“Why don’t you like him?” You ask, “Why don’t you like Jake?”

“He held a knife to your throat.” He says incredulously.

“Yeah I know.” You huff. “But you got any other reason than that?”

“He held one to Layla's.”

“Yeah and?”

“What the fuck do you mean, ‘and?” He states. He sits up a little straighter as you place the bowl in your lap to give him your full attention.

“He saved our lives multiple times.” You say. “He saved yours, Stevens, and Layla's ass in Cairo and he saved it again when we went out to dinner and that’s just twice that he made sure that we are breathing.”

“You’re standing up for him.” He says. “You’re seriously supporting him after threatening my wife's life and yours?”

“If he wanted us dead, he would have done it as soon as he broke into my apartment that night and he would have killed Layla when he went to hers.” You say. “I’m not forgiving him for it. He scared the shit out of me. But, I do think that he has the best intentions for you.”

“And what about you?” He pushes. “What intentions does he have for you?”

“To make sure that I’m breathing.” You say, nearly shrugging but stopping yourself. You want to come across as confident in your answer, you feel like you need to convince him and yourself that you are no longer afraid of Jake Lockley. The same man that threatened your life and the one that wakes you from your nightmares and sits with you until you fall back asleep. Jake was keeping true to his word of protecting the system and that means whatever affects the state of the system. Marc huffs at your answer and you know that he’s going to say something snarky if you don’t add something soon.

“You don’t have to like him.” You say. “But he does everything for you and Steven.”

“He kills people.” He says. “You spend time with a murderer. Sleep next to a murderer. Eat meals with a murderer.”

“Yeah, and you’re saying that you didn’t kill anyone as a marine or as Moon Knight?”

“I didn’t say that.” He defends. You purse your lips together, the television show long forgotten. Where is this coming from? Why is he finding this as an issue now? You’ve been doing this for over a month now and he suddenly doesn’t like it?

“They’re not two different things, Marc.” You say. “Murder as revenge for a god you owe your life to and murder as a marine in the military. Murder is murder.” You pause and stare at him. Although you don’t necessarily agree with the statement, you feel like you need to get it through his thick skull that he killed too and so has Jake. He stares at the television, his eyes slowly turning red from tears and you feel your heart cracking at the sight of him. You have never seen Marc cry before, you only ever saw him smiling and happy looking when he was around Layla. He doesn’t show his emotions very often and seeing his lip wobble and he gently bites it with his teeth.

You don’t think you actually ate a meal with Jake, maybe a few bites but not a complete sit down and talk about your day type of meal as you do with his alters. So, Marc must be talking about himself being a murderer. You almost make an O shape with your mouth as you turn your body more towards him, leaning further into the couch's arm-rests.

“You’re not a monster.” You say. “And neither is he.” You pause and let the statement sink into his mind. Hoping that it would take root there for a long while and live rent free in his mind. “I appreciate your concern and care and believe me, I can’t completely express what I’m feeling from how much you care. But, Jake isn’t a bad person and neither are you.” You kind of can’t believe that these are the words that are coming out of your mouth about the alter who could have unalived you but choose not to. The person you were three months ago is a completely different person than you are now. You wouldn’t say that you’re wiser, but maybe a little more experienced.

Marc doesn’t look at you and you don’t expect him to. You do expect him to put up some kind of fight about your statement but he surprises you by saying, “You want to talk to him- go ahead.” Your frown deepens as you watch Jake lean a little too comfortingly into the cushions. You hate that Marc was running away from this and you know that he’s going to have to accept your care for them on his own.

“Got anything to say?” You ask.

“Hola a ti también,” He picks up the piece of grain from his lap and pops it into his mouth. He chews for a moment before reaching over and taking the bowl out of your lap. He grabs a small handful and scoops it into his mouth before chewing slowly. “How about it wasn’t the same deity.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve been talking about this for weeks and you’re telling me that you haven’t considered it to be a different god?” He says. You feel your mouth dry and suddenly you need water and every last drop of it. What the actual fuck?

“Are you saying that Khonshu was the one who healed me?”

“Fuck no.” He says. “I’m saying that some god is messing with you for some reason and it’s probably attracting other gods. You’re kind of like a light for mosquitos, once they notice you they’ll hang around you more often until they either die or find a brighter source of light or your light dies.” He scoops up some more grains and chews on it. “You took the marshmallows out.”

“The marshmallows are the only good part.” You mumble. So, if it's not just one god, it’s multiple who have noticed you and they’re lingering around you because…? You don’t know and you don’t think Jake knows either. You don’t know how any of this works. Are there rules that the gods are unable to break? Why can’t you see the gods but only their avatars can? Why would they choose you to bully? What was so interesting to them that they decided to treat you like a lab rat?

Your eyes trail over to the paused screen. Velma was about to reveal who was underneath the monster suit and soon the episode would come to an end. Another case solved for the Mystery Gang. You remember watching this when you were about eight, you were sitting on the edge of your parents bed and swinging your legs back and forth, so excited to see another win for the group of friends. You were sure that it was the prospector who was the bad guy, but you won’t know for sure until you hit play. Your eyes trail back to Jake, he was munching on the grains and occasionally looking at the different shapes of the grains. What are the chances that he knows who it is? What would he gain from withholding the information from you? You don’t think he would gain anything other than bitterness from you because he refused to tell you the truth. Maybe he would gain more spite from Marc and Steven too, he already took away their will for a good month when he kidnapped the body for whatever mission he was on.

“Do you know who it is?” You ask quietly. He stares at you for a moment and you hope that he would spill the beans if he does truly know. It was hard to tell what he was thinking with the mask that he always seemed to wear.

“No,” He says. You have no choice but to believe him or take his word with a grain of salt.

“Does Khonshu?” You ask.

“He’s been around for billions of years, of course he knows who it is.” He states and pops another handful into his mouth. Your heart nearly drops in your chest. You figured that the old bird knows who it is, but to actually have confirmation from his avatar was a huge step in this shit show.

“And he hasn’t told you?”

“He’d only tell me if it’s for his own benefit.” He shrugs. “He’s a selfish prick.” You were a hundred and ten percent with him on that statement. Khonshu was an absolute dick. You pick up a piece of cereal from your lap and place it on the couch cushion next to you. You’ll throw it away the next time you get up. You chew on the inside of your cheek as you eye the cartoon that was used more of a background noise for the past half hour. You had asked Steven if the two of you could have a Halloween themed marathon for the weekend to celebrate the spooky season. You used it as an excuse to show them your favorite childhood movies and shows.

You even made hot chocolate with oat milk because of Stevens veganism and bought supplies to make caramel popcorn. Well, Marc did since the three of you went to the store yesterday after work when you proposed the idea of having a day or two of just laying around and watching films and eating snacks. You think Steven and Marc only agreed because they wanted to spend time with you, which you were fine with. You missed them even though you’ve basically been attached at the hip save for the hours that you work and whenever Jake leaves for missions.

“You want to watch Over the Garden Wall with us?” You ask. You were getting a little tired of Scooby-Doo and you want to show your friends something that they most likely haven’t seen before. You watch him complete his chewing and swallow before he runs his tongue over his cheek.

“No,” He says. You aren’t hurt or surprised by his rejection. You kind of expected it, you would’ve been in shock if he did accept it. You pinch a loose thread of the t-shirt you wore and rub it gently between your fingers. It was a band shirt that you have never heard of until you bought it at the thrift shop last year. You only bought it because it was in your size and it wasn’t damaged in any way until you began washing it. Since then, the lettering has scrubbed off and the picture of the band on one of their tours they went on. For a moment you wonder if Jake has heard of the band and you nearly ask him that until you stop yourself. He doesn’t have much of a life outside of being Khonshus bitch.

Almost every interaction you had with him always led to him leaving you to be the protector of the night. He most likely hasn’t heard of the band at all and if he has, he probably only heard of the type of band that they are rather than the music. Does he have a favorite band or genre of music that he prefers? Does he get a moment to himself where he’s not in the suit and he’s just Jake Lockley?

“You’re allowed to be a part of this as much as Steven and Marc are.” You say. “You’re allowed to have a life outside of Khonshu’s bidding.” You watch his body stiffen for a moment and you wish that you had something to do with your hands rather than pull at the loose thread of your shirt. You silently curse at yourself as the thread snaps and your sleeve is shorter than it was when you woke up in it this morning. The short thread is pinched between your fingertips as you gently set it next to the piece of cereal on the middle cushion.

“I killed Harrow.” He says suddenly. “I took him out of the institution they put him in and I shot him in the backseat of the limo.” You feel your body freeze at the admission. Your eyes were still on the short green thread you snapped off of your shirt. The same fucking limo he drove you to the apartment building in? Your fingerprints are on that door handle and seat belt. Fuck, he better have cleaned it.

“Why was he put there in the first place?” You decide to brush past the fact that you contaminated a crime scene and that you could be linked later on if the police ever connect the dots.

“Mercy.” He answers. “Marc didn’t want to kill him and neither did Steven, nor Layla.” You slowly looked up at him and he was busy looking down at the nearly empty bowl of charms. His statement put a whole new perspective on your friends. Harrow was a cult member who had a view on killing people for the actions they have yet to make and as a result he would have made what he considered the perfect world. Despite all the shit that he put your friends through they didn’t kill him, you don’t know what you would have done in their shoes.

“Why did you take him out?”

“I heard of some plans to break Ammit out of him since he was used as a vessel to contain her. I shot him twice.”

“The first wasn’t enough?”

“One bullet for Marc and Steven.” He says. “He killed them, so an eye for an eye.” Well, this solves the reason for why they died in Cairo.

“Good.” You say and you really mean it. You’re glad that Jake got revenge for his and his alter's death. You swallow. If he’s talkative now, maybe he’s willing to answer some questions that have been brewing in your mind since he left Layla to babysit you. “And what about the fire you set up in Birmingham?”

“They had plans to raise Ammit.” He says. You furrow your brows.

“But you killed Ammit when you killed Harrow?”

“Yes.”

“So, why would they try to raise a dead goddess?” You ask. None of this makes any sense. Ammit is dead, why would that lady come up to you at the bus stop and ask if you wanted to be judged? Why would a cult ambush you? Why were you stalked by several of its members?

“To continue on with their belief.” He answers.

“You’re killing a cult that has bad intentions for the rest of the world.” You say. “A cult that can’t bring back a goddess.”

“Yes.”

“A cult that cannot bring back Ammit and they have yet to realize it?”

“You watch those true crime shows don’t you?” He asks. You blink at him before slowly nodding. “Have you watched any cases about cults?” You have actually. You watched one a few months ago about the cult that committed mass sucide because they believed an apocalypse would happen soon and they would go to heaven if they were to end their life early. You watched one of Jonestown, a case of a man who was power hungry and was worshiped by every woman in the town. He poisoned the kool-aid with cyanide at a meeting and killed everyone there including children before he shot himself.

One of the oldest cults was the Aztecs, they believed that sacrificing people to their god would cause the crops to flourish for the season or stop whatever disease may be spreading. There always have been groups of people who believe in one thing or another and this cult was the most recent one that you had the terrible pleasure of interacting with.

“I have,” You breathe out.

“What do you know about them?”

“I…,” You trail off. You know so much about these specific cases but you can’t group everything into the same category since they all have something different. Different leader. Different reasons. Different times. Different backgrounds. The only thing they have in common is that they aren't going to stop until they're dead. Belief in cults is the most powerful thing you can have. The belief that there is an apocalypse going to happen. The belief that this man is your everything. The belief that the food for the winter will be good if you were to sacrifice your neighbor.

With the Harrows cult, they saw that Ammit was real. Everyone has seen the Tiktoks and news footage of people disappearing like fireworks shooting up into the sky but not exploding. Everyone has seen the footage of the man holding a glowing cane and fighting Mr. Knight. Ammit was proven to be real and the cult had a taste of what they believed in, of the justice that Ammit would serve if she was released. That alone would cause any cult to want it back and refuse to believe that the goddess is dead and they are never going to get what they want. The worst part is, because Ammit was proven to be real, there are people around the globe who want to release her or raise her from the dead. It’s no longer just a handful of people in Europe and Egypt, but plenty in other countries.

“Ammit is dead.” You whisper to yourself before looking at him. “They have yet to accept it.”

“They’re delusional.” He says and that felt like an understatement.

“Is there a way to raise her from the dead?” You ask. He shakes his head, his hair brushes against his forehead. He knew more about this cult and the deities than you do so you’ll take his word for it. You were a little bit worried for when the cult realizes that Ammit cannot be raised from the dead. You don’t know how they will react, will they lash out at Mr. Knight for beating Harrow's ass, or will they look at other gods to release?

The sight of Stevens phone lighting up in Jake's lap causes your attention to fall to it, the lock screen lit up, it was one of a purple and green default background. You could see Layla's name on the screen from a text message notification. You glance at Jake as his own attention is drawn to it.

“You should look into getting a phone. Just for emergencies.” You didn’t realize words were falling from your lips until the suggestion ended.

He lifts the phone and places it on the armrest of the couch as he says, “That’s what Marc's phone is for.”

“Yeah, but that thing is ancient.” You say. “Marc has a flip phone and his own contacts and pictures. You don’t have anything.” He sets the bowl onto the end table next to him and stands up. You can hear his bones crack a bit as he raises his arms up in a stretch. You can now hear their age of thirty eight from where you sat on the couch.

“Where are you going?” You ask as he lowers his arms.

“Mr. Knight stuff.” He says. You were kind of hoping that he was lying about not wanting to stay for the marathon. You also thought that he would pass the control back to Steven or Marc, but you were wrong. Your Saturday marathon of Halloween movies with your friends is over. You watch him as he walks around the couch and you peek over the back of it to watch him walk towards the front door.

“Jake?” You say. He doesn’t look at you as he slips on his shoes and Marc's coat from the rack.

“Yeah?” He asks. He stares at you with his back to the door and hands stuffed into the pockets. It was cold out, you were glad that he was taking a jacket so you wouldn’t have to worry about taking care of them when they got sick.

“I’ll see you later, alright?” You say. He huffs out a breath and lifts his hand as a goodbye before leaving. You sit on the couch in silence for a few minutes before getting up and switching CDs in the DVD player. You were still going to watch Over the Garden Wall with or without them. You move the cereal and thread into the nearly empty bowl before laying down on the couch and hitting the play button. Sometime in between episode three and five, you fell asleep. The next day you woke up in Stevens bed with no memory of how you got there. Next to you, your friends slept peacefully with your hand resting in theirs.

---

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Transitions- Chapter Thirty: Carving Pumpkins With Friends

Series Masterlist

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Pairings: Steven Grant x (platonic) Reader, Marc Spector x (platonic) Reader, Jake Lockley x (platonic) Reader, Layla El-Faouly x (platonic) Reader

—

“Okay, so we have sugar, flour, cinnamon…” Steven says. You lean against the handrail of the grocery cart as you watch him stare at the list of groceries in his hands. He wore his glasses as he squinted down at the paper and occasionally he pushed them up the bridge of his nose whenever it slid to far down it. Today was Friday, there were seven more days until Halloween and you had wanted to celebrate the holiday before the month was over. You wanted to get into the spooky season by watching cartoons and eating snacks with your friends. You used to do that with your best friend. You would order pizza and watch horror movies with her and she would bring over candy and chips and together you would stay up until the early hours of November first.

Unfortunately, you were getting too old for costumes and trick or treating, so instead this was how you were going to celebrate the season leading up to the holiday. After Marc picked you up from work by standing outside of it until you left the building. You had brought up the idea of baking snickerdoodle cookies and carving pumpkins. Instead of taking the route back to the apartment complex, Marc and you walked about two blocks until you reached another bus stop that was taking passengers to the area of the grocery store. Now, here the three of you were, shopping for supplies to bake cookies and do the weekend grocery shopping on a Friday rather than a Sunday this time.

“We need vanilla extract, cream of tartar and soy milk.” He says as he looks up from the list and to the signs above the end of the aisle. “I think it’s the next one over for the first two.” He adds. “C’mon.” He gestures for you to follow him down the shelves and you push the cart as he leads the way. Your eyes scan the shelves as you pass, you were originally in the cereal aisle because you need more for the week. You had convinced Steven to add the box of Lucky Charms to the list again even though you only ate the marshmallows out of it and fed the rest to the birds. You told him that you would pay for it if he decides not to and he rolled his eyes at that and told you to put it in the bloody cart. You only snap your attention forward when you hear Steven yelp and feel his glare on you.

“Don’t ram the buggy into my ankles,” He says. You give him a sheepish, apologetic smile.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to.” You say and he hums before he continues on the trek to the next aisle over. You follow him, this time a little more attentive of where you were going. You round the corner and walk down the baking aisle. You only come to a stop once you reach him and pauses in his steps to stare at the seasonings for baking. You already were in the same aisle earlier when you got the cinnamon, but instead of looking down the list and correlating what ingredient may be in the same aisle as another ingredient, Steven decided to shop whatever item was next on the list.

So far, the items in the shopping cart were bread, oat milk, canned red beans and black beans, broccoli, apples, mushrooms, toilet paper, cinnamon, salt, sugar, flour, and fresh chicken breast from the butchers. Steven wasn’t looking forward to buying that last item but Marc declared that you can’t just survive off of broccoli and Lucky Charms and that a growing kid still needs protein to grow strong and healthy. You were somewhat sure that you stopped growing but you weren’t going to complain because you missed chicken. You watch as Steven steps forward and grabs the cream of tartar before tossing it into the cart.

“Okay, up next is tools for pumpkin carving.” He looks down the aisles and at the signs once more before frowning a bit. “Where would that be?” You shrug. In New York, they used to have a pack of pumpkin carving tools sitting at the end of the aisles for people to grab, but so far there were only toys that tempted children to beg their parents to buy in London. Usually, you saw those small tablets that you put in water and it would grow your own dinosaur, but lately you've been seeing those TY beanie bears in Halloween theme and small keychain squishmallows with bright colors.

Steven takes off down the aisle and you let go of the cart to step forward and grab the bottle of vanilla extract before placing it in the cart and following him down it. You stop at the end with Steven and he shoots a small apology to a woman who wants to enter the aisle you both were blocking the entrance to. You give her an apologetic mumble before scooting the cart closer to the shelf. The color of a lavender color rubber duck at the end of the aisle catches your attention and you stare at it. It had a pink five point star and the center of its head and beady black eyes staring down into the cart below it. You kind of wanted it. You don’t need it, it wasn’t something that you were going to ask your friends for or buy it yourself; but still, that didn’t stop the urge to buy it just to have it.

You reach over the cart and snap it from its hook before bringing it closer to you to look at. You don’t need it. You turn it over in your hands and a small smile spreads across your face at the name tag painted around its neck in a dark blue circle with a small white font that stated this duck's name was Mille. You don’t need it. But, god, do you want it.

“Do you think the tools will be next to the pumpkins, kid?” Marc asks. You jump as you look towards him, the duck still in your grip.

“Um, yeah.” You say as you put the duck onto the shelf next to you. “They’ll most likely be there.” You push forward the cart and look both ways before your eyes land on a pile of pumpkins next to the double doors of the entrance and exit. You push the cart towards it and with Marc in tow before you stop a couple of feet away from the pile and grab the packet of tools hanging on a clip on a nearby wall.

“Okay so, choose the ones that you think will be best for carving.” Marc says as you step away from the cart and he takes your place by leaning over the handle bar.

“Well, what ones do you want?” You ask as you look over your shoulder at him.

“Choose whatever you think is best.”

“Do you not know how to choose pumpkins?” You ask. He shrugs and you watch as he looks a little past you and to the fruit piled behind you.

“It was never something I really learned.” He admits and you frown.

“You’re going to learn today.” You say, “Look for the bright ones and check for any squishy spots.” You watch him stand still and stare at you, waiting for you to pick for him. You huff out a breath and place your hands on your hips.

“Marc.” You state. “C’mon. There's no harm in learning something new.” He pushes the cart forward until he stops next to you and you bend down and grab one.

“Look at this,” You hold up a small pumpkin that had its head caving in with a dark brown spot. “You see this? It’s gross and decaying. Nobody is going to buy this and it’s terrible for carving because the inside will most likely be matching.” You set it back down and scan the pile for another one.

You point at a slightly bigger one and say, “That one looks decent. Go ahead and turn it over to see if it looks okay on the bottom.” He glances at you before trailing his eyes to the area you were pointing in.

“This one?” He asks as he bends down and places his hand on the one that you weren’t looking at.

“No, the one next to it. No, Marc, the one in front of it- no not that one, the other direction. Bingo.” You smile at him as he lifts up the pumpkin and turns it over in his arms to look at the bottom of it.

“It looks okay.” He says. You smile as you step forward and look at it.

“You want that one?” You ask and he shrugs. “If you do, you can put it in the cart and help me search for three more.” He moves towards the cart and falters in his steps before he looks at you with furrowed brows.

“Three?” He asks. “But there's you, me, and Steven.”

“And Jake.” You add and he frowns. “It’s up to him if he wants to carve anything, but if he chooses not to we can just use that one as a bonus one or keep it until Layla comes back and she can carve. When is she coming back again?”

“No clue.” He answers as he places his chosen pumpkin into the cart and returns to you to help you look for some good pumpkins.

---

The ride to the apartment complex wasn’t as bad if you were to take the bus with several bags of groceries and pumpkins sitting between your feet on a crowded bus after people got off of work. Marc decided that it would be a good idea to call a taxi so you could avoid that terrible experience. You offered to buy the fee for the ride back to the building since they bought the groceries and they refused to even consider that. So, after a long negotiation in the back of the taxi, they paid for the fee and told you to put your money back into your pocket. Luckily, the elevator for your building was fixed so you and Marc didn’t struggle with bringing the groceries up the five flights of stairs and to Stevens apartment.

After unlocking the door with the key Jake made for you, you pack in the groceries into the kitchen and begin putting stuff away. The ingredients you need for the cookies were left out on the counter as you put away the Lucky Charms into the cabinet above the toaster and the bread into the bread cabinet on the right side of the sink. The only thing that made you stop in your task of putting away the groceries was the sight of a lavender colored rubber duck sitting at the bottom of a paper bag next to the broccoli. You reach into the sack and pull it out, Mille the duck stared right back at you as you looked down at it. You blink at the sight of the duck that you were thinking of buying but didn’t.

“What’s this?” You ask and hold up the toy to show Marc. He shuts the fridge door as he turns to look at you

“I thought you would like it,” He shrugs. “I saw you looking at it and I put it in the cart.”

“You didn’t have to.” You say with a small smile on your face. He reaches into the bag next to you and pulls out the broccoli.

“I know.” He says. You turn the duck between your fingers and set it on the counter next to you as he adds, “Steven, what temperature do I need to preheat the oven for the cookies?” You grab the metal bowls from underneath the counter and set them next to the duck before unfolding the recipe Steven wrote down on some scratch paper.

“He says it's three-seventy-five. Do you mind doing that, kid?” Marc asks as he reopens the fridge door and places the vegetable into the drawer. You turn towards the oven and press the buttons to set it to the correct temperature before leaning against the counter and watching Marc grab the mixer from underneath the counter next to the fridge. You move forward and place Mille onto the recipe to keep it in place as you begin to grab ingredients and their proper measuring tools from the kitchen drawer before dumping it into the container.

“I got that.” He says as he looks into the bowl and looks at the ingredients you added. “You can go get into something more comfortable if you want. Get out of your work clothes.”

“It’s fine,” You say. “I have to do laundry today. I don’t think I have any clean clothes.” You measure out the apple cider into a table spoon and add it to the mix before scanning the recipe for the next step.

You reach for the spatula to scrape the mixture into the mixer as he says, “You can borrow some of ours if you want.” You falter in your movement and glance at him with questioning eyes. Was this a joke? But he doesn’t look at you as he grabs the spatula and takes the bowl from you.

“I think there’s some pajama pants in the lower drawer and a shirt in the top one.” He says. It was just clothes, you don’t know why borrowing your friends clothes because you don’t have any clean ones to wear was such a big deal. You wore your best friends sweatshirts and shirts and your dad's clothing all the time. So, why did his offer make everything feel like it froze in time? Your fingers curl inwards and touch your palm gently as you slowly lower your hand to your side. Millie the duck stares right at you as you swallow and swivel on your heels before walking to the dresser near Stevens bed. You think it was such a big deal because you were borrowing clothes from friends and maybe you didn’t think that you would have the opportunity to do that again.

You pull out a pair of blue plaid pajama bottoms and an old t-shirt that had the faded markings of a band on tour in the United States in the year of 2003. You walk to the bathroom with the clothes in your arms before you shut the door and peel off your work clothes before slipping on the borrowed items. They were a little bigger on you, the bagginess of the shirt was comfortable and the pants slipped down your hips a bit until you tightened the strings. You kicked your own clothes into the corner of the bathroom so nobody would trip over it and made a mental reminder to retrieve the items later before you drag Steven down to the laundry room.

You push open the door and go back to the kitchen to hear the noise of the mixture doing its job and Marc keeping a careful eye on it. You stop next to the counter and a small smile spreads across your face at the sight of Mille. You dip your finger into the remaining batter on the sides of the container you were using to combine the ingredients and try a bit of it. It doesn’t taste terrible, it could be a little better but to be fair you were used to normal snickerdoodles and not a vegan recipe of the cookies. Maybe it will taste a bit better once it is cooked.

“Don’t eat the batter.” Marc says after he shut off the machine and glances at you. You stick your tongue out at him and pick up a bit, pinching it between your fingers as you toss it at him. The cookie dough lands against his cheek and falls to the ground. You stare at one another for a moment, a small smile spreading across your face as he registers what you just did. He slowly turns around and scrapes a small handful of dough out of the bowl and rolls it into a ball.

“Not fair,” You say. “I did a tiny bit because that’s all I had. You have a lot more than I do and that,” You point to the dough in his hands, “is like the size of a baseball.”

“A baseball?” He asks. “It’s smaller than that.”

“Okay, a golf ball size.”

“Better.” He says.

“You’re throwing away a cookie size ball of dough as an act of revenge?”

“It’s one cookie, nobody is going to miss it.”

“I will.” You say. “I’ll miss it.” He hums and throws it lightly at you, it smacks your chest and you catch it with your hands.

“You didn’t miss.” He shrugs. “You actually caught it.” You glance down at the ball of dough there was some lint attached to it from the shirt you wore and you briefly allow yourself to feel a bit of disgust before you toss it into the air and catch it with your hands a couple of times.

“Y’know what?” You say, “I’m going to be the bigger person and not throw this back at you.”

“Really?”

“Nope.” You grin and throw the ball at him hard enough to make a loud smack against his chest. He lets out a harsh breath and rubs the center of his chest as he lets the dough fall to the ground. You honestly didn’t mean to throw it that hard, you did want to catch him by surprise but not enough to actually hurt him. “Sorry,” You say.

“At least you have good aim.” He says and then adds, “A tough throw too.”

“Thanks?” You say. “I, uh, actually didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“I know.” He answers. You shuffle to your other foot as you watch him bend down and pick up the ball of dough before throwing it into the trash can. You trail your eyes to read the instructions for the next step.

“The recipe says to make tablespoon size balls and place them on a cookie sheet and bake them for twelve minutes.” You say.

“You know what tablespoon size is, right?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Are you sure? Because you said the golf ball size was the size of a baseball.”

“Shut up.” You breathe out and he laughs. The noise startles you a bit because you didn’t expect it. But as you watch his eyes light up and the noise leaving him sounds genuine, you can’t help but grin. It was rare to hear and see Marc laugh, plenty of times you have seen Steven do it and Jake only once but Marc was usually hiding away and letting Steven take the wheel. You look away from him so he won’t get bashful and tap out, so you open the drawer full of utensils and grab a spoon before pushing past him and grabbing the bowl of dough and a cookie sheet from underneath the counter.

“Do you need help with it or do you know the right size?” He asks and you playfully roll your eyes.

“I got it,” You tell him. “After this, do you want to carve the pumpkins?”

“I think on the back of the carving kit that it said that it came with tracing paper for designs.”

“You can do whatever you want to yours.” You say.

“What are you going to do?” He asks. You hum and glance out the window ahead of you.

“I don’t know,” You shrug. The October weather makes everything appear much gloomier. The skys were a dark gray and the forecast notification on your phone said that it was going to rain. You shivered a little as your eyes land on a falcon sitting on the windowsill across from Stevens flat. You don’t know much about birds but you think that they were supposed to fly North for winter by now. A knot in your stomach forms and you swallow as you register it as the same feeling you always get whenever Khonshu or another god is nearby. You know the feeling of dread a little too well by now.

“Hey Marc?” You say, your voice wavering a little.

“Yeah?”

“What type of falcon is that?” You jut your chin towards it and he brushes past you and stands next to you. He stares out the window, your eyes never moving from the bird. It had visible light brown spots along its back and yellow legs with black talons clutching the sill.

“What falcon?”

“The one on the windowsill.” You say. Your eyes never waver from the bird.

“There’s no falcon.” Marc says and the knot tightens in the pit of your stomach. You inhale sharply, all the air from the world seems to be taken from you at that moment. You feel color drain from your face and your mouth dry up like a desert. Your heart pounds against your chest and your body begins to tremble. The falcon sat on the sill staring directly at the window you stared out of. It was a little hard to tell with the distance but you swear that it titled its head at you like it was taunting you.

“What do you mean?” You breathe out shakily. The last time this feeling was in your body, you got held out a window and whatever was about to happen next, you aren’t looking forward to it.

“There’s no bird, kid.” He says. Your lips wobble and you can feel a build up of tears behind your eyes. “What do you see?”

“A falcon.” You whisper.

“What is it doing?”

“It’s just sitting there and looking right at me.” You say.

“What does it look like?” Steven asks.

“Brown spots on its back and yellow legs and black talons. Maybe dark brown it’s a little difficult to tell…” Your breath hitches as it spreads its wings. A series of white feathers lined its wings in vertical rows, each one had a black spot centered in the middle of the feather as if it was an eye. You almost take a step back as you watch it flap its wings once before it leaps off of the ledge and flies upwards and into the sky. You watch as it flies above the apartment complex you were in until it was out of view.

“A falcon?” He asks as he places his hand on your shoulder. “Are you sure it was a falcon?”

“Yeah,” You nod. The knot in your stomach loosens and the feeling of dread dissipates from your body. What the actual fuck? You were glad that nothing had happened but hot damn, a fucking dramatic flare that this god has. You feel the muscles in your body relaxing and your trembling hands slowly stop shaking. You glance down to your knuckles, the color slowly fading back to your skin tone as the blood rushes through your hand. You didn’t realize you were white-knuckling the spoon that hard or at all. You drop the spoon into the bowl and force your head to turn away from the window and to Steven. He had a quizzical expression on his face. His eyes stare at the window which makes you believe that he was listening to whatever Marc or Jake had to say. You lean back against the counter and cross your arms over your chest as you stare at the pumpkins, you’re supposed to carve those today. You were supposed to think about what to carve into your pumpkin and bond with Marc, but now you’re trying to register what happened the last couple of minutes. Was it minutes or did everything happen in seconds? Everything happened quickly and that was hard to wrap your mind around.

How come neither Marc or Steven saw the bird? Didn’t Jake say that the deities will only show themselves to who they are interested in? Maybe your lantern for the damn gods is too bright. You let out a shuddered breath as Steven walks away and turns on the television to a news broadcast and sets it to a loud enough volume that you can hear it clearly from the kitchen. He returns to where you stood and reaches around you and grabs the mixer bowl and cookie sheet before placing it on the counter on the other side of the sink. He slowly picks up the spoon and scoops out a spoonful of dough before plucking it from the utensil and rolling it into a ball. He places it next to the few you have already completed and you watch him do this until the baking sheet has twelve balls and he places it in the oven and sets a timer for the cookies.

“What are you thinking of carving, dove?” He asks quietly. You almost laugh, how can you brush past this like it was just a normal occurrence? How can you continue your day like that didn’t just happen?

Your fingers clutch your sides as you ask, “Steven, what gods are associated with falcons?”

“Horus.” He says, “Which in turn is associated with Osiris and Isis, the parents of Horus; and the grandmother of Horus is Nut and the grandfather is Geb. The uncle of Horus is Set and the aunt is Nepthys.” You swallow. You carried around the Eye of Horus and you don’t know if you insulted them or if it was a beacon, either way you were in their line of sight and you might have pissed off an entire family. “There’s more but…I think it would be best if you could register the information I gave you.”

“So they’re all related?” You ask.

“In a sense. I just made it easier for you to understand in terms that I think would be familiar to you.” He answers. You lean your head back against the cabinet and groan. You carried around a symbol of protection for comfort and you had no fucking clue if it meant any more than that because you just went with what Steven told you. You were stupid enough not to do your own research and you don’t blame Steven at all for it, you blame yourself.

“You’re going to have to show me your scrapbook sometime, Steven. Teach me about these deities.” You groan. You can’t fucking believe that you may have pissed off a entire family. You don’t know how close these gods and goddesses may be to one another but if it was anything like how close you were to your parents, you probably upset these deities. Fuck, honestly, you carried around a piece of paper not truly knowing what it meant and not understanding the culture and the religion of the deities and you dived head in first because it made you feel like it was a security blanket.

“It’s almost completed. Just a few more details and it’ll be ready to show you.” Maybe you’ll do your own research this weekend if he doesn’t finish it by Sunday. You want to give him the chance to teach you every detail about these gods so you know who you may be dealing with because you know that he’ll be good at it and will make it easier for you to understand things; and after he teaches you, you’ll do your own research and do it thoroughly because holy fucking shit you learned your lesson. Fuck me, you thought. The lantern this whole time was the piece of paper you carried on you for comfort.

You rub your hands up and down your face and say, “Fuck.” You don’t know how much longer you can take being stalked by a deity and harassed and threatened. You remove your hands from your face and watch Steven as he toyed with the corner of the carving kit. It came with a knife to cut the pumpkin and a scraper to take out the guts of it along with some tracing paper that had designs on it for the fruit.

“I think I’m going to carve a bat into mine.” He says. “That’s seasonal and I don’t remember seeing many bat patterns in pumpkins around here.” You saw plenty of typical jack-o-lanterns with sharp teeth and circles for eyes on the way to the complex. Some residents of London had pumpkins sitting on their steps or in their windows.

“You know how to open it up right?” You ask. You want to talk more about the falcon you saw and the god that is attached to that animal and the piece of paper you once carried; but there wasn’t much to talk about, all bases were temporarily covered and you can tell that Steven wants to distract you away from the harassment of the deity.

“From the top?”

“Well, you can,” You admit. “But it’s better if it's from the bottom because it stays fresher longer that way. You got any vaseline?”

“Yeah?”

“Great. We can put that on the edges we cut and keep it moisturized so it wouldn’t rot as quickly.” You say.

“What are you going to carve?” He repeats his question from earlier and you shrug.

“I don’t know.” You say. You did think about it on the taxi ride over to the apartment but, every thought since then has been thrown out the window and you couldn’t remember any idea that you came up with.

“Well, you can teach me how to cut open mine and think about what you might want to do.” He offers and you nod.

“Go get the vaseline and I’ll get the tools to help cut it.” You say. He glances at the carving kit and back to you with a raised eyebrow.

“You don’t think that this knife they gave us will help?” He asks.

“No, but a butcher knife will.” You say.

“I’ll get the first aid kit too.” He says. You almost laugh.

“What? You don’t trust me that I won’t chop off one of my limbs?”

“Maybe I should pre-dial nine-nine-nine.” He says as he walks away and you let out a laugh.

---

You spent the whole time while several batches of snickerdoodles were cooking in the oven helping Steven cut a hole into the bottom of his pumpkin and remove the guts and seeds from the fruit. The two of you chatted about your day, and the things that you wanted to do over the weekend. You told him about cooking the pumpkin seeds for a snack and he agreed that it sounded good. You talked about Lauren and her plans for the Halloween holiday of taking Jamie and Molly out with Kris to go trick-or-treating and a Halloween party they were invited to by a mutual friend of theirs. They were dressing up as Megan and Graham from But I’m a Cheerleader. Lauren showed you the costumes she ordered on Amazon, it was a cute outfit and you don’t think that you have seen couples dress up as the characters for the holiday so it was neat to see something different.

Steven told you about the neighbor down the hall who seems to avoid him like he had the plague. He described her to you as the exact same person who teased you about being in a lovers quarrel with Steven back when they weren’t answering the door because Jake took the body out for a spin and you weren’t aware of him. You laugh and cringe a bit at the awkward memory as you tell him about the accusation she made. He makes an O shape with his mouth as he realizes why she won’t even tell him hello when they’re in the lift together. He then tells you about a documentary airing on the telly tonight that he wants to watch and asks if you’ll want to watch it with him. It was about the mammals in the Atlantic ocean and the effect of the blip on the environment. You heard about the whales in the Hudson river during the time that half of the universe was gone, but you didn’t look further into it because you were dealing with everything else.

You tell him yes and he looks ecstatic about it. You were beginning to carve into the bottom of your own pumpkin when Steven finished his and proudly showed it to you.

“That looks really good.” You tell him. The bat was from a stencil piece of paper he found from the kit and it looks honestly good for his first pumpkin- which he has been repeatedly telling you since you began teaching him how to remove the inside of the fruit.

“Really?” He asks and you nod. “It’s my first pumpkin.”

You smile and gesture to it with your scooper as you tell him, “You should take a picture of it and send it to the group chat. Layla would love to see it and you can have the photo on your phone.” He nods, curls bouncing against his forehead as he wipes his hands on the towel to get rid of the slime from his fingertips. He grabs his phone from the counter and takes several pictures of his pumpkin, the flash of it distracts you from your work and even more so as he aims the camera lens at you.

“Okay, say cheese.” He says. You press your lips together as the light flashes and temporarily blinds you. You blink away the spots in your vision as he frowns at the pictures before he lifts the camera once more and adds, “Give me a real smile.”

“That was a real smile.” You protest.

“That was more of a, take the picture and leave me alone, type of photos.” He rolls his eyes. “Layla will want something genuine from you.” You feel your heart constrict a bit in your chest as you make the comparison that this felt almost like Homecoming pictures. It was awkward taking photos in an outfit you felt insecure in and being the center of attention for your parents. You shifted from foot to foot awkwardly as he gave you a look that was similar to the one your mom used to give to you as she tried to wait patiently for you to show her your teeth and the crinkle of your eyes. Your dad would be standing off to the side and either holding up his own phone vertically and taking a dozen pictures every minute or encouraging you to smile.

You feel a lump form in your throat as you force the corners of your lips upwards and Steven genuinely looked happy for you as he hit the circle button on his phone and the flash of the camera blinded you for several moments until he felt satisfied that he had decent photos to send to his wife. You blink away the spots in your vision as you turn your gaze back to your pumpkin and try to ignore the emotions building up in your chest. You felt your phone vibrate several times in your pocket and you guessed that Steven sent several photos separately rather than at once.

“I think I’m going to carve a regular jack-o-lantern for mine,” Marc says. You looked up at him and saw that he was looking at the stencils from the kit. “You mind helping me, kid?” He doesn’t look at you as the question leaves his mouth. You let a shuddered breath leave you and you nod.

“You saw how I taught Steven to do it, right?” You ask.

“I might need a reminder.” He shrugs. You know that he had to see and remember what you showed Steven, Marc wouldn’t forget how to turn the pumpkin upside down and cut a hole in the bottom of it. That would be too simple to forget. So, you know that this was his way of comforting you through your own anxiety and emotions by giving you a distraction and you were grateful for it.

“Yeah,” You say. “You’re an old man, of course you would forget this easily.”

“You better watch it or I’ll ball up some of these guts in this bowl and throw it at you.” He says. You narrow your eyes at him.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Go ahead and fuck around and find out,” He replies. You reach for his pumpkin and turn it over. “You know what you’re going to carve yet?” You hum as you grasp the knife and stab into the fruit before beginning to hacksaw a circle into it.

“I think I’ll carve the Big Dipper or the Cassiopeia constellation. Whichever looks cooler with the candle light inside of it.” You tell him. He places his hand on your arm and you let go of the knife before he takes over. You guess that it was his way of telling you that you were going to hurt yourself and he didn’t want that. You honestly wouldn’t want that for either of you, so you were glad that he was taking over since he had more accuracy than you.

You turn your own pumpkin over, “Do you mind if you do mine next?”

“I refuse.” He says as he pries out the bottom of the pumpkin with the knife and places the bottom of it on the counter before crossing the few steps to your own and beginning to cut into it. You watch him silently as the sound of the knife sawing around the pumpkin and the news broadcast on the television fills the air between you. You mumble a thanks as he pries out the bottom and steps away from the pumpkin for you to begin gutting it. You scrunch your noses at the slimy texture of the guts as you pull it from the sides and place it into the container Steven provided. Later, you will have to sort through it for the seeds to cook it for a snack and that wasn’t something you were looking forward to, but whatever gets you those damn seeds you will fight for.

“Do you know how to drive a car?” Marc asks. You grab the scraper in hopes that it would be hell of a lot easier to loosen the guts from the wall.

“No.” You say. “I know the basics of it. Like there's a pedal for gas and one for break, and there's a steering wheel that you turn to go wherever. But I don’t know much more than that.”

“Would you like to learn?”

“Learn what?”

“Learn how to drive.” He states. You pause in your movements and look at him, he was continuing to pull the guts out of his pumpkin like what he said didn’t faze him at all.

“What car are you going to teach me in?” You ask.

“I might know someone.”

“Someone.” You say. “Like a sketchy guy?”

“In a sense.”

“Marc.” You say. “Are you serious?”

“Well, yeah. You need to learn how to drive and get from point A to point B.”

“Yeah, I agree with that-”

“-Good-”

“-But, you want me to drive some sketchy person's car?” You say. “You want me to get involved with someone who you deem sketchy and trust worthy enough to drive their car.”

“...Yeah.” He says. You drop the scraper onto the counter and stare at him incredulously.

“How do you even know this person?”

“They helped me with supplies and rentals for missions when I had them.”

“Rentals.” You state. “You rented cars from this person?”

“Kind of, yeah.”

“Did you return the rentals?”

“No.” He says. “They were seen at the crime scenes so I drove them off into whatever the closest largest body of water I could find.” You almost rub your face with your hands as an exasperated sigh leaves you.

“Y’know what, if you could find something that’s less sketchy and I wouldn’t get cross-referenced to any crime, I’ll be down for you to teach me how to drive.” You say. “But, I am not getting more tangled in a mess because you “rented” a car from someone you deem sketchy.”

“Fair.” He says.

“Besides, if I get pulled over while driving a stolen car, I will be absolutely pissed. I don’t have my permit and I will be fined and maybe even arrested.”

“True.” He says.

“Are you listening?” You ask and watch him glance away from his pumpkin and to you.

“Yeah.” He says. “We’re not going to put you at risk. Getting you hurt or in danger or put in jail was never our intention.” You decide not to bring up their threats of returning you in for fraud.

“And?”

“And what?”

“You’re not going to try to get me to drive in a stolen car.”

“Okay.” He says. “Deal.” He holds out his hand and you try not to show your disgust as you see the slimy pumpkin guts cover his hand. You place your hand on his arm and he grasps your own with his hand. You shake once before you let go and brush off the guts on your arm with a towel.

“You want to watch Over the Garden Wall with me this weekend?” You ask. He hums and nods once.

“Yeah.” He says. “Actually, only if you don’t hog all the marshmallows from the Lucky Charms this time.”

“Oof,” You say. “That’s a hefty price. You’re asking for a lot.”

“I’m only asking for what’s fair.” He replies. “You took all the marshmallows from the box and you only left the grains.”

“As I should, the grains are gross.” You say. “But I did make a deal with Steven to eat all of the cereal and not just the marshmallows in the store. So, I suppose that I will share the marshmallows with you.”

“You’re going to give me mostly the grains aren’t you?”

“You don’t know that. Stop making assumptions.” You say.

“You fucking are. You’re a table thief and a marshmallow bandit.”

“Okay, but one of those was not intentional.”

“You took a table from some kids setting up a lemonade stand.”

“You don’t know that. They could have just placed it outside to draw the scenery around them.”

“You still took a table.”

“I thought it was free!” You defend yourself. “Jake intentionally took a colored bulb from someone and I don’t hear you speaking about it. Your alter is a light bulb thief.”

“Yeah, but at least he took it from someone who deserved it. You? You took a table from some kids.”

“I’m never going to live this down am I?”

“Not while you’re stuck with us.” He says. “You never answered, marshmallow bandit. Is it a deal or no deal?”

“It’s a deal.” You say. He holds out his arm to shake on it and you narrow your eyes on his gross slimy hand. “I’ll take your end of the deal as a promise. I am not letting you touch me with your slimy, gross hands.” He lurches towards you with his hand outstretched.

“Don’t you fucking touch me.” You hiss out as he stalks towards you and you back away. “Marc.” He speeds up a bit and you turn around and run away as he chases after you. “Marc!” You yell as you run through the apartment and his footsteps follow yours. Laughter leaves you as you dodge furniture and the man chasing after you.

---

You finished carving your own pumpkin by the time it hit five thirty. You decided on carving the Scorpio constellation to challenge yourself and because you thought it looked better than the Cassiopeia. You were right and very satisfied when you placed the pumpkin over the lit candle and it immediately became one of your favorite carvings you have done the past holidays. Marcs looked good, he put some detail on the pumpkin by taking some of the paint Layla left and tracing the shapes of the face to make it pop out more. You thought that Jake wasn’t going to show because Steven began to talk about dinner and what to make when there was that shift you were hoping for. Jake stood in front of the open fridge, his back straighter than Stevens and his movements more precise and quicker than his alters. He shut the door and swiveled on his heel.

“You got a pumpkin waiting for you.” You gesture to the fruit sitting on the counter as you sort through the guts in the bowl for the seeds. He doesn’t say anything as he slides the fruit towards him and grabs the knife you were using earlier before stabbing into the bottom of the pumpkin and sawing quickly. You watch him pry out the bottom with the knife before dropping the knife to the counter and scooping out the guts with his hands and placing it on the counter rather than the bowl. You wrinkle your nose at the thought of the guts being on the surface of the space you use. But you decided not to bitch to him about it because you were worried that it would piss him off enough to go back into the headspace and leave you to clean up the mess.

Your eyes trail to the television broadcast, you can hear the reporter talking about the fire that happened in Birmingham at the end of August from where you stood. You push yourself off of the counter and walk towards the television, not bothering to shoot a glance at Jake as you pass him. On the screen, you saw the footage of the fire and the confirmation of sixteen bodies being found in the rubble of the building and the newscaster speaking about how this was a tragedy and an electrical fire was the cause of the accident. You weren’t prepared for the pictures of the victims flashing on the screen. You stare at the photos with wide eyes and a parted mouth.

These were photos from before their lives were taken, your eyes scanning the three rows of almost six, searching for someone you may recognize from the grocery store or a person who rode the morning route to work or a customer you may have served. Your breath catches in your throat as you spot the lady from the bus stop and that one who ordered a sandwich from your work picture was glowing on the screen. She looked completely different from how you remembered her, she looked more happy in the photo than she did when she asked if Ammit could judge you. Underneath her photo was her name and as much as you were okay with a cult being killed for the greater good of humanity, it somehow became much more personal now that you knew her name.

Amanda Bright, her name was Amanda bright and she looked like any other person you interact with in the city; and that was terrifying. You reach for the television remote and hit the power button, the sudden silence of the apartment, save for Gus' fish tank, was deafening. You turn on your heel and walk back to the kitchen, resuming the same place you leaned against the counter as Jake continued to take out the guts of his pumpkin. You watch him quietly as thoughts raced through your mind of the news footage you just watched. You could have sworn that they said seventeen people were estimated to be dead last time and today they said sixteen and showed sixteen photos. So, number seventeen was that kid that Jake let go, the kid that was your age and in a cult rooting for a goddess they believe can be released.

There was another kid mixed into these tangled strings, Elias Dean. He was the one who was killed at Towers Bridge. Why did he die? What did he do? Why kill a kid in this mess? What was the point of killing a child? You bite your cheek at your thoughts as you watch Jake continue to pull out the guts of the pumpkin quietly. How did a child get tangled in these strings?

And wasn’t Elias the same name as Marcs, Steven, and Jake's father? That can’t be a coincidence, can it?

“Elias Dean,” You say. “That was the name of the kid that was murdered at Towers Bridge. What happened?” He doesn’t look at you as he continues his activity for a while. You thought he was going to ignore you and you were willing to let that slide, you could ask him another time and give him this day to not talk about his missions. You have come to a decision that Jake chooses to do stuff that would inevitably protect the system and the people the system cares about, if he did murder Elias Dean, he had a reason for it. You doubt that he would kill a kid after letting number seventeen go.

“He was standing up to Harrow's cult when I arrived.” Jake says, nearly startling you when he spoke. “They didn’t like what he had to say so they pushed him off.” Fun, a kid who figured out right and wrong and tried to correct it and got murdered because of it. It sounds awfully like the U.S justice system.

“He has the same name as your dad.” You say. “Do you think that’s a coincidence?”

“No es mi padre.” Jake says, his tone a bit harsh. You spare a glance at him and catch his gaze.

“He’s not my dad.” He says. You both shared eye contact for a moment, his eyes were intense and you would have felt intimidated if you didn’t feel as comfortable as you do with him now.

“Okay,” You say. “He’s not your dad.” You don’t know what happened to Marc's brain to cause it to create several people. But, you weren’t going to press for it, whatever it was that happened had to be traumatic because DID forms when a person goes through something really rough; so, whatever happened in their past you don’t want them to relive it or recount it to you until they are comfortable with you enough to open up to you and that’s if they ever become comfortable.

“Damn straight.” He says.

“But, you know him as Elias. My question is-”

“Yeah, I know what your question is and I can tell you that I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” You ask.

“Sí, no lo sé.” He says. You know a little Spanish from freshman year of high-school, so you know the first part of it which makes you think that he is indeed confirming that he doesn’t know. You look down at the recipe for snickerdoodles before reaching for Millie and rolling the duck in your hands as you think of his answer. If he does know, he has a reason for hiding it from you and you should trust him on that decision to keep you in the dark on this. If you were in a cult and knew the identity of Mr. Knight, which has to be impossible in the first place because Mr. Knight always wore a mask; and if he did show his face, it would absolutely be the last thing his victims see. So, how likely would it be if you found out the identity of Moon Knight? Low chance, maybe twenty three percent out of one hundred. Not completely zero but not great chances either.

You open your mouth to speak when he cuts you off, “Can we talk about other things that don’t have to do with my nine to five job?” You almost stare blankly at him due to his question. It threw you off track and derailed any thoughts you had about his statement that he doesn’t know why the Tower Bridge victim shares the same name with his biological father.

“Can you teach me Spanish some time?” You ask. “I know a little from freshman year but not a lot.”

“You want me to teach you my language sometime?” He asks and you nod.

“I would like to speak to you in your first language, yes.” You say. “You learned English and I would like to learn Spanish.”

“Okay.” He says. He reaches for the knife and begins to carve into the pumpkin. You watch him silently for a few moments, wondering if he will go through his agreement when he asks, “What’s that?” He juts his chin towards your pumpkin.

“It’s the Scorpio star constellation.” You say, trailing your eyes to your pumpkin “It looked a lot cooler than the Big Dipper constellation.”

“I’ll teach you Spanish if you teach me constellations.” He says. You understood what he meant, he doesn’t want to feel like he’s being friendly to you by teaching you his first language but rather trading knowledge for knowledge. You were fine with that.

“Okay,” You say. “It gives me a chance to be a nerd and to use that telescope you bought me, thanks by the way.” He grunts and you place Millie onto the table. “Also, thanks for that light bulb.”

“It’s no problem, table thief.”

“Light bulb thief.”

“I can take that back from you.” He warns.

“No thanks, I would like to see in my apartment even if the lighting is a bit ominous.” You say. His brows furrow.

“I thought all kids like colored lighting. Isn’t that in every teenager's bedroom nowadays?”

“You sound old, like your age is really showing in your words.”

“Shut up.” He says and you laugh which soon turns into a screech when he flicks the pumpkin guts at you. You give him a disgusted look when you take the towel and rub your cheek where the guts landed.

“That’s rude.” You tell him, only half joking. You drop the towel to the counter as you watch a small smile spread across his face. “What are you carving?”

“A cat.” He says. You smile a little and shift your eyes to it. It was hard to see how it was going from where you stood, but you don’t want to wander closer to him and make him feel like you're criticizing his work. So, you watched him from a distance and tried to gauge his expressions for progress, but nothing came of it.

“What type of cat?” You ask.

“The typical black cat for Halloween,” He shrugs.

“Do you like cats?”

“Always wanted one.” He says.

“Well, what’s stopping you?” You ask and he gives you a look. Right, being Khonshus bitch and not wanting to front more than he has to. But, this right now, says something entirely different. This was the longest he has ever been willing to be fronting outside of being Mr. Knight. Maybe, your pep talk for him getting his own life and being deserving of it gave him a kick that he needed. You don’t tell him any of that, but you were about to open your mouth to nag him into getting a cat or beginning to feed the strays in the neighborhood if he wasn’t already when the caller ID for Layla glowed on your phone. Her photo was set to one that she sent to the group chat when she was in Switzerland.

“Layla's calling, I have to take this.”

“You don’t have to take it, you want to take the call.” He corrects and you shake your head.

“No, I have to.” You stick your tongue out at him as you swipe the accept button and bring the phone up to your ear. “Hey, Layla.”

“Hey, I’m going to be in London tomorrow. Do you want to go to the mall or something?”

“You’re going to be in London tomorrow? Are you deadass?”

“Absolutely, table thief.” You can hear the smile in her voice and it makes you feel giddy.

“I thought you weren’t going to be back for a much longer time.”

“Change of plans. The deal was closed early.” She states and you hum. You don’t bother to ask if it was closed early because the deal went well or terribly wrong because someone got killed. “Do you want to go?” You nod fervently.

“Yeah! Of course. Oh guess what?” You laugh and you can feel the excitement building up in your body for tomorrow. You get to go to the mall and go with Layla. You miss her a lot despite not trying to miss her. Oh man, you get to see her tomorrow. You glance at Jake and he has a soft smile on his face, or maybe he looked to be in a decent mood. Either way, he wasn’t frowning or looking like a frog at the moment.

“What?” She asks and you imagine her with a grin on her face.

“Jake stole a light bulb for me.” You say and this time she's the one who laughs.

—

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yikesitskennawrites · 2 years

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Transitions- Chapter Twenty-Five: Coffee From Lauren

Series Masterlist

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Pairings: Steven Grant x (platonic) Reader, Marc Spector x (platonic) Reader, Jake Lockley x (platonic) Reader, Layla El-Faouly x (platonic) Reader

---

“Thank you so much for the coffee,” You tell Lauren. She sat on the metal cart next to the counter top that you were currently sitting on. Her legs swung back and forth as she adjusted her bun on top of her head. It was a slow morning so far, one that you were grateful for due to your exhaustion, yet, you also hated it because sitting still made you more aware of how tired you were.

“You rarely ask for these types of things, the least I could do is buy you a coffee as a thanks for picking up my shift this Friday.” She smiles, her own coffee cup filled with lemon tea sat on the counter you perched on. You sip on your warm beverage as she speaks. Right, you have a double shift in a couple of days from now. Seven in the morning to six in the evening, fun. You roll your eyes at that. It was a day you would make a lot of money though, hopefully you’ll be well rested enough to not be too tired throughout that day. You already knew what you were doing tonight after work, eat dinner with Steven and Marc and go right to bed. You had to get a new laptop this weekend too, school was on Monday and that was less than a week away.

You were stressed about that. You really needed that laptop for your senior year otherwise you would have to drop out and re-enroll next year or try and get your GED. It would be difficult trying to apply once more since they would try to contact you for your whereabouts and why you weren’t doing any school work within the first two weeks of the term. So, you would have to create a new identity and that would be even harder this time around since the American government has finally got most of their shit together. It was pure chaos when everyone came back, the government was backed up on files since the sudden appearance of everyone who was gone for five years came back. It took awhile for them to get ninety percent of the blipped back on file and confirm their status of life.

The cheapest option for you to buy a laptop is if you could find one at a yard sale like you did for your previous one, but that might not happen. You haven’t seen any flyers for a garage or yard sale. You know for a fact you don’t have five hundred euros saved to buy a brand new computer, you had enough for small items like the strawberry waffles you keep internally promising to buy for Marc and Steven, and maybe the pyramid paperweight you saw at that glass shop a couple of months ago.

“What are you thinking about?” Lauren asks as she sips her tea. You could see the lemon flavored tea paper attached to the tea bag string in her cup from where you sat. You blink tiredly at her and smile.

“Just the amount of sleep I didn’t have last night.”

“You haven’t slept?”

“I’ve been up for-” You pause and place your coffee next to you before you count off the amount of hours you have been up since. You worked yesterday and didn’t get any shut eye last night. Your shift yesterday was at eight am, but you woke up at six thirty and right now it's nearing ten, so you’ve been up for almost twenty-eight hours and you don’t get off until three.

“I’ve been up for almost twenty eight hours.” You tell her and her mouth drops open.

“Are you serious?”

“Deadass.” You say as you pick up your coffee and sip on it. You didn’t want to drink it too quickly and have a caffeine crash mid-shift or on the bus ride back to the apartments and miss your stop. You were falling asleep on your feet this morning, the passenger you almost fell asleep on moved several feet away from where you stood so you couldn’t drool on their backpack.

“That’s not healthy.” Lauren says with a frown. “Is there something keeping you up?” You let the caffeinated liquid sit in your mouth as you think of what to say. You couldn’t tell her the whole truth. It would sound insane if you did. You can’t tell her about Khonshu and his declaration of not being the god that held you out a window Saturday. You also have to keep quiet about your neighbor who you began to trust and his lies that made you take a couple steps back and think of who he is. Could you trust him completely? You don’t know and that thought alone hurts you. You can’t tell her about your friend, Layla, and her weird absence on Saturday, what was up with that? Maybe she was doing some black market shit? That would be a huge can of worms to open with Lauren. And finally, you can’t talk to her about Jake and how he threatened to kill you and yet, he saved your ass and made sure you were breathing for a month and a half; and now his absence and zero want to communicate with anyone, including you, kind of, surprisingly, hurts.

You don’t like that he threatened to kill you, but for a while, he was the only person you had. You can’t tell Lauren that because she would absolutely call the police.

“I’m just anxious,” You tell her a slice of the truth. Saying that this weekend was terrible would be an understatement.

“Do you want to talk about it?” She asks. You knew that she truly meant her promise about how you could talk to her about anything. But, you can’t take her up on this. Maybe in the future you can tell her about any normal problem such as how you mixed colors in your wash and now all your white shirts are pink and the amount of frustration you feel for yourself for that mistake. But, this anxiety issue needs to be kept away from her. You don’t know what you will do if Lauren ever finds out the truth about what you know. You will admit that you would feel relieved that you had someone normal to talk to about the existence of deities, your neighbors and how one works for a god and took down a cult, and also your friend's occupation as an illegal seller for the black market. You can’t let her in on the truth about yourself, though. If Lauren ever finds out about your real age and your fraud, she will never trust you again. Straight to the police station you go.

“I don’t know why I’m anxious,” You lie and shrug to make it more believable as you bore your tired gaze onto her. “I need to start taking melatonin if this becomes a habit.”

“You’ll need to go to the doctor if this becomes a habit.” She corrects. “When was the last time you went to the doctor?”

“When I lived in New York, I think I was…” You squint in thought. “Thirteen.” It was true that the last time you visited the healthcare clinic was for a bone you thought you broke but turned out you sprained it. That was- for you- nearly four years ago. But as far as Lauren knew that was-

“Five years ago?” She says. “Ten years actually! The healthcare here is free, you need to go get some check-ups done.”

“I know, I know.” You groan. “It’s just that it costs so much in America without the insurance and even if you did have insurance it would cost like five hundred dollars for it.”

“Well, it’s free here.”

“I know.” You repeat. “It was a habit to not go to the doctor or the hospital unless you absolutely needed it.”

“A habit that is free to break.” She says. You nod in agreement. “Molly needs to go to the doctors soon for her yearly check up.”

“Oh yeah?”

“She needs to go on the scale and the measurement scale and get her knees tapped at with those hammers.”

“Any shots?”

“I don’t think so.” She says. “Jamie needs to get his four year shots next year. He needs to get his polio and mumps and measles. When Molly got hers, she was crying and we had to reward her with ice cream for being so brave.” You smile at the thought of little Molly crying as she ate her ice cream. It was a comedic sight to imagine. The last time you received any vaccinations was for your annual flu shots in your local pharmacy, you were fifteen and still underneath your parents insurance plan. You should make an appointment for the flu shots this year so it wouldn’t hit you as hard as it did last year, but you weren’t sure if you needed to be insurance to receive the vaccinations.

“Well, it’s Jamie's turn to get ice cream for his reward.” You smile. “Are you packed for your trip?”

“No,” She groans. “We’re doing that tomorrow. We still have to pack the kids bags since they’re staying at Kris’s parents house this weekend.”

“Are they excited to be staying at their grandparents house?”

“They are! They don’t seem to realize that it’s more than one night though.”

“It’s going to be a surprise when they realize that you aren’t picking them up until Sunday night.” You laugh. “They’re going to miss their mom’s.”

“Every time I think about that I almost begin to cry.” She says. You glance at her and sure enough there were tears forming in her eyes.

“It’s just for the weekend, they’ll be fine.”

“Their grandfather is going to feed them a lot of sugar and send them home with us.” She says, you laugh.

“That’s the rules though.” You say. “They’ll eat the sugar and be hyperactive before inevitably crashing.” “Just like you are?” She asks and gestures to the coffee next to you.

“You’re the one who ordered it to be sugary.”

“Well, having pure black coffee is a crime.”

“My dad used to drink it straight from the pot without adding any milk or sugar to it. He should have gone to jail for it.” You joke and she grins at that. “I don’t know how he did it, but he drank it every morning.” A ping of sadness hits you as you finish the statement. Your dad will never drink coffee again and you will never have the opportunity to make fun of him for it with him standing next to you.

“What’s your favorite coffee so I know what to order for you the next time around.” She asks and you swallow around the lump forming in your throat.

“You don’t have to-” “I know I don’t,” She cuts you off. “So spill, what is it?”

“Caramel Frappuccino.”

“You basic bitch.”

“You can’t just ask me for my favorite drink and bully me for it.”

“I just did.”

“You have no room to speak because you are drinking lemon tea.” You gesture to her paper cup.

“At least I have taste.”

“Yeah, weak ass taste.” You scoff. “You didn’t even get raspberry and mint or some other tea with more than one flavor. You paid a coffee shop to make you tea, something you could have made at your own place.”

“I could say the same for your coffee.”

“Actually you can’t because I don’t have a Keurig.” You say before you pick up your cup and sip on the liquid.

“This is why us English people don’t like you Americans.”

“We don’t even like ourselves.” You laugh and she chimes in with you. The noise hurts your ears in the small space but the sound was melodic. A light feeling spreads through your chest as you both giggle at your teasing of each other. You missed this, the feeling of being relaxed and carefree enough to crack some jokes. It’s been awhile since you haven’t been obsessed with whatever new drama was happening in your life. It was nice to have a normal friend who wasn’t tied to deities or cults. Once the laughter dies out, a comfortable silence settles between you. The bell above the entrance rings and Lauren pushes herself off of the cart and briefly pats your thigh as she passes you.

You could hear her greet the customer from where you sat on the counter. You listen to her talk about the specials of the day and if there were any coupons underneath the desk that the customer could use for their meal. You only tuned out when you began staring blankly at the box of spices on the shelf across from you. Saying you were ready for bed would be an understatement. The caffeinated beverage was helping a little but not as much as you wish that it would. The word of the black pepper on the side of the cardboard box you burn your gaze into became indistinct the longer you stared at it. You knew what the word was and what it meant, but there was an odd disconnect from it. Your brain was not quite clicking it together in your mind.

This only happened one other time when you were at your lowest a couple of weeks after moving to London. Everything that was words whether it was on the back of a granola box or sentences of articles on your phone became a blur of unknown words and phrases that you could not comprehend for the life of you. Staring at the two bolded words in front of you now, an odd feeling settles in your chest. You couldn’t describe the feeling, it was hard to put a finger on what it felt like. You force yourself to blink and look away from the box. You could hear Lauren tell the customer to have a good day before you hear her footsteps on the tile floor and see her near you out of the corner of your eye.

“I was joking about your taste,” She says as she hops back onto the cart and grins at you. “If that wasn’t clear and you feel insulted about your terrible choice in coffee.” She adds. You don’t say anything for a moment as you muddle your way to form a proper sentence in your mind and make it roll off of your tongue so she wouldn’t get concerned and send you back to your apartment early.

“I know and I was joking about your poor taste in tea.” You say, it doesn’t sound like it came from you despite the vibration in your throat. You rapidly blink as she parts her mouth in fake irritation. You breathe in through your mouth and hold your breath for a moment before letting go.

“It’s decent taste actually.” She defends herself. The words on the box in front of you made much more better sense in your mind as you forced out a laugh. This time the noise sounded like it belonged to you.

You trail your tired gaze back to her as you say, “Hmm. Sure.” Whatever has just happened to you scared you a little. Maybe it was caused by the lack of sleep you had, whatever it was you didn’t want to experience again.

Lauren didn’t seem to notice you as she says, “That customer wanted me to put crisps on their sandwich.”

“Did you?”

“No! That would be cross contamination if I did.”

“Good.” You say. “Emily told me that someone asked her if she could put cookies on their sandwich.” She wrinkles her nose at that.

“Cookies?” She says, “Like the ones in the cookie cabinet?”

“Those exact ones. Chocolate chip onto of their ham sandwich.” You reply. You watch as a look of disgust forms on her face and you agree with her. When you first heard the story, you had the same expression as she has now. You pick up your coffee and sip on it.

“That's disgusting.”

“I can get potato chips on top of a sandwich, but cookies?” You shake your head. “That's a crime in itself. They need to be jailed.”

“Agreed.” She says. The bell above the entrance rings and you both share a look before looking at the monitor. It was just a single customer, you couldn’t tell who they were from the glare of the lighting but that didn’t matter. You trail your gaze away from the monitor and to Lauren.

“Your turn.” She says before she picks up her own cup and sips on her tea. It was only fair if you were to take turns until lunch rush came. You blink tiredly and yawn as you place your cup onto the counter and hop off of it. You raise your arms above your head to stretch your muscles as you begin to walk to the front. Another yawn escapes you as you greet your first customer of the day.

You don’t care how many orders you messed up today, you were just glad to be ten minutes away from your neighbors apartment. Usually, you would be beating yourself up for putting ranch on a customer's sandwich when they clearly asked for mayonnaise; but you were way past the point of caring by the end of your shift. Your coffee was long gone and your bladder was empty from the endless amount of peeing you seemed to go through today. Caffeine makes you pee more often and you weren’t used to having so much caffeine in a day. You could feel yourself crashing with every step you took towards your apartment complex. Your feet ache and your back hurts a little.

Maybe you’ll change the plans of you passing out after dinner to taking a nap on Stevens couch before eating instead. You don’t know if that would make you more cranky if Steven or Marc wake you for the meal, but you don’t care enough about it. If you’re lucky, maybe Steven has some snacks you could eat instead of waiting for dinner. Or you could just go to your own apartment and sleep on the couch, you could put your phone on silent and shoot Steven a text message stating that you won’t make it to dinner. Perhaps you’ll pop into his apartment and show him that you’re alive and breathing before heading over to your own and passing out for the remainder of the afternoon and night.

You would like to sleep in his bed since it wouldn’t hurt your back as badly as your couch does, and his place brings you comfort, but you just want to sleep in peace more than anything. Marc or Steven might make too much noise for you to fall asleep and you weren’t going to ask them to be quiet in their own flat. If Khonshu or whatever deity decides to fuck with you when you’re trying to sleep in your apartment, damn them. You’re tired and cranky enough to beat a bitches ass if they decide to pull some shit like that. Maybe they’ll be willing to show their face and you can pop them in their jaws. You’ll like to think that you’re pissed off enough to throw hands with them. Either way, sleep was your main priority and nothing was going to-

Suddenly, the feeling of something or someone grabbing the back of your shirt and dragging you into the open end of the alley you were just passing causes you to lose your train of thought. You yelp as you get slammed into the brick wall, knocking your head against it and you let out a groan at the contact. Holy fucking shit. You snap your eyes in the direction of the open end of the alley and see someone standing there. They wore a cloth mask on the lower half of their face and a beanie covering their hair. The jacket they wore was zipped up to their neck and a turtle neck shirt hid any identification on their body, the black pants were baggy on their legs. The only visible thing was their brown eyes and the white skin surrounding it. They held onto a knife with glove-covered hands and you can feel their eyes glaring onto your body. You can not catch a fucking break this week, can you?

“Give me all your money,” They said, their voice deep and gruff. Your stance tenses as you stare at him. Just three months ago you were in almost the exact same situation, why does this bullshit seem to only happen to you? Well, you don’t want it to happen to anyone but it was weird that it happened twice to you.

“I’m flattered that you think I have any.” You say. You know that you shouldn’t be rude to this man and you should hand over any cash you have on you, which you don’t since tips were terrible today. You were more awake than you have been all day thanks to the adrenaline rushing through you. The heaviness in your limbs and the baggy feeling around your eyes was gone. You were slowly planning on how to escape this situation. You could pretend to give him some cash or punch him in his dumb face and run for it; or you could throw your apron at him as a distraction and run- wait where the fuck is your apron? You rack your brain for where you left it and your heart nearly drops to your stomach as you realize that you left it in your locker after you grabbed your phone, keys and the Eye of Horus paper.

Fucking fuck. Okay, scratch that, go with plan number one and if you get shanked, you have to leave the knife in and go get help. God, you just wanted to go nap and this fucker decides to choose you to mug. Life really just stopped holding back their punches, huh? What did you do to upset the universe?

“I know you.” He says after a long pause. You squint at him. Maybe he was a customer you served today and that’s why he says that he knows you? You sure as hell don’t know anybody that would rob teenagers for their tip money. Well, maybe Jake would though? Where the fuck is he when you need him anyways? Man, it would be the perfect time for him to swoop down from the buildings and do his Moon Knight thing. Kick some ass, take some names. Beat the absolute shit out of this guy so you could go take a nap. Do you have to call for him to come appear and save you or does Khonshus job only happen at night? You doubt that Khonshu would warn Jake about the situation that you’re in. The little bird-bitch.

“I don’t know you.” You say. Man, you really should have brought your taser. What’s the point of having a taser if you don’t carry it around on you? You just didn’t want to get arrested for having one on you because it’s illegal in the United Kingdom. But, it would be really fucking handy to have it now. You could feel your phone pressing against your thigh. The emergency number for the U.K is 999, all you have to do is be able to call them if you need to. You should actually dial them and report a mugging but you don’t want to get involved with the police because of what you did to move countries. You only need to call them if you get a stab wound or any other major injuries.

You tuck your fingers inward to make a fist as you prepare yourself to throw hands. You did this last time and you only got away because of your neighbors. They aren’t here now, so you’re on your own. Maybe you’ll call Marc's number if you get stabbed, he was in the marines and a mercenary, he has to have knowledge on stab wounds. He told you not to call his number unless it was a emergency and if this isn’t one than you don’t know what the fuck is.

“You don’t remember me?” He says. You almost snort at how pretentious he sounds.

“Yeah, I don’t remember every brown eyed bitch that is willing to rob a kid.” You say. Why is he so surprised that you don’t know who the fuck he is?

“We met before.” He supplies and you stare blankly at him. You obviously were familiar to him unless he was mistaking you for another person.

“June.” He hints and your mouth parts open in surprise. This man is the same god damn mugger from before! Holy fucking shit. You almost laugh at that. Even after Marc beat his ass, he still is working the same nine to five job and he’s boasting about it. You stare at the eye slits across his face, any bruises that he might have had were healed. He sure as hell didn’t learn his lesson. What were you supposed to say to him now that he confirmed who he is? Hey man, how have you been? Still mugging teens huh? Or: How’s the kids and partner? Are y’all still a family or married? Going through a divorce huh? Yeah, I would divorce you too if I found out you were mugging children.

“Oh,” You say instead. “I thought you were dead for a while.” His eyes narrow at you. You did hope that he wasn’t dead because it would have meant you were a acquaintance to murder; but if he did kick the bucket, it means that you would be safe from this and you would be going up the stairwell and napping sooner than later.

“Still alive and well.” He snarls at you. You glance at the knife he held. It was the size of a bodice dagger, the blade was about five inches long. If you get stabbed, that’s going to cause some damage. Of course, it depends how bad it will be for where he aims and lands on. You just need to throw a punch and push past him. You need to run for your apartment. Wait, should you lead him to where you live? That sounds like a terrible idea. Okay, well, maybe you should book it for the bus stop? There has to be people there. There’s no fucking way that this man would be willing to stab a kid in front of a group of bystanders.

“I still don’t have any-” You start but get cut off by his fist connecting with your face. Your head whips to your right as all your breath seems to stop and freeze in your chest. The pounding in your head covers any noise that could have warned you that he was taking a step forward before you feel his hand wrap the cloth of your shirt into his fist. He smelled like cigarettes and axe body spray. The left side of your face stung from the impact and you knew that a bruise would be forming on your face by tomorrow if you make it out of this situation alive.

You reach up and grasp his wrist, your fingernails digging into the cloth of his gloves. If you’re going to die at the hands of this fucker, you’re going to get his DNA underneath your damn nails for the police. He pulls you forward and slams your back into the wall, whatever breath you had is gone as soon as you felt the impact. Your head stung and your chest aches. You let go of his wrist and form your hand into a fist before swinging. His head whips to the side and he groans at the impact of your fist against his cheek. Slowly, he turns his head and glares angrily at you. Did he seriously not expect you to fight back?

He lets go of your shirt and steps back a little before his fist makes contact with your stomach. You wheeze at the feeling and bend forward, clutching your torso with both hands before he grabs you by the back of your collar and throws you down to the ground. You roll a couple of feet, your skin gets torn apart due to the road burn. You slow to a complete stop and groan as you lay on your side. The gravel of the alley digs into your skin and crunches underneath his feet as he walks towards you. Fucking hell your body hurts. Your palms sting as you roll onto your back and try to catch your breath from being punched in the gut. You need to get up before he kicks the ever-loving shit out of you and gives you a concussion or breaks your ribs or arms.

You need to get up before he makes sure that this is the last bit of daylight you’ll ever see. Through half lidded eyes, you stare at the bright blue sky above you, and watch a bird fly over you with its wings spread wide. You couldn’t tell what type it was and you didn’t care much at the moment to think about it. You just need to get up. You need to get the fuck up. Your palms press into the gravel as you bend your torso to sit up. The muscles in your torso ache in protest as a shadow blocks your view of the sky above you. You bend your neck back and glare at the man before you. You could feel trickles of blood run down your forehead and you saw the drip of blood drop from the arch of your right brow and hit your cheek before continuing on trailing a path down your face.

He swipes the knife across your cheek and narrowly misses your eye. You jerk backwards from him as a sting of pain spikes across the fresh wound and warm blood runs down your face. A gasp leaves you and a scream begins to build up in your throat. This is the moment that you understood that he wanted more than money or any belongings that he could pawn, he wanted revenge; and even though you weren’t the one who beat his ass until he was unconscious, you were there as your neighbor did so and you didn’t stop him.

You saw his leg swing back before you felt his foot make contact with your ribs. You fall back, your head hitting against the ground and once again, all air gets knocked out of your lungs. He steps forward, placing his foot on your chest and putting all his body weight onto the joint as he leans downward a bit and stares at you. The sunlight glints off of the blade he grasps in his hand and momentarily blinds you. This was going to be difficult to run away from since he’s already beating your ass. You need to scream for help, surely there’s someone nearby and willing to check in on you or call the police. Your hands wrap around his calf as you try to push him off of you so you could inhale some air but alas your attempts are futile.

You kick your feet against the ground, scrambling for some leverage. Maybe if you use the force of your torso against him he will stumble away from you. Your shoes slide against the gravel as you struggle to plant your feet onto the ground and force your torso into the yoga bridge pose. He presses his foot down harder and you swore that you felt your sternum crack under the pressure. You let your legs slide down and lay flat against the ground as you stare with anger at the man. You could feel panic begin to settle in your bones as you open and close your mouth like a fish out of water. You need to scream for help but you had no air in your lungs to do so. You try to force away the panic so you would have a clear brain to think with.

Okay, you need to get him off. How do you get this fucking man off of you? Your eyes land on the one sight that all of your male classmates would protect the most during a game of dodgeball at recess in middle-school. He’s a man with a weak spot that happens to be right at arm's length. You should have realized it before, you would have gotten him off of you sooner. You let go of his calf and ball your hand into a fist before harshly slamming it against the area where the sun doesn’t shine. He lets out a gasp of air and stumbles back a few steps. You take a deep breath of air as you waste zero time to push yourself off of the ground.

You spare a glance down at your palms and frown at the sight of blood seeping from the wounds that were made from when you scraped along the pavement when he threw you down. You pat your pockets for your belongings as you walk towards him. He was bent over and clutching his privates as he blocked the only exit to the alley. You need to run past him and book it for either your apartment or the bus stop. You pick up your pace into a jog before pushing your legs to move faster past him. He reaches out on his right side and grabs onto the cloth of your shirt and tugs you towards him. He stands up straight as you call for help, screaming it like you were a getting murdered and it was your last chance of survival, and it sure as hell felt exactly like that. Your back hits his chest as his left arm wraps around your throat and his knife pokes into your throat.

“Call for fucking help one more time and I’ll slit your god damn throat.” He threatens. Huh, this sounds awfully familiar. Your nose began to sting from the tears forming in your eyes. You could only hope that anyone that was nearby would be willing to check on your pleas. Maybe you’ll get really lucky and someone would pass the alleyway and see this. He kicks at the back of your knees, letting go of you temporarily as your knees give out underneath you and hit the gravel. He bends down, wrapping his arm once more around your throat and digging the tip of his blade back into your skin. You feel the blade digging into your throat as he bends down and begins to pat your torso for anything to take from you.

With each hard pat, you know that the spots will be red from his hits. His hands trail down to your jean pockets and he pulls out the Ziploc bag that contains the Eye of Horus paper, your lanyard falls out of the same pocket and lands on the ground.

“What is this?” He says behind your ear. His breath was hot on your ear and you wince at how close he is to you. He keeps your head tucked to his body as he removes the knife from your throat so both of his hands are available to open the baggy. You know that the piece of paper was just that: a piece of paper. But you don’t want him to damage it. It brought you comfort like it was a teddy bear and you don’t want to lose that. He takes out the paper and drops the bag as he unfolds the parchment. You swallow as you look down your nose and at the eye that stares back at you. Your blood drips off of your jawline and onto the paper, a small splat could be heard as it hits the parchment.

“Horus.” He grumbles, “What is that? An anime character or some shit?” You don’t answer, you weren’t going to explain to this prick what this symbol means. He doesn’t add anything but scoffs, you think the sound meant that he finished skimming through the description of the god and the protection symbol. He grips the edge of the paper and you nearly cry out when he tears it in half. Your wide eyes watch as he layers the paper over each other and he tears it once again. He lets the paper drop to the gravel, you swallow around the lump forming in your throat and try to ignore the sting of your nose and tears begin to make your eyesight blurry.

More of your blood soaks the torn paper as his hand travels to your other pocket and pulls out your phone, the lock-screen picture of your parents lighting up on the device with the movement before he clicks the button on the side and the screen goes black. In the reflection, you could see your injured face and the desperation behind your eyes.

“Please don’t take that.” You plead. “That’s the only thing I have left of my parents.” Every photo of the life you had before was on that phone since you don’t visit your old social media accounts in fear of it stating that you were active online. The SD card was still in the phone and any image saved to the device was more valuable than gold to you. You don’t see him pocket the phone but you can hear him do so. This time the tears roll down your cheeks and the sob you were holding back leaves your throat. His grip tightens around your windpipe, making you choke on your own sob and quiet down from anyone who might be nearby. All of this for zero money and just to get some revenge on a teenager for being in the wrong place and at the wrong time. Fuck this dude. You felt the tip of the blade poking into your neck before you saw his right arm was up and pointing the knife at your throat. The tip drags from the right side of your neck and to the back of your neck. Another choked sob escapes you as tears blur your vision and mix with the trail of blood and sting the cut on your cheek.

You felt his boot hit your back before you registered that you were face down on the pavement. The smell of metal, dirt, and paper fill your nostrils before you roll over onto your back with a groan and a half moan for help. He marches a couple of steps to your left and he pulls back his leg, the toe of his boot hitting the side of your head, once, twice, three times before he directs his kicks to your side. He had what he wanted, your phone. He could wipe the memory off of it and reset the device before trading it into a pawn shop for some cash. But, this was the cherry on top of the cake for him. He’s getting his revenge nearly three months later and you were nothing to him but a punching bag.

You don’t know when your eyes closed and darkness took you from the beating you were receiving. But you do know that when your eyes peel open, your lashes stick to your cheeks from the dried blood on your skin, that the world is spinning and it isn't going to stop any time soon. You lay still, your body past the point of it aching and hurting and more into the territory of it feeling like you got hit by a bus and you were in absolute pain. You could feel a puddle of blood surrounding your head and the damp collar of your work shirt didn’t help the suffocating feeling you were experiencing by how it clung to your skin and around your bruising neck.

The sky above you was covered in gray and white clouds that were slowly darkening with patches of blue poking through. It was going to rain soon and you didn’t want to risk walking back to your apartment injured and bloody on wet pavement. You need to get up; and still, despite that realization, you lay there and watch as the clouds roll by and cover the patches of blue. You don’t know what time it is, but you do know that there’s a chance that Steven may knock on your apartment door or call your phone if the bitch hasn’t shut it off yet. He’ll figure something went wrong and he might look for you if you don’t head over for dinner. A selfish part of you didn’t want him to find you bleeding out in an alley and save you from whatever potential internal bleeding you have. Not because it would cause him trauma and self blame for not looking for you sooner; But because, you hope that you will die in this alley due to everything you lost.

Your old life was on that phone. You lost the memories of the life you had before you were blipped. You lost the pictures and videos of your parents and friends; of homecoming dance pictures, trips to Coney Island, and bookstores. You lost the audio of you and your best friend laughing together over some dumb joke and how both of your eyes shined in the video with wrinkled corners and wide smiles. You lost the video of your mother and father speaking your name as they urged you to cut the video and to set it up to a timer for a photo instead. You will never get to look back on how they sounded and spoke your name with love and affection. Your parents lay six feet underground in the same Earth that you walk on every day; and you laying in your own pool of blood was the closest that you have ever been to them since.

Everything was gone simply because a man chose you as his victim and you couldn’t defend yourself well. You don’t notice that it began to rain until you felt the first few drops land on your face. You need to get up and go take care of your injuries so Steven and Marc won’t find you dead in an alley. They will blame themselves for your death and you know that they will also do so for how beaten up you are. You need to get up and you don’t want to. You want to die. You want to give up and go to whatever or wherever it is that you’ll go to after you pass. You want to just call it quits and leave this Earth or roam this planet like a ghost. You just don’t want to exist anymore.

Everything about existence hurts. You hurt; and it’s more than just the physical pain that you were currently going through. You have wounds that you have yet to heal after years of neglect. You want to die. You want to die. You want to die. You want to die, but you still painstakingly push yourself up into a sitting position.

Your sides scream in protest and your breath gets caught in your throat. The buildings around you sway as if you were on a boat and blood mixed with rain ran down your forehead and made you close your right eye to prevent any blinding you. Your palms are wet and sticky with blood, your jeans and shirt cling to your skin with the liquid of the body fluid and rain. Saying that you are uncomfortable would be an understatement. You slowly inhale a breath of air through your mouth, the taste of metal was gross on your tongue. Your sides expands slowly and you only hiss out in pain when a shock floods your torso. You bend forward a bit, the movement causing you to cry out and clutch your bruising side as you squeeze your eyes shut.

Dying is an easy choice, getting up is going to be a bitch. A mumble of string together curse words leaves your lips as you wait for the pain to die out enough that you could focus on opening your eyes and taking in how bad your injuries are. You sure as hell felt like your ribs on your left side were cracked and perhaps broken. You had to have a concussion and the blood loss was making you woozy. The cut on your hands and cheek probably had to have some form of infection beginning to fester in the wounds from the dirty ground; and they definitely will get infected if you don’t clean them properly in a couple of hours. Slowly, you open your eyes and tilt your head down to your damp shirt. You carefully pull back your shirt from your torso and lift it enough just see some of the damage below your belly button on your side.

Blood and rain ran down the visible patch of your torso as you stared at the darkening of your skin, it was slowly turning purple and black. You lower your shirt, you don’t need to raise it up any higher to know that it was matching the bit that you saw. You glance at your right hand, your knuckles are a little swollen and the sight of it makes you a tad bit more numb inside. You did fight back, you did punch him, it just wasn’t enough. You look away from it and to the entrance of the alley way, cars pass with their windshield wipers sliding back and forth across the glass. The windows were rolled up and people were tucked warmly inside with the heater blasting on high. You wonder if anyone saw you knocked out in an alley and thought that you were just a knocked over trash bag with your work uniform being a black shirt and black pants. Did they not notice? Were they too busy paying attention to the road or listening to whatever was happening on the radio? Or did they see you and just not care to check on you?

There were a lot of people like that in New York. Some of the people who were homeless were often doing drugs or drinking their problems away with alcohol. There were several stories of people pushing others onto the subway tracks when the train was visible and about to make its stop. New York was not kind and maybe you thought London would more likely be kind enough to check on a person who was injured. You don’t know if you're grateful or not that nobody seemed to notice you. Your gaze trails to the ground in front of you. There lay the damp and shredded pieces of paper of the Eye of Horus, the ink was running from the rain and your blood; and not far from it was the wet plastic bag you carried it in and the orange lanyard that holds your keys. You bend forward, reaching for the plastic baggy and crying in pain and despair as your fingers wrap around it.

Carefully, you pick up the pieces of paper, most of it falls apart as you pinch the parchment between your fingers and place it into the baggy. You don’t know if the liquid running down your cheeks was the rain, tears, or your blood, but either way you try to collect and save as much as the paper as you could, just so one less thing could get taken away from you. Sobs begin to build up in your chest and you try to hold them in as you focus on picking up the paper Steven gave to you. Your shoulders start to shake as you pick up the final piece and pinch the baggy shut. You hold the bag to your chest as a sob escapes you and soon another one follows. You try to hold in your cries but all that causes is more pain in your body. It wasn’t fair. None of this was fucking fair. Why does this bullshit happen to you?

A choked out sob leaves you and just like that, the water-gates were open and you were completely crying. Nothing was fair, why do you have to have a shitty week? Why did you have to be the one chosen to be this asshole's victim? Why did your parents have to die and why weren’t you in their shoes? You let everything out in your cries and sharp pains of breath. You just wanted a damn nap and you sure as hell got one because you went unconscious for who-knows-how-long. Everything hurts and sucks and here you are: crying in an alley during a rain storm while shivering and drenched in blood and rain water. This was a terrible Tuesday, the worst one you think you ever had. By the time that you calm down enough to think rather than to feel, the rain seemed to become heavier and you were sure that you were getting hyperthermia. You were cold, especially your hands and nose. Your teeth clatter together and your face aches. You need to get up. You let the emotional numbness take over, you feel drained and exhausted.

With the state that you’re in, you’re going to need support on getting up, there is no way that you would be able to push yourself off of the ground without help. You look around the alley, trying to focus enough that you could clearly see your surroundings through the rocking of the world. There wasn’t anything but trash cans and bags of garbage that you could use. Through your hazy thoughts, you consider that you could knock them over and injure yourself more if you did try to use them. Your eyes trail away from the bins and to the brick wall next to you. There was about an inch between each brick that you could use as a ledge to help pull yourself up. It might damage your fingers some but it’s your only chance to get up. You didn’t move to London after committing fraud, get scared by a deity multiple times, and have a knife held to your throat twice just to die in an alley.

You stuff the plastic baggy into your jean pockets and scoop up your lanyard off of the ground and place it into your other front pocket. You cry out as you rotate your body so you’re on your hands and knees before crawling slowly over to the wall. Your body screams as you lift your upper body and grasp the wall with your hands. It took what felt like forever to stand and lean against the brick to help stabilize yourself. The world seems to spin faster as you’re standing and you close your eyes and try to calmly take a breath and do some breathing exercises. Inhale slowly, try to ignore the sharp fucking pain in your side, hold for five, four, three, two, one; and slowly exhale and repeat. You go through the cycle several times until you feel nauseous. Your stomach churns and you don’t have a chance to hold back your vomit. You throw up directly onto your shoes, almost in the same spot you did all those months ago. The taste of bile was gross and your throat burns a bit from it. You keep your eyes closed as you wait for your stomach to settle.

You let out a shuddered breath, the smell of vomit, rain, and metal floods your nostrils as you inhale and prepare yourself to continue to fight. Your eyes flutter open and you stand up straight. With every exhausting step you take, you lean your hand against the wall and move; and you keep moving despite the stumbling of your feet and spinning of the environment around you. You keep moving despite your head pounding and the brightness of the world becoming too much for you; and when you fall due to slipping on a mixture of your blood and rain water on the sidewalk's pavement, you get up and continue. You push forward and persevere just like you always have.

—

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yikesitskennawrites · 2 years

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Transitions- Chapter Twenty-Two: Pressured Conversation With Your Friends

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Pairings: Steven Grant x (platonic) Reader, Marc Spector x (platonic) Reader, Jake Lockley x (platonic) Reader, Layla El-Faouly x (platonic) Reader

A/N: I have college starting back up on September 12th. I’m still not enforcing a schedule because I don’t want to feel pressured to release a half-assed chapter that I’m not satisfied with just because it’s update day. My goal is to release one chapter a week but, I don’t know how possible that is with school-work and my job until school begins. I will try to get out one chapter per week, you can expect long and *chefs kiss* quality chapters but it’s not guarantied to be out every seven days. We’ll see how school goes for me in a few days.

Much love and enjoy~ <3

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The meal of spaghetti Layla had cooked for the two of you was cold. You haven’t taken a bite of it, but rather pushed around the noodles with your fork as you laid your head on the table and watched as the fluorescent lighting hit the metal utensil and caused an occasional glare into your eyes. It was three hours after Layla returned and you haven’t spoken a word. Layla has been asking you questions about what happened and how you got your head wound and arms and legs scraped up; you never answered and you could feel her worried gaze burning into the top of your head as you twirled your noodles on your fork. With the damage to your apartment, the broken door handle, the shattered kitchen light, and the cracked window pane, you knew that you would never get your deposit back if you were to move out.

Layla says your name softly and you keep your eyes trained on the reflection of yourself in the fork. How were you supposed to tell her that Khonshu held you out the window and threatened to drop you to your death? What does the fucking bird have against you? Did he wake up on the wrong side of the nest and decide that today was a day worth scaring you? Did he decide that he had too much free-time on his boney hands and that your fear was worth his entertainment? How do you tell Layla that you almost died because you were on a gods shit-list? What did you do that was so worthy of Khonshu deciding that your death was personal enough to do it himself than to send his avatar to do it for him?

You couldn’t think of anything. You have never hurt anyone physically, well except that one time you accidently hit your locker door into a classmate back when you were fifteen; but you doubt that would make you worthy enough to be taken care of by the god of vengeance. You only stopped twirling your pasta with your fork when Layla set her hand on top of your own. In your peripheral, you could see that she was crouched next to you. You must have not noticed her getting up from her seat across from you and walking around the table. She repeats your name softly, the word rolling off of her tongue and into the tunnel of your mind. You felt like you were standing on the other side of a tunnel and Layla stood on the opposite end. You could hear her clearly, just her presence felt far away from you even though she was right next to you.

“You should talk to me about what happened rather than bottle it up like you have been. I know that it’s hard to talk about these types of things. But if you continue to suppress and hold what you’re feeling it will just explode like it did earlier.” She says. “So, what happened?” Her thumb rubs softly against the back of your hand and the gesture and the memory of the events earlier caused your nose to begin to sting and tears slowly formed in your eyes.

If Layla was there Khonshu would have not done what he did. She wouldn’t have been able to protect you, she's only human after all and she doesn’t have any deity on her side like Jake does, but maybe her presence would have stopped the events from unfolding. It would have postponed the research you did on Marc, but you wouldn’t have been threatened by a god. If Layla was there with you, you wouldn’t be having this night. You would be laughing about some ridiculous joke that she made and finishing up the murder-mystery game. The last time you saw the files of the characters they were still out on the table half-covering the notes Steven has made for whatever Egyptology book he has read. Where did Layla go that was so important that you couldn’t have had a normal day with her?

You could feel yourself getting upset that this happened to you and it could have been prevented if Layla just stayed. You knew that it wasn’t her fault that a god has it out for you for some unknown reason. You just wanted to be upset at someone and unfortunately that someone was Layla.

“Where were you?” You ask. Your voice sounds rough around the edges. You clear your throat as your eyes flicker from your reflection and to the woman in question. She looks a little taken back by your question, her brown eyes shining with golden flecks and her brows slightly raised.

“What?”

“Where were you earlier? Where did you go?” You press. You sit up causing your hand to slip from hers as you drop your fork on your plate. Your head wound stung, it wasn’t hurting as much as it was a couple of hours ago but it still hurt. You don’t have a concussion like Layla thought you may have. It was just a small enough wound that you didn’t need stitches and just the glass taken out of it.

“What was so important that you couldn’t have just stayed?” You finish as you stare down at Layla and she stares back. A tense silence settles between the two of you. You look into her brown eyes, searching for answers that you knew you were never going to receive until you dug for them yourself. With each passing moment, you were becoming more and more positive that Layla would never tell you about where she went. She was awfully a lot like someone you kind of missed right now. The similarities between them made you want to cry, mainly in frustration but still cry nonetheless.

“Maybe you and Marc do make a great couple. You’re just like each other.” You say. You hoped that the jab would hurt her. “Maybe you and Jake would make a fantastic husband and wife duo. You have so much in common with your stupid secrecy.”

“Are you done?” Layla asks. “With your little temper tantrum?”

“Are you going to tell me where you went?”

“Do I have to tell you every little detail of my life? Tell you that I drank a bottle of water at four this morning and have to pee every hour after that until eight? Is that what you want?”

“Why can’t you just tell me why you left?”

“Am I not allowed to leave?”

“No! I just need to know why.” You say. What was so important that she needed to leave at that moment? Why is she getting so defensive about her whereabouts?

“Are you my keeper?” She says in answer. “What happened to you? Why won’t you answer my questions? It’s obvious that something rattled you up enough to shut down and shut me out.”

“I don’t need to be mommied, Layla.”

“Nobody else is doing it.” She says. You bristle at her statement and stand up from your chair before taking a step back. She seems to register what she said moments after it left her mouth.

“I don’t fucking need to be reminded.” You hiss out.

“I’m sorry.” Layla says as she slowly stands up from her crouched position. You shake your head. No, that was one step too far.

“No,” You tell her as you walk backwards to create a bigger distance from her. The feeling of your anger began to simmer in the pit of your stomach. You needed to get away from her before you said anything that could cause the tear between you to widen even more. If you were to speak, you were sure that hurtful words would leave you and you would regret it later. The band-aids on your knees tugged at your skin as you walked towards Stevens bed. Layla was the one who cleaned them with rubbing alcohol and plastered them on when she noticed how badly they were scrapped up; she did the same to the ones on your arms. If it weren’t for the Khonshus temper you wouldn’t have any wounds.

You were thrown like a ragdoll and slid across your floors to receive these burns. Khonshu could have thrown you hard enough that your body would become a crime scene body outline in the brick wall, but he was generous enough to toss you aside once he was ready to let you go. That fucking bitch. You sit on the edge of Stevens bed and you place your head in your hands and close your eyes. Today was too much. You had too much on your plate and nearly crossing into the afterlife simply because a god had it out for you for some unknown reason was the cherry on top of a melted ice cream sundae. Nothing good has happened since you met Marc and Steven. Well, nothing good has happened since you became curious of your screaming neighbor in the lift.

If you didn’t get into the elevator at the same time that Steven running towards the metal box did, you wouldn’t have blinked at him in the hall. You would not be this hurt physically and emotionally if you had not met them. You wouldn’t have to deal with the same nightmare of getting strangled to death while calling for Marc who turns his back away from you and walks away. Instead, you would have another boring summer working at City Subs and listening to Lauren talk about her family, weekend, and whatever fun thing she has planned to do with her kids while you were silently jealous. It would be a boring summer, but you would be safe.

You would not be hurt by a woman you only began a friendship with a couple of weeks ago. You would not be anxiously waiting for three men sharing the same body to come back. The only positive thing you could think of for the last couple of months was that you didn’t spend your time alone. You had someone to ask you how your day went over a warm meal and some television show softly playing in the background. You had that with your parents when they were alive; and you lost that for a year and now you have once again. You don’t want to lose that. But you also don’t want to lose your life because of the deity and a cult doing some sketchy stuff. You don’t want everything you built in the last year to be all for nothing.

Whatever tangled strings are attached to them will cause you to get caught in it too. You release a sigh, as you move your hands and stare at the floor below you. You could see some grains of sand still surrounding the bed. Steven tried his best to vacuum it but didn’t get every single grain. You guess you got tangled in their mess the moment you accepted their kindness of inviting you over to their place to see if you were okay after you nearly got mugged. If you wanted to walk away from them- from all of this- you don’t think you could. Not only because of their threats to turn you in, but because you can’t pass them in the hallway and pretend you don’t know them. You were too tied up to cut yourself out.

You heard Layla's footsteps approaching before you saw her mismatched colored socks in your field of view. You were still a little angry that she pointed out something that didn’t need to be said. But, you felt like you were calm enough to speak to her without ruining your friendship. You place your hands in your lap as you move your gaze up to look at her. She had an expression of guilt on her features. Her brown curls were framing her face as she looked at you.

“Can I sit there?” She asks as she gestures to the open spot next to you on the edge of Stevens bed. You give her a small nod and she moves to sit next to you on your left. You both shared this bed for a little over a week after she gave up trying to sleep on the couch because your nightmares woke her and you needed to be comforted; and yet, with her sitting next to you it was awkward and tense. Mainly because of the argument earlier but it didn’t make it any better to sit in. There was about three inches of space between you as you both stared at the fish tank. You could see the two orange blobs swimming around in the tank from where you sat.

“You want to talk about it?” Layla gently prods and you could feel a spike of anger rush through you before you took a deep breath to help calm yourself down. Anger was not going to get you anywhere in this conversation.

“You want to talk about where you went off to?” You retort and she doesn’t answer. Of course you expected that to come from her, she really was like Jake.

“I came back to you being almost unresponsive on the ground and unwilling to talk for hours. I’m concerned about what triggered this and what caused the injuries you have.” She says. You snap your head towards her.

“And you left for a few hours without telling me where you went and-” You swallow, “and I didn’t know if you would come back. You could have died and I wouldn’t know where you were.”

“I’m going to come back.” She says gently, trying to reassure you of something that wasn’t absolute.

“You don’t know that. My parents left the apartment and they got hit by a car after returning from being blipped.” You say. “They died and I thought they were going to come home. At least- the next time you go out- tell me where you go so I can retrieve your body.” The sentence fell out of your mouth and the silence that followed was loud to your own ears. You move your eyes away from her face and to the band-aids on your arms.

“I’m not asking you to stay with me twenty-four-seven. I want you to have your own life away from me. But- I just-” You cut yourself off, trying to find the words that could describe how worried you are for her. “I know that you can take care of yourself. You carry a gun on you and you work selling things to the black-market so you know how to protect yourself. I just- I’m worried for you.” The idea was kind of laughable when you thought about it. Layla had way more experience in defense and combat than you do. She married a man who was serving a deity and, of course, had probably made some enemies over the years.

Layla knows how to protect herself, but that doesn’t make you any less concerned for her safe return. It was the same for Jake and the system's return. They have a deity on their side, one that wanted you dead, and here you were worried for them to come back. Layla is human. She doesn’t have a god on her side, but she has weapons and knowledge that could protect her if she ever needs to use it.

“I’ll be alright.” She says. You know that she would be. She would try her damnedest to get out of any sticky situation she may find herself in. Layla is a smart woman, you tried to reassure yourself, she will be fine. You nod and feel Layla slowly knit her fingers between your own which cause you to look back at her. She asks, “So, what happened?” It didn’t feel fair to tell her what happened to you and for her not to talk about what was so important that she had to leave this afternoon; but you were getting tired of pressing her for answers. You were slowly succumbing to the exhaustion your body felt, the adrenaline long gone and sleep beginning to tug at your eyes.

“What do you think happened?”

“From the looks of it, you crashed and burned and hit glass with the back of your head.” She says. “But, with the way you’ve been acting, it’s much more complicated than that.”

“When is it never that complicated?”

“Only on the good days.” She replies and for a moment, you both share a smile. You sigh as you think of what to tell her.

“Khonshu tried to kill me and I guess that he decided not to because he tossed me aside and I got these burns from it.” You say. It was the least difficult version of it without going into detail about what happened this afternoon. Layla blinked at you, processing the sentence that just came out of your mouth.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“I did. I just-” She cuts herself off. “What?” You nod and she stares at you. “What happened?”

“He held me out a window and I thought that he was going to drop me.” You tell her. You guess that you were going to tell her all of the details.

“Are you-?” She starts but cuts herself off with a deep breath to help relax herself. “Are you sure that it was Khonshu?” It was your turn to be confused.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean- don’t get me wrong, Khonshu is an absolute dick; but as far as I know he has zero history of doing that to random people.”

“Well, I’m not random. He hates me. Actually tried to get Jake to kill me the night I met him.”

“That’s normal for the cranky bird though. Marc told me that he does it all the time. But that- physically picking you up and holding you out a window?” She shakes her head. “That's unlike Khonshu.” You purse your lips as you slowly look away from her and back to the fish in disbelief. There’s no way that it wasn’t the deity Jake serves. Khonshu had it out for you since day one. You saw his staff in your apartment and he chased you out of the laundry room just because he could. He wanted to prove some sadistic point that he was an all mighty and powerful being while you were just a weak and fragile human whose life could be taken away like getting squashed as if you were a bug.

“Maybe he’s changing up his tactics.” You shrug. “He’s a dinosaur, actually he’s probably older than a dinosaur. Either way, he must be getting bored of doing the same thing over and over again, maybe he wants to switch things up.” But none of that didn’t seem right. Why would a god- who claims he wants to protect the travelers of the night and makes his avatars do his dirty work for him- decide to threaten a near seventeen year old kid by holding them out five stories and chasing them out of the laundry room? As far as you knew, you didn’t do anything wrong, at least nothing wrong that you thought would make you worthy enough to be on his hit-list.

Layla hums in answer and you're both back to staring at the fish tank. She asks, “Are you okay?” You nod.

“Yeah.” You say. You were okay, not great or wonderful, but you were fine. You were still shaken up from it, who wouldn’t be? But you were doing better than you were when you entered Stevens flat a couple of hours ago. You let your body fall back onto the mattress and you stare at the white popcorn ceiling above you. It was a long day- and an exhausting one at that- one that you hoped that you would never experience again. You were going to have a long conversation with the residents of this apartment if, well, when, they return.

You haven’t heard any news since the live coverage of the burning fire ended. The reporters were told from the fire department that it is estimated that seventeen people may have died in the fire since the residents have not been in contact with the owner of the apartment buildings. If you didn’t have the knowledge that Jake was going for the cults' throat and fires were rare in the United Kingdom, you would have thought that this was unlucky for the residents and the community of Birmingham.

The ceiling looks boring without decorations. Your home, back in New York, had glow in the stars decorating the ceiling and small plastic planets hanging from your bedroom ceiling. You got them for your fourteenth birthday after you began to show an interest in space. Most of your gifts that year were space related, the one thing that you wanted the most was a telescope but it was too expensive for your parents to buy. That was alright with you because they did their best to celebrate your birthday outside of expensive gifts. You didn’t need a telescope to be happy.

A yawn escapes you and the noise causes Layla to look over her shoulder at you. You were ready to try to get some rest, you were absolutely done with today.

“What are your plans for tomorrow?” Layla asks. You shift your eyes over to her and tilt your head to the side a bit to get a better view.

“Tomorrow is Sunday, so I guess I’m going to try to enjoy my remaining weekend and summer break before school starts.” You say. School doesn’t begin for another couple of weeks. It starts the week after your birthday and then your senior year will begin. Your last year of basic education. “Why?”

“I was just wondering if you want to finish the game or not.”

“Oh okay.” You pause. “I think Johnathan did it.” He was the classmate and boyfriend of Jessica. He was the only one who didn’t have an alibi from what you remember.

“You think Johnathan killed Jessica?” Layla says and you nod.

“Ten bucks that he was the one who pushed her off of the roof or out the window or whatever it was.”

“Okay.” Layla smiles and turns around and holds out her hand. “Deal.” You sit up a little and shake her hand.

“Who do you think did it?”

She hums, “Dr Hamhall.” You knew she was joking since you both already ruled out that he was with Evie in his counselor office at the time of Jessica's death.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She smiles and you let out a small chuckle. “It’s bedtime.” She adds after a moment. You raise a brow at her.

“Didn’t know I had an assigned time to be in bed by.”

“Only when you had rough days like today.” Layla says and pushes herself off of the bed. You were glad that she cares, but it kind of felt like she was overstepping a boundary you didn’t know existed. You swallow as you think of what to say to her.

“You’re not my mom, Layla.” The words felt a little heavy and bitter rolling off of your tongue and into the air between you. You felt like you needed to remind her and yourself that she wasn’t your mom. It was nice that she was helping you by taking care of yourself and making sure that you were okay, but it felt like she was trying to fill in a role that was already filled. She doesn’t say anything for a few moments and neither do you.

“I know.” She says. You nod a bit stiffly before you scoot up the mattress and pull back the covers to settle in underneath them. You yawn, your body agreeing that it was bedtime. You decide that you are going to change your clothes tomorrow and take a shower then. It was gross but you could spend one more night in the same outfit you wore to bed last night. Layla walks around the edge of the bed and pulls the covers up to your chin. The boundary that you tried to settle was easily crossed and you found yourself not seeming to mind. She wasn’t your mom and she was never going to be your mom; but after today, you kind of wanted to be treated as if you were a much younger child.

You don’t want to be an adult with responsibilities and a job. You wanted to be eight years old again and be tucked or carried into bed and read a book to sleep by your parents. You wanted that and you were never going to have that experience again, but this- with your neighbor's wife tucking you in and making sure you were comfortable and safe- was the closest thing you were ever going to have to that.

She smiles down at you as she says, “Good night.” You repeat the phrase back to her and watch as she turns off the big light before walking towards the couch. You figured that she would stay up longer than you since it was only a little after seven in the evening. You stare at the ceiling for a while, listening to her watch a television show and softly laugh at whatever joke was made. You weren’t paying attention to the show itself but rather Layla.

Whatever happened between Marc and Layla that caused them to have a fallout bigger than just Marc being Moon Knight was between them. You were still hurt that they both lied to you about their marriage status, it definitely made it feel like they were hiding a lot more than just that. But, Layla was right, it wasn’t your business. You just wish that they were more upfront and honest about it than they were. Your apartment door remains unlocked and forgotten as the exhaustion you felt pulls you under and into a dreamless sleep.

Your nightmares didn’t have a chance to wake you. The jolting of the mattress is what made you open your eyes and look to your left to see someone settling into bed next to you. The moonlight filtered in through the cracks of the curtains as they peeled back the covers and laid on the pillow your friend has been occupying for the last couple of weeks.

“Layla?” You ask sleepily. You could hear that the television was off and the lights displaying on the screen were not active. You rolled over onto your side as you made your eyes open more so you could see better in the darkness.

“No.” He said. You blink.

You recognize that voice anywhere and yet you ask, “Jake?”

“It’s Steven.” He says in his usual British accent. You still smile softly and you reach out in the darkness for his hand. You knit your fingers together as you decide that your long conversation could wait for tomorrow when all five of you were awake. You neighbors needed their rest and you did too.

“I missed you guys,” You mumble as you close your eyes.

“We missed you too,” Steven replies. “Go to sleep, dove.”

“M’kay...” You say and sleep once again pulls you under; and this time when you woke from your nightmare, you didn’t wake anybody else up in the apartment like you usually did. Instead of Layla calming you down enough for you to fall back asleep, you rubbed the back of Stevens hand with your thumb and took several breaths. You reminded yourself that it was a night terror and only that until you fell back asleep just as the sun began to rise.

This time, you woke to the sound of voices talking as softly as possible. The sun was filtering into the apartment, casting a yellow glow onto the wooden floor as you sat up and saw Layla and Marc sitting at the dining table. You only guessed that it was Marc because of how he held himself by sitting a little tensenly across from his wife. Whatever conversation they were having was one that you could clearly see and feel the tension in the room. You rub your eyes with the back of your hands before you peel back the blankets and walk to the two sitting at the table. The sound of your bare feet padding across the floor, causes the two of them to look in your direction.

Your eyes first met Layla's, she looks exhausted and it shows her age. She must have had a rough night sleeping on the couch. Your eyes trail over to Marcs and he looked much worse for wear. He had dark circles and bags underneath his eyes and he looks ten years older than the last time that you saw him. The beard and mustache Jake was growing out desperately needs to be shaved or trimmed. The facial hair doesn’t seem to suit Marc even though he shares the same body with Jake. You figure that Steven would do that since he seems to be the one that takes care of the body the most. You wonder if Jake allowed the body to get any rest during the two and a half weeks he was gone.

“You look like shit.” He tells you as you sit in the seat next to Layla, on the opposite side of the table he sat on. You scoff at his statement. You knew that you looked terrible, but not as bad as you were right before Jake left.

“I could say the same for you.” You say. “What's with that?” You gesture to his beard and he furrows his brow before running his hand on it as if he had food stuck in it and he was trying to get it off.

“What?”

“It looks like you have pubes for facial hair.” You say and he rolls his eyes before removing his hands from his beard and flipping you off.

“You look like you've been wearing the same clothes for the last two days.” He points out. The stain of general tso chicken sauce from Friday was on the same pajama shirt you’ve been wearing.

“That’s because I am.” You shrug. You could tell that he was trying to make you feel embarrassed about it but you don’t because you don’t care. Being held out the window five stories above the pavement and finding out the truth about Marc made you be at a point past caring. You had bigger issues than wearing the same shirt for the past two days.

“So, when were you going to tell me?” You ask. Marc stares at you with a bit of confusion on his face.

“What?”

“When were you going to tell me that you weren’t blipped? Or that you were still married to Layla?” You push the questions towards him and his mouth parts a bit. “Did you not expect me to find out?” You wait for him to respond but nothing comes out of his mouth but air. “Are you fucking serious, Marc?” You say incredulously and glare at him. “You could have told me the truth and it wouldn’t have mattered. I wouldn’t have thought twice about it. I would have thought that you were doing something else during those five years I was gone.” You throw your hands up into the air. “But now I’m thinking that you were doing something terrible enough for you to lie about during those five years; and y’know what? It’s also about you lying about being blipped. That's the one thing we had in common and I don’t know- for some fucking reason I felt like I wasn’t alone in losing five years of my life because you did too. But, no. That's a lie.”

“How long did you know about him?” Marc asks. You stare at him incredulously. He’s not fucking serious, is he?

“You’re seriously going to ignore-”

“How long.” He cuts you off.

“About Jake?”

“No, the pizza man-” He rolls his eyes, “yes about fucking Jake.”

“About a week before you and Steven found out.” You answer and he runs his hand down his face.

“Tell us about anything that has to do with our lives? Remember that handshake? Well, that applies to you too.” Marc states and crosses his arms over his chest.

“Well, I'm sorry that there's not a damn handbook on how to tell your neighbor that they got a bonus person living rent free in their headspace.” You tell him. “It’s also fucking hard to tell somebody when said renter threatens to slit my throat if I were to tell you.” Marc stares at you. “So excuse me on deciding to take some time on how to tell you that Jake was in the headspace.” A tense silence settles between you and you take several breaths to help calm yourself enough to clearly ask about his past.

“How long have you worked as Khonshus bitch, Marc?” You ask.

“I don’t. Not anymore.” He says and eyes you from across the table.

“Okay, well, how long did you work as Khonshus bitch?”

“Ten years.” He answers and both of your brows shoot up in surprise. Ten years of dealing with a god's bullshit? No wonder he looks like he has a stick up his ass most of the time, it's Khonshus staff that's up his ass.

“So you know him well enough that you know what he’s like and not like?”

“He’s an asshole.”

“Great. That's something we both can agree on.” You say. “So, Yellow Bird held me out my apartment window and nearly dropped me yesterday, does it sound like something he would do?” Marc stares at you, his mouth parting in concern and surprise.

“What?”

“Yeah.” You say. “What do you think?”

“Khonshu isn't the type to get his hands dirty himself.” Marc says. “He threatens his avatars and usually has us do his deeds for him.” You nod slowly. Everything from the last forty-eight hours is beginning to feel much heavier on you than it did the day before.

“What do Jake and Steven think?” You ask. You don’t trust Jake completely, but you do think he has some valuable things to say as the god's avatar.

“Steven says that he agrees with me.”

“And Jake?”

“I don’t know.” He says. “We haven’t heard from him since the buildings burnt down.” You frown.

“Well, pull him forward.”

“I can’t just pull him forward.” Marc says. “I don’t even know where he’s hiding.”

“So, he’s not going to talk to me?”

“He’s not going to talk to anyone.” Marc answers. “And he won’t be talking to anyone.” Your frown deepens. You sit silently as you watch the shadow of a bird appear and leave on the floor as they fly by outside of the window. Jake did say that he was no longer going to be fronting once Harrow's cult was gone and he’s sticking to his word.

“Okay.” You breathe out. It’s not like you could force Jake to come out of hiding to answer your questions. But you could force Marc to speak about his lies. “So, what did you do during the time of the blip?”

“None of your business.” He says stiffly.

“I think it becomes my business if you’re willing to lie about being gone for five years.” You say. “You said that you were Khonshus bitch for ten years, so you were his during the blip.” He doesn’t answer and you could feel yourself growing frustrated at his silence.

“What did you do that was so bad during that time that you don’t want me to know?” You say. More silence. You let out a humorless chuckle. “I think there's nothing bad that you could have done compared to a deity hanging me out the window.” You weren’t completely sure in your statement but you hoped that it would reassure him enough to crack. He stays quiet and you press your lips together. Fine, you’ll pull his teeth out if you have to, you gave him a chance to speak.

“You’re thirty-eight years old. You were born March ninth in the year 1987 in Chicago, Illinois. You had a brother named Randall, he died in 1996. Your mothers name was Wendy and she died in March this year.” You see Layla whip her head in your direction and you don’t bother to look at her as the information you stored in your mind begins to fall out of your mouth. “Your fathers name is Elias, he is a Rabbi and he’s still alive and kicking; he lives in the same childhood home your parents bought together. You graduated high-school in 2004 and you went directly into the Marines only to be discharged three years later; and from my guess it has to do with your superiors finding out about your disorder. But I couldn’t find anything on you after that. It’s like you fell off the face of the Earth. ” You admit as you burn your gaze into the man across from you.

“But Steven and you have mentioned stuff about you being a mercenary so, you had to be doing that for quite a while.” You pause. “From 2025 and counting back ten years makes it 2015 and then to 2007?” You count off on your fingers. “That's eight years. So, you had to be doing mercenary shit during that time; and you didn’t have anything stating you were alive until this year.” You say. “Which makes sense because you don’t want your name out on the web or in articles stating who you are if you’re doing sketchy shit, right? And it only made it easier to state that Steven was blipped, since the apartment is in his name and he got a job as the museum's gift shoppist; and you and I both know how easy it was to fraud papers after coming back from being blipped.” You smile without humor. “So, you did eight years of being a mercenary and ten years of being Khonshus bitch.”

“Your mother died?” Layla says.

“You did your research.” He says, ignoring Layla's question.

“It’s only fair if I return the favor.” You shrug. “But, what doesn’t make anything clear is what you did during the blip. Layla says you got married- which is fantastic for you two love birds, by the way, love that for you. But, uh, that doesn’t explain what else happened for those five years.”

“I don’t have to tell you anything.” He says, glaring at you. His brows were squished together as he directed his angry look towards you. Once again the expression reminded you of your dad when he was angry and that caused you to become more upset because he didn’t have a right to make you miss your dad.

“Yeah?” You scoff. “I think I deserve to know.”

“Why’s that?”

“I was held out a fucking window and chased out a laundry room and it’s all your fault.” You say. His angry glare turns into a neutral one and the edges of panic begin to seep into his expression. You frown at him, too upset to correct yourself and tell him that he couldn’t control the deities' actions.

“It’s not my fault.” He weakly protests, his voice cracking halfway through the sentence. You take a breath, opening your mouth to agree with him before you see the simple switch by the posture of the man loosening. Steven.

“Nice to see you, Steven.” You say. Layla looks between the two of you and you watch as Steven looks to his right towards the fish tank and frowns.

“He left.” He says. You raise a brow.

“Who?” You ask. Did Marc or Jake leave? They both better come back.

“Marc.” Steven says.

“Marc left.” You say. “Like, he’s hiding like Jake is?” Steven nods and you lean back in your chair with a huff. “Did my interrogation become too much for him?”

“Something like that.” Steven mumbles without looking at you. You groaned, you were sure that you were close to getting him to crack.

“Did you know?” You ask. You shake your head. “Wait, scratch that. You knew that Marc and Layla are still married but you called her your ex-wife.” You watch him shift awkwardly in his seat. “You knew and you just- you let me believe that you were divorced.” You stared at him in disbelief. “You knew.”

“It’s easier.” He says quietly. He looks down into his lap and your mouth opens and closes a couple of times. Layla leans forward, placing her elbow onto the table and propping her head with her hand.

“And telling the truth isn’t?” You ask incredulously. You couldn’t believe these men. “I feel stupid. I told you both everything when Marc did his research on me and you can’t even return the favor?” Steven doesn’t look up from his lap and you shake your head in disbelief. “I thought that maybe I could- maybe..” You take in a shaky breath. “Maybe I could trust you. But clearly you both have something to hide.” You glance between Layla and Steven. “Both of you.” You pause, “So, Layla. Mind sharing with the class what the fuck is up between you and Marc?”

“Marc was supposed to clarify what happened the night my father was murdered.” She says. You stare at her with your mouth agape. “And he didn’t this morning because you woke up.” You didn’t think that she would tell you anything, you thought that she would tell you that it wasn’t any of your business.

“When was that?” You ask. “When did your father die?”

“Ten years ago.” She says. You open and close your mouth a few times. Ten years ago? That would have been the beginning that Marc became Moon Knight and…the end of his mercenary time?

“Shit.” You say and she nods.

“Shit.” She agrees. The three of you sit in silence for a moment. You run your hand down your face and your stomach growls. You didn’t eat dinner last night nor did you have breakfast this morning. Steven looks up at the noise and you watch as his mouth forms an O shape.

“You look better.” He says. “Y’know from the last time that I saw you.”

“Two and a half weeks ago.” You say.

“Have you been sleeping well?”

“As best as I can.” You tell him.

“Are you hungry?” He asks. “I can make us vegan waffles.” You smile bitterly at that. You wanted to accept his breakfast offer but you don’t think you can sit in the same room with him and eat his food without being too upset about his lies and his part in keeping the truth from you.

“I, um, actually need to get going and make sure that there aren’t any birds living in my flat since the window was left open. I doubt Khonshu closed it.” You stand up, your legs pushing the chair back. You didn’t know if it was Khonshu that held you out the window, but the gods' hatred for you was the only lead that suggested it. You wanted Jake's opinion on it since he was the gods current avatar unless he quit after the buildings were burnt down. Maybe Jake knows more than Marc or Steven does. The corners of Stevens lips turn downwards as you grab your phone off of the table from where you left it yesterday.

“I missed you.” He says as you grab your lanyard too. The spare key to Stevens flat was still attached to it and the sight made your heart ache.

“I missed you too.” You breathe out. “But, I just need some time to myself after-” You cut yourself off. You didn’t want to go back to the apartment alone, you didn’t want to leave again and avoid him for a week like last time. You just needed to be able to process everything within the last two days and desperately take a shower and get new clothes. Maybe you’ll come back for dinner. You definitely will see him tomorrow though. You just needed time.

“I’ll come with you.” Layla says and stands up, raising her arms into the air as she stretches. You were upset at her too, but you weren’t going to decline her offer of watching your back just in case Khonshu shows up and decides to follow through with yesterday's threat. You smile at her thankfully and she grabs her own phone off of the table.

“Try and get some rest, Steven.” You say as Layla slips on her shoes. “You look like you need it.” You slip on your own shoes and he stands up from his chair.

“I’ll make you dinner and keep it in the oven for you, yeah?” He says and you look at him. Maybe you’ll feel better enough by dinner to be able to eat with him and accept the food he makes.

“Okay.” You whisper. He nods slowly and you take a step back. “We’ll talk later, alright?” You add and he nods in agreement.

“Laters gators.”

“See you in a while crocodile.” You reply and with that you leave his apartment and walk the short distance to yours with Layla trailing behind. You turn the handle of your door and push it open the sight before you make you think that you got robbed. Your couch was overturned and the table was too. The dry wall was dented with your laptop resting a couple of feet from it and the charger was against the opposite wall near the door. You stepped into your apartment, setting your phone and lanyard onto the counter with your jacket and the stain remover stick the vending machine spat out a couple of months ago.

“Woah,” Layla says as you both look around the room. “What happened to this place?” You breathe out harshly through your nose as Layla shuts the door behind her. You knew just from your laptop still being in your apartment that it wasn’t a human that caused this because they would have taken it and tried to sell it; but rather a certain god did this just out of spite.

“It looks like Khonshu decided to throw a bitch fit.” You say. You look at the dented drywall of where you think your laptop hit the wall and broke the surface. Yep, there goes that deposit. You run your hands down your face as you try to stop the angry tears forming in your eyes. You take another breath and count to ten slowly before you remove your hands and stare ahead at the cracked window. You just know that the leak that took forever to get maintenance to fix wouldn’t make a difference this winter since the rain will get in from the crack alone. You can not catch a damn break can you?

There was nothing that you could do besides put it all back together to the way that it was before Khonhus tantrum. You bend down and pick up the scattered photos of your parents and set them on the counter before pulling up the table and setting it onto all of its legs. You make sure that it was stable before moving to the couch and pushing it back upright with Layla's help. Together, the two of you set your apartment back to normal, back to the way that it was.

Your laptop screen was cracked and the screen was snapped in half, laying on the ground and only attached together just by the wires. It was another expensive thing on your list to buy for school three weeks from now. You needed a new laptop anyways, but you wanted to buy one after you wrapped up high-school. You pinch the bridge of your nose at the sight and you take several breaths to help calm yourself down before you release the building up screams and yells of all your anger for the damn god. You barely stop your anger and frustration from escaping as you release the last ten second hold of air in your lungs.

Your eyes trail away from the laptop and towards the open window, the sunlight hits the glass and casts the crack more brightly. You blink at the sun beams as your eyes adjusted to its brightness while you walked closer to the cracked window to get a better view of how bad it was. You could see the bits of glass missing from the pane and the glass dotted with your dried blood; but more importantly, you saw the web of tangled strings that you were knitted in. You stood still, staring at the web of cracks for a moment longer before you walked forward silently and closed the window and locked it shut.

—

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yikesitskennawrites · 2 years

Text

Transitions- Chapter Twenty-One: Researching Marcs Past

Series Masterlist

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Pairings: Steven Grant x (platonic) Reader, Marc Spector x (platonic) Reader, Jake Lockley x (platonic) Reader, Layla El-Faouly x (platonic) Reader

—

“Do you think it was Dr. Hamhall, who killed Jessica Reeves?” Layla asks. She stood with her hands placed down onto the surface of the table as she stared at the evidence laid out before the two of you. You lean on your hand with your elbow propped up on the table as you toyed with the corner of the page file for the boyfriend of the victim. His name was Johnathan Drew, he was seventeen years old and a football athlete. The game was what Americans call soccer in the states. You were a little confused when Layla read off the description of him and showed you a picture of the teen kicking a ball rather than throwing it.

“No,” you say. “It says on his file that he was in his councilors office during the time of her death. The office is in the main building, looking at this map.” You pause and search through the piles of paper before you finally find the school building map buried underneath several other documents and some of Stevens belongings. You and Layla cleared off the table the best that you could but some of it was still cluttered with the man's stuff. One of the items on the surface that intrigued you the most was to the right of you, resting on the edge of the table. The book that Steven was working on before Jake took over. It contained the four gods Khonshu, Taweret, Horus, and Anubis. Only some of it was complete.

“Here.” You say, dragging your attention from the corners of your eyes and to the task at hand. You found the paper of the school map and handed it to her. “The main building is on the left side and the gym is over in the upper right hand corner. Jessica's file says that she died in the gym parking lot, remember?”

“I remember.” Layla states as she sets down the paper on top of the table. “He could be lying.”

“If there wasn’t the evidence that Evie was visiting him during the time of Jessica's death.” You say. Evie was Jessica's classmate. She was a year below her and apparently Evie looked up to Jessica like she was her older sister.

“They could be working together.”

“They could.” You say as you lean your head back onto your hand and watch as Layla purses her lips at the sight of you. You were up almost all night and this time it wasn’t completely the nightmares fault but rather your overthinking of what Marc is hiding. His secrecy didn’t bother you before. You were fine with him keeping secrets since you figured he would tell you on his own in due time. But if he’s willing to lie to you about being blipped, something you and billions of others have gone through and that you still struggle with in the present, than whatever it is that he is hiding from you must be bad enough to not admit to it outright; and frankly, you were a little too upset to let that slide without doing some investigating. He searched up on your past, why can’t you return the favor to him?

“Are you having fun?” Layla asks. You raise an eyebrow at her.

“Yeah?”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” “Are you positive?”

“Yes, Layla.” You answer and she squints her eyes in suspicion at you.

“I think you’re lying.”

“Well, I’m not.” You reply. You both hold eye contact for a moment before she pulls out a tucked in chair and turns it around so she's straddling it and leaning over the backrest.

“What’s wrong?” She asks. “You’ve been down since dinner last night.”

“I have not been down.”

“Yes you have.” “No, I haven’t.” “Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.” She says, her tone final. “You have.” she pauses and gives you a hard look for a couple of seconds before saying, “You slept better last night. You didn’t wake up at two.” You felt a ping of guilt since Layla has gotten used to your nightmares waking you up and your screams waking her up in the early morning hours.

“That’s because I was awake at two.” You say. “I couldn’t sleep.” She tilts her head to the side a bit.

“Is this about Marc's lie? Is that what’s bothering you?”

“No.”

“Don’t lie.” Layla says. “You can talk to me, remember that?”

“Okay, yeah.” You admit and raise your hands into the air in surrender. “It is.”

“Marc lies a lot.” Layla says. She pushes around some of the papers on the table. You could see the upside down face of Evie from where you sat.

“Did he lie a lot in your marriage?” You ask. You don’t know how personal that question may be but either way, Layla stares down at the face of the classmate of the victim in silence. You could hear Gus fish tank and the noise of the daily commuters on the street below.

“No.” She says. “He was pretty open about being a god's avatar once we got married. He just didn’t unpack the baggage he had from being Khonshus fist of vengeance. He would come home each night and just…the job chipped away at him. Marc isn’t talkative about how he’s feeling.” You scoff and nod a bit in agreement. You figured that as Khonshus avatar that Marc killed plenty of people or beat them up until the brink of death. It would take a toll on anyone sane. You find that it's hard to speak or think about your own trauma, you couldn’t imagine having to keep reliving it every night as a god's avatar.

“You said that Jake was just like Marc.” You say. “And you also said that Marc hides a lot of things. Care to share?”

“I am not sharing any of that with a teenager.”

“Eighteen on paper.”

“Since when?”

“May of last year. But my birthday is the same as my real one, just a different birth year.”

“Shouldn’t you be…” She ticks off her fingers. “Twenty then?”

“I don’t bother to keep track,” You admit. “I don’t really care. I just say I’m eighteen because I have to be an adult.”

“Okay, well. You ‘turned’ eighteen…?”

“September.”

“Okay. You turned eighteen in September of last year?”

“No. It would have been the year before that because I just came back from the blip and I had to change the age to eighteen before I moved to the United Kingdom.”

“Right.” Layla says. “So, that’s two years ago?”

“Yes.”

“So you should be turning twenty rather than nineteen on paper.” “Yeah.” You answer and you both stare at each other.

Layla blinks a couple of times before asking, “Why do you say you’re eighteen then?”

“Because it’s a little easier to keep track of.”

“You’re not afraid that someone will notice your age mess ups?”

“I’m more afraid of someone taking a look at my passport and realizing how fake it is than someone counting on their fingers how long I’ve been eighteen.”

“Which is fairly easy.”

“If they were paying attention.” You say. “The only people who seem to care are you, Steven, and Marc.”

“What about your coworkers?”

“I only really talk to Lauren and she has her head on backwards most of the time since she's busy with her kids and picking up the manager's position.” You shrug. “Lauren is a good person, she’s really smart and kind, but I don’t think she’ll put two and two together any time soon and if she does, I can just make up some lie about wanting to stay in my prime or some shit.”

“In your prime?” Layla laughs. “You’re saying that twenty is old?”

“It’s like four years from now. That's a long time.”

“I remember being twenty.”

“Really? I thought that was like a billion years ago for you.”

“Shut up.” Layla says, causing you to laugh. She smiles at the sight of you.

“What was twenty like for you?” You ask once your laughter settles down enough for you to speak.

“I was visiting archaeological dig sites with my father and I was elated to uncover old relics and bones and discover lost things. I was just getting into my job of selling the things I found to people who wanted to buy.” She had a bit of a sad look in her eyes as she spoke. You shift in your seat and cross your arms over your chest. You could tell that it was a bit of a touchy subject for Layla to talk about.

You understood that so you asked as a distraction, “Are you and Marc dating?”

“What? No.” She wrinkles her nose at the question as if it had a bad odor attached to it.

“I was just wondering why you both would meet up at a restaurant and not call it a date.” You shrug. Honestly, you were just nosy about it, the question has been on your mind since Marc told you that he was meeting up with Layla about a month and a half ago.

“We never met up.”

“I know, Jake fucked that up.”

“Marc was supposed to clarify a few things for me.” Layla admits.

“Yeah.” You breathe out a forced laugh. “Like he’ll do that.” She hums in response. “Is that why you signed the divorce papers?”

“Marc sent me unsigned divorce papers.”

“Unsigned?”

“Unsigned.” She confirms. “I never signed them.”

“Wait. What?” You look at her. “Hold on. Back up.” You sit up straighter and place your hands onto the table. “Marc sent you unsigned divorce papers and you never signed them?”

“Yeah?”

“I just-” You stand up. What the fuck was going on? “I thought you guys have been divorced. Marc calls you his ex-wife and you even said he was your ex-husband a couple of times.”

“So let me get this straight. Marc sends you unsigned divorce papers and you don’t sign them, and you call each other your ex-husband and ex-wife? But, you’re still legally married by the government?”

“You got it right.”

“I-” You breathe out a laugh. You couldn’t wrap your mind around it. They really let you believe that they were divorced. “And you just never…clarified? You both were going to let me go on and believe that you both were divorced since I first met you and Marc, but you thought that it would be best to just never clarify?”

“There’s no need to.” Layla says with a shrug. “What’s happening between me and him isn’t any of your business.” You stare at her, your mouth parts a bit. She was right, you knew she was. It wasn’t any of your business, their relationship and how they fix their problems was never yours to learn about. But, being kept in the dark and being convinced that your neighbor and your babysitter were divorced until learning that they weren’t was a real shocker. Marc lied about the blip and his marriage status while Layla lied about the latter. What else were they hiding?

“You keep stuff hidden too, just like your husband.” You say. The sentence felt bitter on your tongue as it rolled out of your mouth. You thought you had Layla figured out. She was the type of person to be honest and direct about the things that mattered. You thought that you could trust her with telling you the truth. But, apparently you were wrong. You watch her as she opens her mouth to retort but something caught her attention. She whipped her head to her left towards the open window. You moved your gaze in the direction and watched as the curtains moved a little due to the light breeze floating into the apartment. You felt the air shift around you into something tense. The anxiety in your stomach was hard to chalk up to whatever got Layla's attention or the conversation you were just having. You looked around the room, trying to find the source of what made you uneasy but you couldn’t pinpoint it.

“What are you staring at?” You ask.

“Nothing…” Layla trails off as she turns back to face you. You glare at her.

“Don’t lie.” You scoff. “Isn’t that what you just told me not too long ago? But look where we are now.”

“I just thought I saw something.”

“Saw something?” You ask incredulously. “What did you see?”

“Yes.” She says. You wait for her to clarify what she saw but she doesn’t add anything else. You give her a hard look as she pats her jean pockets for a moment. You couldn’t see the screen from where you sat but you watch her as she gives you an apologetic smile. “Do you mind if I get this?” She doesn’t give you the chance to answer, she stands up from her chair and brings the phone up to her ear as she walks a short distance away from you. “Hello?”

You lean forward and place your chin on your hand as you watch Layla walk slowly around the apartment and speak to whoever called her. Something didn’t feel right. Well, to be honest nothing has felt right since you met Marc and Steven, but the conversation you and Layla were just having and whatever distracted her didn’t feel right. You had a hard time pinpointing why you felt such anxiety. It was probably because of the recent information you just learned about. It wasn’t that their marriage made you anxious, it was that they hid their marriage status rather than straight up tell you that they were still together by law. It raises the question in your mind that they were hiding something, and what are they hiding?

You watch as Layla ends the call by putting her phone in her pocket before she walks towards you and she grabs her helmet from the chair next to her. You arch a brow at the sight.

“You’re leaving?”

“I’ll be back in a few hours, okay?” She says. You wanted to press her about where she was going but from the look on her face, you knew not to ask. Maybe she’ll be a bit more open later if she returns to answer your questions. She grabs her jacket from the back of the chair. You wanted to give her the silent treatment like a kid would do to their parents when they’re angry. God knows how many times you did that to your own parents. But, your anger became a worry that she might not come back and you didn’t want your last conversation to end like this.

“Okay,” You say as she tucks the helmet underneath her arm after she puts on her jacket. “You’re going to come back, right?”

“I will. “ She says and it doesn’t sound like a lie to you but rather a promise. “Don’t eat all the cookies. Save some for me.”

“Okay.” You say and you both hold eye contact for a moment before she snags her keys off of the table and leaves not a moment after. You sat in the quiet apartment and turned your body enough so that you could see Gus the Second fish tank and his buddy swimming around in the water. You stare at the goldfish enjoying their time in the tank for a few minutes until you slowly begin to realize that this was the first time that you were alone in your neighbors apartment and this was prime time to research Marc’s history without getting questioned by his ex-wife, er, wife. You watch the bubbles float to the surface for a moment before another question pops into your mind. Was Layla's phone ringing or vibrating before she answered the call?

You try to remember if her phone was vibrating in her hand before she answered the call, but you come up with nothing. The curtains moved more in the breeze flowing in through the window and the papers shuffled on the table a little, causing you to look at the window. Nothing was there, and as the breeze caressed your face, the anxiety in the pit of your stomach relaxed into one of a shallow hole until the breeze calmed down and left you in an empty apartment. You decided to take advantage of the opportunity given to you to look up Marc's past. You had plenty of time before to do it, days where you avoided the men simply because you were terrified of Jake. But, you choose not to because it felt like an invasion of privacy. Of course, Marc didn’t respect that for you so, why should you respect that for him?

You grab the notebooks and pens Layla bought for you to use for school or to journal before you left the apartment and locked the door behind you. It took a few tries to get the lock for your door to turn before you were finally in the apartment and had the door shut and bolted safely inside. You snagged your laptop off of the table before sitting on your couch and pressing the power button. The screen was black for a couple of moments which made you think that the laptop finally decided that it is time to die forever. You stared at the screen and your reflection stared back until the noise of the fan running made you sigh in relief and the screen brightened to a background of waterfalls and a jungle.

You typed in your password which was the same one you have been using as your lunch password since you were in elementary and you watched the circle load slowly. You needed a new computer, but it's not like you had the money to afford a new one. You did have enough to consider buying more than strawberry waffles for Marc and Steven as a thank you for all that they have done for you; but with Marc lying to you about being blipped, you probably won’t spend any money on him. You clicked the Google Chrome app and waited for that to load before the search bar was available for you to use at your will. You eyed the search bar, your fingers resting on the keys of your laptop as you thought of what to search.

Where do you even begin? You have done similar searches on crushes your best friend had at school but, you haven’t dived as far as you probably will for Marc's past. The most you’ve done was find the crushes Facebook page or Instagram to see if they had a girlfriend or boyfriend so your bestie would know if they were single or not. This wasn’t a brief search into Marc's relationship status, this was uncovering years worth of personal history just by Google searching.

You typed in Marc Spector London England into the search bar and it came up with absolutely nothing. You typed in Steven Grant in place of the previous name and it was loaded with a page of linked articles about the museum he once worked at having a grand opening of the Egyptology exhibit. Steven stood awkwardly at the right end of the group photo of the employees he once worked with. There was a small gap between him and a woman with black hair while her arms were wrapped around the waist of who was the security guard. You only guessed this because it was listed in the description of the photo and because of the bolded white letters of the shirt he wore that stated he was security.

There was another article of the list of residents that live in this apartment building, your name was also listed. So, the apartment is in Stevens name and not Marcs? But Marc created Steven. There wasn’t a suggestion that Marc lives in London. You leaned back a bit into the couch as you jot the information down into the notebook.

“Well,” You say. “Where is Marc from?” You bite the end of your pen as you tried to remember if he stated where he was originally from. Unfortunately, you were unsuccessful with that. You shifted on the couch so your legs are crisscrossed on the cushions and you were sitting a little straighter than before. Marc speaks with a Chicago accent and he did say that he liked the Chicago Cubs at one point, right? You type into the search bar Marc Spector Chicago Illinois. There it is, the beginning of the information that you have been looking for.

Through your two and a half hour long research of your neighbor, you discovered that Marc graduated high-school in 2004 and he stated that was going to college for an undetermined major. Marc didn’t strike you as the type of person to go to college. From the little you knew of him, he didn't seem interested in anything enough to make a career out of it. At least Steven could be a history teacher because of his interests in Egyptology. Another thing you learned about Marc was that he enlisted into the U.S Marine Corps, you knew about this thanks to Steven reassurances that night you went out to dinner with him. But, you didn’t know how long Marc served, which was three years. It took a little extra prying to discover that Marc was dishonorably discharged.

There wasn’t any information found for the reason why he was fired from the position he held, but you figured it had to do with lying about something or doing something crazy. He did steal a knife and admit to stealing it when he gave you that taser what felt like forever ago. Some other information you found on your neighbor was that he had a younger brother named Randall but he died at a young age. The cause of death was not stated in the article but rather an obituary for the young child and the date that the funeral will be held.

Marc's father is named Elias Spector and from the information you gathered, you found that Elias is a Rabbi and that he is still alive unlike his wife, Wendy, who died in the spring time earlier this year. Her cause of death was not released. Elias still lives in Chicago in the home he and Wendy bought. The name of Marc's father was familiar. You click the pen a couple of times as you try to figure out why. Wasn’t the kid that was murdered on Towers Bridge named Elias?

You click the pen once more before you scribble down the question next to Elias Spector's name and circle it to ask Marc about when you confront him. All the information you found was jotted into the notebook and you had a couple of pages worth of notes. You could not find any social media that belongs to Marc there was nothing online to suggest that he was alive after he was discharged from the Marines. He was like a ghost. You couldn’t find any definitive proof that Marc was alive during the blip except for Layla's word that they got married during that time. Layla doesn’t have a reason to lie to you, but Marc does. What would Layla gain from telling you that Marc was alive during the five years half of the universe was gone? She wouldn’t gain anything.

Which begs the question: Why would Marc be dishonest and tell you that he was blipped? What was he doing during those five years that was so terrible enough to lie about? Even more questions popped into your mind as you shut off the computer and placed it on the table behind you. How long was Marc serving Khonshu? How did Marc become Khonshus avatar?

You were under the impression that Marc was serving Khonshu for the last year, if not a few months. But that was never confirmed. So, was Marc Khonshus Fist of Vengeance for over a year? And Steven only caught it because of…the bird god harassing him while you were in the elevator with him? Or because Marc's actions were affecting Stevens' life more directly?

You clicked your pen for the last time before pushing yourself off of the couch and pacing back and forth. None of this makes much sense. There's a large gap of time that you can’t find anything on either of the men. Steven didn’t exist in London until after the blip and he didn’t exist at all in Chicago while Marc lived there. So where was Marc and Steven during those five years? And what about Jake? Where was he during those years?

It was clear that you weren’t going to find any answers online. You pat your short pockets for the keys to your neighbors apartment. You felt a little guilty at what you were about to do, but you weren’t going to get any direct answers any time soon. You don’t know if Jake was going to come back for sure. You hope that he will. Maybe you’ll throw hands with him because he made you anxiously wait without hearing back from him to know if he was alive for the last two weeks. As always, it took several tries to lock the door correctly before you were on your way to Stevens apartment.

The flat was just how you left it two and a half hours ago. You closed the door behind you and gazed around the apartment. You were a bit overwhelmed with where to begin. Stevens' place was an organized mess. It was going to be difficult to find anything that could prove Marc was blipped or that Layla was telling the truth. You walked a little further into the flat before choosing the closet pile to you and flickering through the stacks of papers and moving books to check underneath them. You felt bad for doing this. You wouldn’t want anyone to do what you’re doing to you. You wouldn’t want Steven or Marc or anyone else to snoop through your belongings.

“Okay, well maybe…” You start as you carefully place the book about Area 51 back onto the stack of other books. “Maybe…Marc would be willing to clarify more than Layla will.” You finish. You stare around the apartment. The chances of Marc explaining more were slim and you wanted answers now. You probably weren’t going to receive the truth that Marc hid from you since the beginning. He had every opportunity to come clean about his marriage and the blip and you weren’t sure he was going to tell you the truth if-when-he comes back. You just couldn’t see what he would gain from telling you that he was gone for five years.

You marched over to the table and sat down on the same chair you were in earlier today. The papers from the murder-mystery game you and Layla were playing was still laid out onto the table. You didn’t know if you should put the game away. Would Layla want to continue playing when she gets back or are you going to be too distracted pressing for answers to play the game she bought for you to share. Your eyes wandered over to the fish tank and you watched the two goldfish swim around without a care in the world. Oh to be a fish without responsibility and care. You kind of wish that you were one of those aquatic animals right now. You wouldn’t be as anxious or as worried for everything you thought you knew about Marc and Steven or for Layla's and your neighbors safe return.

“I wish I was you.” You tell them. “I wouldn’t have to pay rent or bills or worry about a God killing me just because he can and because he likes to be dramatic.” Your eyes trail towards the base of the stand, there was an old rug that needed to either be cleaned or thrown away, but it wasn’t the fading colors of it that caught your eye but rather the scratches along the floor. You stare at it for a moment before you push your chair back and stand up, walking towards the sight of the marks on the ground. You didn’t really notice them before when you built a fort in this very same spot. Maybe it was because you were too busy building it or the pillows and blankets covered it up.

You looked over to the small side table next to the fish tank and the scratches that lead to the right of the enclosure to where it passed your sneakers and stopped at the edge of the tank. You looked up, your eyes landing on the small knob in the wall.

“What the fuck?” You breathe out at the sight of the hidden compartment. You knew that you shouldn't look through it. It was an invasion of privacy and whatever was tucked away into that hidden place wasn’t for your eyes to see. You should just leave it. You half carried and half dragged a dining chair over to it before standing on the furniture and opening the cupboard. Inside, you saw a black duffle bag and anything past that was hard to see. You stare at it for a moment, wondering if you should go even further and take it out. You reached up and dragged it out of the cupboard before stepping off the chair and setting it onto the furniture. You looked at the bag. It was one thing to search Marc's history online, it was another thing to snoop through his belongings.

You slowly and a little hesitantly, unzipped the bag and peeled back the lid of it. The first thing that greeted you was a pile of clothes. You carefully took out the burgundy color shirt and placed it on the table before doing the same with the pants folded underneath it. Marc didn’t strike you as the type of person to fold his clothes but rather stuff them into the bag and call it good. You don’t know if Steven was aware of this bag being tucked into the cupboard, but the chances are he does. They both seem to be present no matter who is fronting, unless it's Jake, so if Marc put the bag into it, Steven knows. You take out more shirts and pants and underwear before you find a stick of deodorant and some razors buried underneath the pile of clothing.

The main compartment of the bag didn’t have anything suspicious. Not even a hint of why they need a pre-packed bag of clothing. You put the items back before opening up the left side pocket and finding a small handgun. You blink at the handle sticking out and the ammo clips besides it.

“What the actual fuck?” You breathe out. You didn’t want to touch the weapon, you figured that they had the safety on but still, if it was linked to any crime you didn’t want your fingerprints on it. You zipped the pocket closed before moving onto the right-side pocket and opening it up. There at the bottom of it rested a small booklet. You picked it up and read the front jacket of it. Passport. The word was in a shiny gold font on the navy blue background. You flick open the passport and stare at your neighbor's face. You could tell just by the slightly angry expression that it was Marc before you read the name next to it that confirmed that you were correct. Your eyes scan the information on it. He was born March 9th, 1987. His place of birth was in Illinois, Chicago. He is male, and the issue date on it is December 14th, 2018. That was during the blip.

You stare at the date a little longer before putting it back in the bag and zipping it shut. You believed Layla, she didn’t have any reason to lie to you about Marc but, this solidifies that he was alive during the five years half of the universe was gone. You hide your face in your hands and take a deep breath, holding it in your lungs before slowly releasing it. You could feel the panic rising in your chest and into your throat. You grabbed the bag and stood back up onto the chair before putting it back into the cupboard and closing the door. You moved the chair back to the table and patted your pockets for your keys. You needed to get out. You needed to step away from whatever mess meeting the men got you into.

Your hand clutched onto the orange lanyard as you walked on shaky legs towards the door and swung it open before locking it behind you. You didn’t care where you were going. You just needed out of Stevens place. Your face heated red as your legs carried you to your apartment, Your keys jingling as you struggled with unlocking it for the second time that day. Damn Jake for breaking the fucking handle. You finally turn the lock and push open the door and deadbolt it behind you. The sunlight filtered through the window and cast its warm glow onto the wooden floor. You stand in the light for a moment, the sun just hitting your shoes as you stare at the buildings across from you and the falcon sitting on the window sill of the complex.

Your chest rose and fell as you willed yourself not to start panicking. Why would your neighbors need a to-go bag and hide it with a gun? Why didn’t Marc tell you he was not blipped? What did Marc do that was so bad during those five years? Why didn’t he tell you the real status of Layla's and his marriage? Why did they make you believe that they were divorced when they are not? You cover your face with your hands once more. The final question is what puts the final nail in the coffin for you. Can you trust them?

You inhaled a deep, shuddering breath as you struggled to keep your panic at bay. They haven’t done anything to you, well Jake held a knife to your throat but otherwise, nothing else happened. Marc and Steven did save you from getting mugged and bought you your groceries, and made sure you had a full-stomach almost every night. They are good people, it's just that Marc lied to you about something important. Something that you thought you could relate to with him. If he’s willing to lie about something this major, what else is he willing to lie and hide from you?

The sound of the window opening is what made you remove your hands from your face and briefly adjust your eyes to the sunlight. You stared ahead, your mouth parting slightly at the sight. The window that was just closed was now open and the falcon was gone. The air shifted into tense and it caused anxiety to boil in your stomach to the point that you were sure you were going to throw up. You took a step back towards your door as you gazed around the room. It felt like it always has with Khonshu deciding to visit you. It feels like it was in the laundry room and when you saw the bird gods crescent staff. You couldn’t see where the source was causing you to be anxious and fearful, but it felt like it was all around you.

You took another step back, grasping your keys in your hands. All you had to do was unbolt the door and run down the hall. To where? You don’t know. All you knew was that it was away from this place. You felt something wrap around your ankle before you had the chance to completely turn around and try your best to get the hell out of dodge. You fell backwards, your head banging against the wood floor as your breath left your lungs and you began to slide on the floor by something that you couldn’t see. You lost the grip on your keys sometime during the fall. Your shirt rides up slightly as you're dragged towards the open window, but you didn’t care about that. You were absolutely terrified that the God of Vengeance decided that now was your time to kick the bucket while the one person who could see him was away.

“Let go!” You yell and kick at the end of your body with your free foot. “Let me go, you fucking boney ass bird!” Your foot goes through the god and you stop at the base of the window. You breathed heavily, tears springing to your eyes as you watched your shirt get crumpled into a ball on your chest as if someone was grasping it before you were pulled up into a standing position. “Khonshu! Please don’t do this.” You beg. Tears were streaming down your cheeks and you tried to grasp onto the gods arm to shove him off of you, but just like your foot moments ago, your hand goes through him. “Please!” You plead.

Your head hit against the window and you heard it crack from the impact your head made before you were shoved through the open slot. The upper half of your body hung out the window while the lower half was still inside of your apartment. You reach for the frame of your building to try and pull yourself back inside but your hands couldn’t reach it. You were five stories above the pavement and this fucking god decided to kill you by letting you drop onto the concrete below. The sky was blue and clear and there wasn’t a bird flying above you. Whatever was left of the cookies you ate earlier was rising in your throat. You force yourself to swallow your vomit and instead of the fluid leaving you, a loud sob did instead.

Your chest rattles and your hands flung around for some solid source to grab onto that could save you from your soon-to-be death. The shirt you wore was still balled up and the collar dug into the back of your neck. Oh fuck. Oh shit. You took a deep breath, the air filling your lungs felt cold in your throat and lungs. You’re going to fucking die by being murdered by a god. A month and a half ago you thought you were going to be killed by Jake Lockley or the dude that was trying to kidnap you and now, you were going to be murdered by a deity. Fuck your life. Another sob leaves you as you stop looking for a solid source to grab and instead wrap your hand around your balled up shirt and place your other hand on top of your own.

Your death will be labeled as a suicide rather than murder. Lauren will think that you killed yourself and blame herself for not questioning you further. It will ruin her. It will ruin Marc and Steven too if Jake was telling the truth about how much your death will affect them. Maybe Jake would press Khonshu about killing you. Maybe he would be pissed enough that he would be too angry to serve the god. You doubt that he would stop, but that thought was kind of nice. Your fingers knitted into the fabric of the shirt you slept in last night, it kind of smelled like Stevens bed sheets. Even though you were still upset about the information you just learned about, you found comfort in the scent. It was kind of like they were with you and trying to calm you down enough to think rationally or to show that you weren’t alone in your final moments.

The sun beamed onto your already hot body, causing sweat to begin to form on your skin as another loud, chest aching sob left you. Since Khonshu was going to kill you, you might as well tell him how you really feel. You felt the grip on your shirt begin to loosen causing more panic to well up in your body. Oh shit, you were about to splatter onto the pavement below. You nearly gathered up the courage to tell the god to fuck off when you were suddenly pulled back inside. You landed harshly on the floor of your apartment and the force of the god pulling you into the safety of your flat made you slide a few feet and scrape up your legs and arms as you rolled. You laid on your side as you tried to catch your breath and ground yourself enough so you didn't immediately let yourself panic as much as you could feel creeping up on you.

You sit up and turn to your left, your lanyard laid on the ground a couple feet away from the door. You needed to get out. You needed to put some distance from you and the god that feels like he is watching you. You crawl towards the keys, your knees pressing against the floor as you move your legs towards the thin rope. You blinked the tears out of your eyes, your sight set on the orange color on the floor as if it was your only chance to live; and if you let yourself think about it, it is your only chance to escape into somewhere that you felt peace in a week ago or a month ago. You grabbed the lanyard and stood on shaky legs. You stumble towards the door and unbolt it before saying, “Fuck you, Khonshu.” and slamming it closed.

You stood in the hallway for a moment. You didn’t know if you should waste time trying to lock your door and risk getting attacked by Khonshu again or if you should just book it out of the building and try to collect yourself in the public so if something were to happen to you, people would see it. You didn’t bother locking your door and instead let your wobbly legs carry you to the safety of your neighbors apartment you just left not too long ago. You fumbled with unlocking it and trying to grasp the handle enough to open it before shutting it behind you.

You dropped your keys by the coat rack and kicked off your shoes. You don’t know why you did that but you just did. You stare around you, your eyes flickering from corner to corner as if you expected to see his crescent staff lingering in them. You take several breaths to try and feel some air entering your lungs, but you didn’t feel like you were receiving any oxygen. You stumble towards the couch, crawling over the back of it until you land on the cushions and roll onto the floor. You barely felt the fall onto the wooden floor. You don’t bother trying to get back onto the sofa, but you stare at the ceiling until black spots appear in your vision and the sounds of the traffic outside was underwater.

You turn onto your side and bring your knees to your chest and wrap your arms around them as a sob leaves you and another one soon follows. Your cries were loud in the empty apartment of your neighbor. You sobbed, your chest aching and your cries hurting your own ears as you let out all your pent up sadness and fear from the last couple of months. You buried your face into the carpet as you let out a small scream. You don’t care if any of your other neighbors could hear. You don’t care. You don’t care. You don’t care. You breathed heavily, all the air filling your lungs as if you opened a water gate and the water flooded in quickly and without pause. Another scream left you, this time louder than before and it felt like you were releasing more than just a couple months worth of pent up emotions.

The scream only stopped when you needed air and in place a broken cry left you. The room felt like it was spinning and you were on the Disneyland teacup ride. As the last cry left you, it felt like turning off the lights or letting go of a rubber band that was held back until it was either going to snap or you were going to inevitably let go. You felt numb, all thoughts in your mind ceased to exist at that moment. You blinked, the last of your tears trailed down the side of your face and onto the carpet you laid on. You slowly turned your gaze towards the thread of the fabric and stared. You laid on the dirty floor and you don’t care.

You felt no longer scared or terrified. You don’t care. You don’t know how long you laid there and you don’t remember hearing the door open and close, but you heard Layla's voice as if she was at the other end of a tunnel or she was speaking to you while you were underwater. Her hands touch your face, causing you to wince and her to immediately pull back her hands as if you burned her.

“What happened? What's wrong?” She asks. You don��t answer, but you keep your unblinking eyes trained on the odd thread of the carpet. You knew you should answer, but you just don’t care enough to. She pushed away the coffee table, you could feel the vibrations of it in your bones as she made room to crouch next to you. She says your name gently and slowly reaches out until her fingers brush against your cheeks.

“Are you hurt?” She asks and out of the corner of your eye you could see her look you up and down carefully for any injuries. “Can you tell me what happened?” You stared at the carpet. You should tell her that you’re okay. Were you okay?

She gently caresses your face and lets out a small gasp. “You’re bleeding.” She says as she leans over you and softly pokes at your scalp. You could feel a sting from the area she prodded at but you don’t care enough to react to it.

“Sit up, I’m going to get the first-aid kit. I’ll be back.” She says as she pushes herself off of the floor and leaves the area you laid in. You stare at the thread of the carpet. You should get up. You should show her that you were okay. You lay still until she came back and she said your name softly as if she was speaking to a kid who was injured and needed to be comforted.

“C’mon.” She says and sets the box down next to you and places her hand onto your shoulder before helping you sit up and prop you against the edge of the couch. You were staring at the reflection of yourself in the darkness of the television screen across from you. Layla waved a hand in front of your face, causing you to trail your eyes to her. She looked worried.

“You might have a concussion.” She mumbles. You watch as she opens the first aid kit next to you and goes behind you to sit on the couch to tend to your head wound. You watch her in the reflection of the television, barely feeling her prodding your injury. “Good news, it's not deep enough to need stitches, but there are some tiny pieces of glass that need to be taken out.” You watch her look around the room for the source of what caused your wound.

“What happened, sweetheart?” She asks softly. You don’t answer and you’re beginning to find in yourself that you care a little about your choice of silence. She digs through the kit next to her and picks up something that you couldn’t make out in the reflection, but you figured that it was some type of tweezers when she was pinching around your skin. You watched as she placed it onto the couch next to her and you knew that she probably wasn’t just picking out the glass and straight up putting it onto the sofa. She had to be putting it onto a rag or a bandage of some kind. You both sat in silence save for the fish tank and the traffic outside. The same one that you nearly fell to your death by.

“Okay,” Layla says. “All done.” She reaches over the couch cushions and to the end table before grabbing something. “Whenever you’re ready to talk about it. I’m here to listen.” She promises. You stare at the dark screen of the television until it suddenly turns on. Layla had to grab the remote. The channel it was let on was the BBC News channel which was airing a broadcast of a large fire in Birmingham burning down an old apartment building and three other residences attached to it. You stare at the footage, as the newscaster explained that the fire department was struggling to contain it and to be warned of going outside for the next few days due to the smoke and the hazards that are being burned in the fire.

Fires this large were rare in the United Kingdom. This was human doing and not electrical. You know exactly who caused this fire: Jake Lockley; and from the sight of the news, he may be done with his job and coming back soon. A laugh left you. One that sounded broken and not at all humorous; and then another laugh followed until eventually you found yourself crying once more on the floor of Stevens living room.

—

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