Archive of Our Own

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Layla wakes at the break of dawn to the sound of Marc pacing around the flat. It's not the first time she's woken up like this, but it's the first time it's happened in a long while. She can't say she's surprised though. He's been dreading this day all week.

She pulls herself out of bed, and ventures over to him. He doesn't seem to notice her presence until she's close enough to reach out and touch his shoulder. He stills, and zones back into his surroundings with a confused frown. 

"Layla?" he says, blinking at her. He looks over at the window. "What time is it?"

"It's pretty early." 

"Shit. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you." He shifts from foot to foot, the urge to continue pacing obvious in his expression.

"Hey," she says, placing her hands on his shoulders, steadying him in place. "You alright?"

Marc rubs at his eyes, his shoulders sinking tiredly. "I'm fine. I'm fine. I'm just...not looking forward to going to the party tonight."

"I know," Layla says softly. "I'm not looking forward to it either. But it's the only lead we have right now. This could be what gets this mission finished."

She really hopes she's right. This mission in particular had been dragging on for way too long, thanks in part to there being so few avatars left to help them. In the months since the ushabtis were stolen from the Pyramid, they've only manage to find a few, the rest still in the wind. It was too dangerous to leave them out in the world; there was no telling what chaos could ensue if any of them got in the wrong hands. With no concrete locations, or even any names to follow-up on, getting information on those missing ushabtis has been their top priority. 

Unfortunately, that meant sometimes having to get the hands dirty dealing with bad people. And there was going to be a lot of bad people at the party tonight, people that her profession made her the natural enemy of: antique collectors, smugglers, thieves, tomb raiders and grave robbers, all of them under the guise of high society, pretending to be more important than they are.

But if anyone had any idea about where the rest of the ushabtis were, it would be someone there. 

Marc leans his head against her shoulder and sighs. "I really hope this works."

"Yeah." Layla reaches her hand up, and plays with the short curls at the back of his head. "Me too."

After that, the morning is more or less their normal routine. She manages to distract him for the most of the day, but as the party draws closer, he grows more and more agitated. She suggests several times that perhaps it'd be better for him to stay behind or to let Steven take over for him, but he resolutely rejects the idea, his stubborness and protective nature winning out over his anxiety. 

"I'm not gonna leave you to go into the lion's den by yourself," he tells her, as he buttons up his suit. "I can handle a few rich assholes, alright."

As it turns out, 'a few' is quite the understatement. When they arrive at the given address, the street outside the grandiose house is littered with cars, and from what she can make out of the crowd through the front window, their owners are just as ostentacious and tacky as the cars themselves.

Marc grimaces as they make their way over. "There has to be an easier way of doing this. I mean, if they're all assholes, can't we just..." He mimes punching someone. "Right?"

“I'd love to," Layla says, sharing in his displeasure, "but we don't want word getting out we're searching for the ushabtis. We don't want to make this harder than it already is. So we can't be causing any kind of scenes. We’re here to schmooze, okay, so play nice.”

“What? Smooch?” Marc says, confused.

“No, I said—”

Before she can finish, a look of understanding crosses over Marc’s face. “Oh, schmooze. Right. Got it.” Then he winces. “Yeah, I can't do that. Maybe you should do the talking.”

Layla shakes her head affectionately and loops her arm around his. "Come on. Let's get this over with."

They go up to the door, and Layla presents her fabricated invitation. The bouncer—because of course these people have a bouncer at a house party—lets them through, and soon they are surrounded by imperious morons that on any other day Layla would be stealing from. Tonight, she'll have to settle for stealing information.

She begins working her way through the guests, dropping hints that she's interested in buying Ancient Egyptian statues, particularly those depicting the gods, but either no one wants to deal with an unknown buyer, or they truly have no idea what she's talking about, because she doesn't manage to gather anything close to usable intel.

All the while, Marc stays close to her side, preferring to run the gamut of being included in her conversations than to wander off and get caught up in one on his own. If she was with anyone else, she would have told them to split off so they could cover more ground, but with Marc, she understands that in a situation like this, being by her side is where he is most comfortable.

Despite all the dreadful lead-up, he seems to be doing okay, relaxed somewhat now that the very boring reality of the party has taken the place of the catastrophe he made up in his mind. Layla can almost believe they'll get through this with no problems at all.

“Layla! Darling!”

The voice cuts through the air like an airhorn, and Layla can't hold back her groan. She’d recognise that crime against eardrums anywhere.

“Shit,” she whispers. She plants a smile on her face, and turns with a wave to the woman hurrying over her way.

Marc presses himself closer to Layla’s side. “Do you know her?” he whispers into her ear.

“Yeah. Nessa Cooper,” Layla says, not letting her forced smile drop. “She's a well known collector, who would happily take an heirloom right out of its rightful owner’s hands if it meant she had something shiny and pretty to put on display in her home. But she’s also a serial gossip and loves to gush about her fellow collectors' stolen treasures, which means she’s the person that people like me go to when we need help tracking down an artefact. Unfortunately, that means actually having to talk to her.”

Marc seems to catch her meaning, his expression souring. “Great.”

Layla does not have time to reply, Nessa already too close for anything to go unheard. So she simply shoots him a quick apologetic look before striding forward.

“Hi,” Layla says as brightly as she can. “Nessa, it’s good to see you again.” It definitely wasn’t. She would have happily gone the rest of her life never speaking to this woman again. "You're looking well."

Nessa drags her into a hug, and kisses her on both cheeks. “Oh, darling, it’s been too long. How have you been?” Before Layla can even reply, Nessa is moving on to her next question. “Ah, you must be the infamous Marc Spector? I’ve never had the pleasure, but I’ve heard wonderful things.” She extends her arm out to him, waiting for him to shake it.

Marc stares at the offered hand, and Layla can tell he is struggling not to show his wariness as he reaches out for it. “Uh. Yeah. That’s me.” He gives her one good solid shake before withdrawing, not giving Nessa any chance to turn the handshake into a hug. Free of her grip, his fingers start scratching absentmindedly at the fabric of his pants.

If Nessa notices his nervous fidgeting, she doesn’t comment on it. “Gosh, you two must have been married for a while now, right? How long’s it been? Five years? Six?”

“Eight,” Layla provides. “But we met almost a decade ago.”

“Aw, isn’t that sweet,” Nessa says in that cloying tone of hers. “I’m sure you’ve got a gaggle of kids by now, yes?”

Layla feels Marc go tense beside her, and she doesn’t need to look over him to know his fighting to mask his discomfort at the question. Layla hides her own reaction easily enough behind a forced smile, and laughs, pretending to be bashful.

“No, actually, it’s just us.”

Nessa’s exaggerated smile shifts into what seems to be genuine pity. “Oh, that’s such a shame,” she says, placing a hand on her chest, as if the very idea breaks her heart. She leans in, and in a quiet voice that isn’t quiet at all, she adds, “Are you having trouble conceiving?”

Wow. Just wow.

Beside her, Marc's fidgeting grows worse.

Layla reaches out for his hand and squeezes it, hoping the touch would ground him. Through it all, she keeps her mask of pleasantness fastened on. “Oh, no, nothing like that. We just didn’t want them.”

The pity shifts then, not into understanding, but into disappointment. Layla already knows what Nessa's going to say before she even says it.

“Oh, honey, I know you may think that now, but you’ll surely regret that once you're older. Trust me, having kids is one of the most beautiful acts of creation there is. Don’t miss your chance, darling.”

Layla has heard that particular piece of ‘advice’ many times throughout her life, and while she’s learned to smile through it, it still makes her insides twist in irritation. 

Early on in their marriage, no one had batted an eye at them not having kids, but now she was in her 30s, everyone seemed to take it as a personal offence that she hadn't had any. Far too many people she'd met had taken the admission of her choosing not to have kids as an invitation to give their opinion on the matter, pretending that they simply cared for her wellbeing and happiness when really all it was was poorly masked disapproval at her not doing the 'normal' thing. At not doing what it was percieved a woman should do. 

She's unfortunately used to conversations like these. Marc, on the other hand, isn't.

Though the words weren’t directed at him, he wilts beside her, his usual soldier-straight stance slumping. His expression is tight and forcefully neutral, but his eyes are like an open wound, seeping out shame that shouldn’t be there. He quickly bows his head, trying to hide the weakness from the prying eyes of those around him. 

When he looks back up, it’s not at Nessa but at Layla, and there is a tension to him, an apprehension, as if he believes that despite all her reassurances over the years of not wanting to have kids, Nessa’s words will be enough for her turn on him and tell him that the snobbish woman was right, and that he was depriving her of her chance of being a mother, of having children to love. That he'd stolen something from her, and that she had every right to blame him.

Screw not making a scene. Screw being polite. No amount of information was worth seeing that expression on his face. 

Layla drops her smile, and lets all the coldness she’s been feeling seep through, no longer caring to hide it behind any kind of façade. “Are you suggesting my life is only worth something if I had kids? That because we’re married, that’s our only purpose?”

Nessa blinks, clearly surprised by Layla’s sudden bluntness. “What? No, no, of course not. I was merely suggesting...” She makes a face, wrongfooted now. “Don’t you want to leave behind a legacy of some kind?”

“We are leaving a legacy,” Layla intones. “Our actions are my legacy. The people we help are our legacy. But you wouldn’t know anything about that would you, Nessa? You talk about creation, but everything important about you, everything worth remembering, has been stolen from someone else. Your legacy is nothing but a patchwork of other people's misery, and one day, I hope, I pray, that those same people will tear it apart.”

Nessa makes an offended sound. “I beg your pardon?” 

Layla forces an all-too-wide smile on her face and clicks her tongue in mock pity. “I'm so sorry, Nessa, but we have to go now. It’s been absolutely wonderful talking to you,” she says, in a tone so sweet she knows it will not be mistaken for anything other than sarcasm. “I hope you have a nice night."

Layla is already dragging Marc away before Nessa can get another word in. She spares the woman only a brief glance, and can't help the tiny bit of satisfaction she gets from seeing Nessa's reddened, flustered expression. 

Layla takes Marc over to the sitting room, which is more or less empty save for a few bored guests who decided, quite rightly, that playing a game of cards was far more exciting than any of the conversations in the other room. Layla guides Marc into one of the armchairs, and he does so without protest, lax in her arms.

"Hey," Layla says softly.

Marc's eyes are distant, not in the way they are before an unexpected switch, but rather the way they go when he's listening to something no one else can hear. Though she isn't privy to what's being said, Layla knows Steven must be offering words of comfort, because with each passing moment, Marc's posture loses more and more of its tension.

Layla takes both of Marc's hands into her own, and rubs her thumbs up and down his skin, hoping that the added comfort would be enough to draw him out of his head. He blinks muzzily, and peers down at where their hands are touching.

“I’m sorry,” Layla says. "I should have known she'd say something like that."

Marc's eyes finally find focus, and he looks around, taking in his surroundings. His eyes linger on the card players, who are not-so-subtly watching him and Layla out of the corner of their eyes, failing terribly to hide the fact that they’re listening in curiously.

Layla leans closer to Marc, and in a quieter voice, she says, “What do you need?”

“I need,” he says, and then groans in frustration, unable to get the rest of his words out. He tries again, but this time, no words come out at all. With a sigh, he gestures to the staircase, which is peeking out from behind the nearby archway.

Layla nods and, with his hand gripped in hers, she gently guides him up the stairs.

She leads him to one of the upstairs bedrooms, making sure it’s completely vacated before closing the door behind them. She knows what it must look like, and she’s sure there will be some gossip, but hopefully that’ll work in her favour and keep people from coming in unannounced. Marc doesn’t look like he's up for dealing with any more strangers. Layla honestly can't blame him.

Marc sits himself on the edge of the bed. Layla remains near the door, letting him have his own space. She can hear him muttering quietly under her breath, comfortable enough to talk with Steven openly now away from any judging eyes.

Eventually, he seems to find some modicum of calm, his breaths evening out and his hands coming to a rest on his lap, only fidgeting here and there with the fabric of his pants. He doesn’t beckon her over, or even say anything, but he does shuffle to the side of the bed, an unspoken invitation for her to join him. She wanders over, keeping her steps slow in case she’d misunderstood, but he doesn’t ask her to stop, and she is soon sitting beside him.

They sit in silence for a while, and Layla makes no moves to break it, happy to wait until Marc is comfortable with speaking. 

Eventually, he says, “You didn’t have to do that."

“What? Stand up for myself?"

Marc winces. “No. I mean. You shouldn't have had to take the heat. I should have said something." He gets that distant look in his eyes again, and he frowns. "I know, Steven. But you shouldn't have to deal with that shit either."

Despite the situation, Layla smiles. "Did Marc stop you from giving her a piece of your mind?"

The expression on his face loses its rigidness, but it does not grow any softer, the low burning anger becoming an open flame. 

"She was being proper rude, saying all those things to you," Steven says. "And why does it matter to her if we have kids or not? It’s absolutely none of her business. I would have given her a right talking to, if I could have, but Marc said it would have broken our cover." Then, in a perfect imitation of Marc's voice, he says, "Thing is, I know how to be covert."

After a pause, he sighs. "It's not just the kids thing."

Though the accent doesn't change, she knows it's Marc who's talking now. Even if he hadn't spoken, she would have known. Sometimes, she marvels over how easy it is for her to tell. Only a few months ago, she hadn't been able to figure out that Steven wasn't her husband just faking an accent, but now, it takes only a small shift in posture, a slight change of expression, for her to tell who she's talking to.

“It's what she said," he says. "About regret."

"Marc," Layla starts to say, but he cuts her off.

"You're missing out on so much because of me. A normal life. A family." He grimaces. "A partner who can love you properly."

"Marc," Layla says again, more firmly this time. "You do love me properly."

He lowers his head, his expression grim. "Not in the way I should," he says. "You deserve better. You deserve someone better. Someone who can give you everything you're missing out on."

Layla regards him quietly, the words all too familiar. He'd said something very similar to her, a very long time ago.

Before Marc, before she moved away from Egypt, most of her relationships had been nothing more than deep but fleeting passion, conducted behind closed doors and out of the sight, hidden from public condemnation or opinion. Most of her partners simply wanted someone to be intimate with, someone they could kiss and sleep with without it leading to anything grand, but there had been a few she thought might have loved her beyond what she could give them, but even those relationships had not lasted. 

Moving to London hadn’t changed much, in the scheme of things, save for the fact people were more willing to admit openly that they weren’t looking for anything except sex. Layla respected the desire and their honesty, and even had her own fair share of one night stands that she enjoyed, but she still wanted more. She wanted romance and adventure and late night conversations and breakfast in bed and to see the world with someone by her side. But now matter how many lips she kissed, and how many beds she slept in, she never seemed able to find it.

Then, like a meteorite, Marc crashed into her life. It would be a lie to say that sparks flew the moment they met; in all honesty, Layla didn’t think much of him to begin with. He was sullen and aloof, and he was far from the most romantic guy she’d met, but she soon realised he made up for it in other ways. 

Instead of buying her clothes and jewellery, he gave her small trinkets he found in secondhand stores simply because they made him think of her. Rather than taking her out to dinner or planning elaborate dates, he took her to quietest spots in the city, where they could spend time together and just chat about nothing, unobserved by the world. And when she wasn’t up for talking but still wanted him close, he would simply share in her silence, happy to spend time doing nothing more than existing by her side.

And slowly, quietly, unexpectedly, with every small gesture and every quiet moment, feelings started to creep in, until one day, in the middle of booking a flight for the two of them, she realised with surprise that she’d fallen deeply in love with him.

After that, she dived right into their relationship, enjoying the whirlwind of adventure and romance and all the ups and downs that came with loving Marc Spector. He gave her all the things she'd ever wanted and more.

There was one thing, however, that was missing from their relationship. 

Six months in, and they'd never once had sex.

It wasn't that she hadn't tried. She had, many times. But whenever her hands tugged at his shirt or pants, Marc always managed to direct her away or distract her with something else, and she let him, too caught up in his kisses to notice anything odd. But as time went on, and her attraction to him grew, she started to notice the diversions more and more. She wasn't sure why he was doing it—if he was stalling, or if he was waiting for marriage—but she decided she'd at least test the waters. 

So one night, as she was sitting on his lap and kissing him, instead of letting him divert her hands once again, she diverted right back, guiding both of their hands toward his thigh.

Marc went still beneath her, drawing away mid-kiss with a shocked sound. “Layla?”

She leaned in closer, dropping her voice a sultry whisper. “I want to touch you. Do you want me to touch you?”

His eyes flitted around, and there was a long pause before he spoke. "Yes.”

Despite the spoken consent, Layla did not move. There was something in his voice that sounded off. She drew her hand away, and regarded him with a frown.

“Marc, we don’t have to.”

"No, no, I want to," Marc assured quickly, but the desperation in his tone wasn't of the sexually frustrated sort. It was like he wanted to prove something; to her or himself, she wasn’t sure.

Whatever the reason, the hint of uncertainty was enough for her to roll off his lap, and pull her hands away from his body altogether. “I can tell you’re uncomfortable. It’s okay. We can try again another night.”

Marc deflated, with an expression that she couldn’t decide was one of relief or disappointment. Whatever the emotion was, it barely had time to settle on his face before guilt washed over him. He shifted even further away from her, his shoulders curling inwards. “Layla. I’m sorry. I can’t...I can’t.”

Layla reached out to him, and traced her hand up and down his arm. “What can’t you do? What’s wrong?”

Marc grimaced and looked away. He was quiet for a long time, long enough for her to think he wasn’t going to answer. Eventually, he turned back to her, his eyebrows twisted up with shame.

“I thought it’d be different with you,” he said, and at the time, she didn’t understand.

“Different?”

Marc sighed, and clawed his hand into the sheet beneath them. “I don’t feel—I can’t—I’m never—Shit.” He hit the mattress and groaned. “Shit.”

Layla took his hand into hers, stroking her thumb along his knuckles. “Hey. It’s okay. Take your time.”

Marc calmed at the touch, but the guilt did not disappear from his face. If anything, it seemed only to grow, and he stared at her as if trying to memorise her face. It was enough to make the worry in Layla's stomach curdle into anxiety. But, despite her worries, she stayed quiet, letting him work out what he wanted to say. He was silent for an excruciatingly long time, his free hand all the while tensing and untensing in his lap.

Eventually, he managed to find his words. “I love you Layla, I really do. I don’t think I’ve ever loved someone as much as I love you. I didn't even think I could.” His eyes darted away, and he swallowed. “But...I’m not attracted to you. Not like that.”

“Oh,” Layla said, and without meaning to, she pulled her hand away, hurt and confused. She wasn't sure what to make of what he just said. “You don’t find me attractive?”

“No, no, I do,” he said, reaching out to brush his hand down her cheek. “You’re so beautiful, Layla. When I see you, I want to kiss you until I can’t breathe. I want to hold you until all I hear is your heartbeat. I want to spend as much of my life as I can with you. But that’s all I want to do. Sex...it just isn’t something I want.”

“Oh,” Layla said again.

“And it’s got nothing to do with you,” Marc went on, the words spilling out in a frantic rush. “I swear. I’ve always been like this, with everyone. All my life. And, and I know I should have told you before but...I thought...I thought maybe with you it’d change. That I’d feel that way for you, that’d I finally want it. But I...I don’t. And I don’t think I ever will. I’m sorry.”

By then, Layla had softened and pressed in closer to him, hurt making way for understanding. She was still confused, that she wouldn't deny; this was new territory for her, afterall, and it'd take her some time to map the boundaries and the terrain before she truly understood where she stood. But she was willing to stumble and flounder about for a bit if it meant she got to keep him in her life.

She reached out to him again. “Why are you apologising?”

Marc blinked, and the thinly veiled panic on his face shifted into uncertainty, as if that wasn’t the response he’d been expecting. “Layla...I’m never going to be able to give you everything you need. You’re always going to be missing out on something if you stay with me. I...I don’t want to do that to you. It isn’t fair. You should just go, before you regret it.”

Layla lets the old memory drift away, and inside the quiet bedroom, she presses in closer to Marc's side.

“Do you remember what I said?” she says. "That night I tried to sleep with you for the first time, when you thought I should leave before I got too close."

A smile twitches on the corner of Marc’s lips. “You said ‘But then I’d be missing out on you‘.”

“Exactly,” Layla says. “And I still stand by that. I don't regret this one bit, and I never will. I knew what I was getting into.”

Marc’s smile falters, and he shakes his head. "I know. I know you did. It’s just...I feel like I'm taking from you more than I can give. That you have to compromise on what you want just to be with me. And then of course there’s everything else,” he says, gesturing to his head. "You have to deal with so much shit because of me. And I...I'm afraid one day there will be something that is too much, that will be one problem too many, and I'll be the thing that breaks us."

"Marc,” Layla says, taking hold of both of his hands and giving them a squeeze, “my love for you is not as fragile as you think it is. It’d take one hell of a problem to ever break us. And if something does, then we’ll fix it. We’ll figure it out. Together. That’s what I promised you, didn’t I, when we got married.”

Marc still looks unsure, his eyes downcast.

Layla presses her hand to his cheek, and smiles sadly. "You don’t need to feel guilty about this, alright, because there’s nothing to feel guilty over. You think I'm sacrificing a perfect, picket-fence life to be with you, but I never wanted that. I wanted adventure and love and danger, and you give me all those things. And I don't care if we don't do what other couples do. We're not even technically a couple, are we.” That gets her a quiet laugh. Layla continues on with more determination. “Marc, we’re never going to be what people consider normal, and that’s okay. What we have, it's all ours. And I’m not going to give that up just so I can go and live the life that's expected of me. I chose this. I chose you.”

Marc stares at her speechless. She can tell he's trying to hold himself together, to keep from breaking apart in front of her, but whatever will he's exerting to keep himself together is threadbare. So much so that when she reaches out to touch his cheek and strokes her thumb against his skin, his expression all but crumples.

"Layla," he breathes, his voice shaking.

She hugs him then, pulling him tight. He sinks into her with a sob, his own grip on her tight, as if he's scared she would disappear if he didn't hold on tight enough.

"I'm here," she says. "I'm not going anywhere. Okay?"

He nods. "Okay."

They stay like that for a long time, and his trembling shoulders eventually go still, and his grip goes slack, looser as his sorrow eases. When she draws away, his eyes are still watery, but he looks lighter, happier. He brushes his hand through her hair, the adoration in his eyes almost overwhelming.

"I don't know what I'd do without you," he says.

Layla draws him in for a kiss. "Me neither."

Marc leans against her, resting his head on her shoulder. She reaches up and plays her fingers through his curls, and he hums, content.

“We should probably go back downstairs,” Marc says after a while. “We still need to find a lead on the ushabtis.”

Layla considers the idea for a moment. “I think we’ve done as much as we can,” she says. “Do you want to get out of here?”

Marc sits back up, surprised at the suggestion. “Are you sure? We still haven’t talked to everyone."

“If anyone here had it, it would have been the first thing Nessa told me. So they must have been taken by someone else."

"So, we're back on square one," Marc says, disappointed. "We got nothing."

Layla sends him a smug look. "I wasn't saying we should leave completely empty handed." She pulls out a scone she'd hidden in her purse. "Nothing wrong with stealing free food, is there?"

This time, the smile on Marc's face is on full display, and Layla joins in, relieved to see it. There is still a tightness around his eyes, and he's quieter than usual, enough to let her know he is nearing the end of his energy, but for now he is smiling, and she wants to keep it that way for as long as she can. 

He leans in close to her, a mischievous look in his eyes. “I bet I can steal more shrimp cocktails than you.”

“Oh, you’re on.”

⸻⋆✫✦☆🌓☆✦✫⋆⸻

It's well past noon by the time Layla gets out of bed, woken by the smell of pancakes. With a yawn, she makes her way over to the kitchen.

Steven looks up from the pan, and regards her with a dazzling smile. 

She knows she must look a mess, thanks to her hair being all tangled in its misshapen ponytail, and the fact she's still wearing the same dress from the night before, now left crumpled and lopsided by her tossing and turning in her sleep. But when Steven looks at her, with such open and unwavering adoration, it’s easy to forget all of that.

"Hello, love," Steven greets, pressing a light kiss to her forehead. "Sleep well?"

"Mm." Layla leans against the kitchen island. She's still rather tired, despite the late hour. "How long have you been up?

“Not long. Not sure I could have gotten up any earlier if I wanted to. It seems you two had a late night," he adds, amused.

Layla smiles, and thinks fondly of her night with Marc, lying atop of their building as they ate all of the food they managed to burgle out of the party and laughed about old memories. It'd been close to dawn by the time they'd headed to bed. "Yeah. It was nice. I might have eaten more than I should though."

"Well, I hope you still have room for pancakes," Steven says cheerily.

"Always."

Once the pancakes are ready, they sit together beside the fishtank, playing a casual game of checkers as they munch on their breakfast.

"So. Um," Steven says, halfway through their game. "I'm sure you're probably exhausted from last night. And that there's probably nothing you'd rather do than stay in and just have a lazy day before we try going after the ushabtis again. But. Well. Uh, are you perhaps up for going out again tonight?"

Layla finishes her mouthful. "Depends. What do you have in mind?"

Steven threads his fingers together. "I, um, may have booked something for us to go to. On a date."

"Oh?"

"The only problem is, uh, it's in Greenwich. And Marc originally planned to be our chauffeur, but well, the party happened, and he’s not really up for anything right now. Which is fine, of course, but it just means he can’t take us there. And Jake’s fast asleep. So. Um." He kneads his hands together, unable to meet her eyes. "Well. It's a long way to walk. And if we took the Tube, we'd have to catch two trains, and it's probably very busy, and—"

Layla decides it best to spare him digging the hole any deeper. "You need me to drive?"

Steven grimaces and nods. "Yes, sorry. I know that must be a bother."

“Steven, it’s fine. I don’t mind. I like riding on the scooter with you.”

And she does, really. Ever since that first disastrous ride together, Steven has grown steadily more comfortable at riding passenger, to the point where he often will close his eyes and sink into her, undeterred by the world passing by. It is because of this reason that she enjoys riding on the scooter with Steven the most; that easy and profound sense of trust he has in her to guide the way and keep him from falling. It is such a beautiful thing to be given.

“Still,” Steven says, “might ruin the surprise a bit, yeah? You knowing where we're going, I mean."

"I'll close my eyes."

"Not while driving, I hope," Steven says, a faint hint of alarm in his voice. 

“When we get to Greenwich. We can park nearby and you can lead me.” 

Steven lights up at the idea. “Yes, right, that could work. Oh, this is wonderful. You’re going to be so shocked by where we’re going.”

“I’m sure I will,” she says, deciding it would be better to keep secret the fact that Marc blurted out over a week ago that Steven was planning to take her to the Royal Observatory. She doesn't want to ruin Steven's bubbly excitement. It's so nice to see.

They finish up their breakfast, and potter around for a bit before heading down to where Layla's scooter is parked.

They get seated, and Steven nuzzles into her back until he is settled. His helmet digs into her a bit, but she doesn't ask him to move. The discomfort is worth the content look she can see on his face in the mirror, and the warmth of his arms around her waist.

Once they get to Greenwich, he draws away to guide her through to a street a few blocks down from Greenwich Park, enough to not make it obvious that's where they're heading. If she didn't know for the fact that was where they were going, she may have even been fooled.

As promised, she closes her eyes and lets Steven lead her down the streets with only his hand in hers and his voice to guide her way. He's extra careful with her as they make their way up the hill to the Observatory, calling out warnings for fallen sticks and avoiding what she can only assume are puddles in the path. The ground eventually evens out beneath her, and they come to a stop.

“Alright," Steven says, "you can open your eyes now.”

Just as she expected, when she opens her eyes, it's the Royal Observatory standing before her. She's never been to it in person, but she's seen it in photos, enough to recognise it. Even if she didn't, the dome shape of the observatory gives it away, not all too different from Kottamia Observatory, if a bit less impressive.

Steven watches her nervously, clearly waiting for some kind of reaction. She gives him a brilliant smile.

“Oh, the Royal Observatory!” she says, pretending to be surprised. “Aw, Steven, this is so sweet of you. I’ve always wanted to come here.”

Steven stares at her, wearing the same face he does when he's come across a tricky sudoku puzzle. He huffs and crosses his arms. “Marc told you, didn’t he?”

Layla, knowing she's been caught, lets the surprised act drop. “Yeah,” she says, biting her lip in an attempt to hide her amusement at his disgruntled expression. She takes his hand, and kneads her thumb into his palm. “I’m sorry.”

Steven shakes his head with a roll of his eyes. “Bloody hell, he’s hopeless. You’d think he’d be better at keeping secrets, wouldn’t you.” He pouts out his lips, and seems to consider something for a moment. There is a gleam to his eye when he says, “Marc’s planning to take you out on a picnic next Friday.”

“I know,” Layla says, patting him on the shoulder. “Jake told me.”

Steven, having had his revenge quickly foiled, throws his hands up, exasperated, but it’s more amused than it is genuine. “Can't keep anything a surprise from you. I'm not sure why I even tried."

Layla keeps her hand on his shoulder, but lets it rest more solidly and with more sincerity. “Steven, I really am excited for this,” she says. "I’ve always loved the stars. And I know I'll love seeing them with you."

That's enough to wash away the last vestiges of his grumpiness. He beams at her, excited once again.

“Well, the star show doesn’t start for another hour and a bit, so why don’t we go round and see the sights, yeah?"

"That sounds perfect.”

So, in the light of the afternoon sun, they explore the gardens together, reading over the information for the scattered sundials and telescopes, and having a bit too much fun leaping back and forth over the Prime Meridian Line. Then, as the afternoon draws on, they head inside, and enjoy the displays inside the Astronomy Centre. Steven warns her he isn’t as knowledgeable about stars or the history of stargazing as he is Egyptology, but it isn't long before he's explaining in depth things that aren't on the display labels, and telling her obscure facts and details. It's enough to make her wonder what other subjects he doesn't think he's 'knowledgeable' about. She makes a note to herself to find out, if only to give him the opportunity to share with her even more things he's very clearly passionate about.

She gets so caught up on listening to him talk that she doesn’t notice time passing them by, or the Centre steadily emptying around then. It’s Steven, absentmindedly checking one of the nearby wall clocks, who realises how late it's become while they weren’t looking.

“Oh shit!” he says, looking around for the nearest door frantically. “The show! Come on.”

He grabs her hand, and they rush through the halls to the planetarium. They manage to make it just before the doors get closed, but by then, the lights have been turned down low in preparation for the show, and most of the seats closest to the aisle have been taken. Which means they're going to have to sidle past a few people to get a good spot. Beside her, Steven winces, clearly realising the same thing, but he takes her hand all the same and leads her to the middle row.

“Sorry, sorry, excuse me,” Steven says as he shuffles down the small space between the back of the chairs ahead and the knees of the people already seated. They’ve only managed to scoot past a half dozen people when he trips over someone's bag and almost tumbles to the ground. Thankfully, he's able to catch himself on the back of one of the seats, and with Layla's help, he manages to steady himself again. He bashfully apologies to the people surrounding them and hurries on towards the empty chairs.

“Are you alright?” Layla says once they're seated, quietly so as not to disturb the other patrons.

“Mm, yeah, I’m aces,” he says. “Just my dignity that’s bruised. But let’s, uh, wait ‘til everyone goes before we leave, yeah.”

A minute later, the presenter turns on the virtual screen, which lights up the room with a representation of the northern night sky. A series of 'ooh's cross the room, and beside her, Steven bounces excitedly. The presenter, after providing a brief introduction, begins to explain some of the more well-known constellations. They guide their laser pointer over to the Plough, and starts to explain how it points to Polaris, the northern star around which all other stars seem to turn.

Steven leans in close to her. “It might just look like one star, but Polaris is actually a triple star system.”

“Yeah?”

“Mmhmm.” Though the screen doesn’t show much of the star beyond a glowing pinprick, Steven points at it all the same. “There’s the main star, Polaris Aa, which is a yellow supergiant, and then there it’s little buddies—well, littler, they’re still fairly big, bigger than our sun even, but still—Polaris B and Polaris Ab, which orbit around it. Ab is super close to Aa, and because of that, it wasn’t discovered until fairly recently, back in 1929 by William Herschel. He’s the bloke who found Uranus, by the way.

“Polaris B on the other hand is quite distant, orbiting way out from the big star,"—he waves his hand in a swooping gesture to demonstrate the distance—"but they’re all close enough to make what looks like a rather bright star in the sky. Which certainly works in humanity’s favour, because it also happens to be the truest measure of north we have. More than any compass. That’s why it’s been so important to the history of navigation. Whenever people had lost their way, and didn’t know which direction to go, they could always look up good old Polaris and know which way they were heading. Isn’t that brilliant?”

“It is," Layla says with a smile. "I've always loved the North Star. It's nice to know there's even more I can love about it now."

"Oh," Steven says. He shuffles closer to her. "Is it your favourite star?"

Layla turns to look at him. "Definitely."

Steven hums thoughtfully, his eyes darting across the screen above them. "I wish I could tell you my own, but I've never been able to pick a favourite. I think I simply love the night sky itself. It just...has so much beauty to it. So much to discover and see and witness. I could look at it forever."

Steven goes to continue, but his eyes flick over to the presenter, who now appears to be talking about Sirius. He covers his eyes, embarrassment written all over his face. “Oh god, I'm sorry, I came here so you could see the show but I keep nattering over it. I’ll be quiet.”

Layla places her hands atop his, guiding them down to the armrest between them. “I’d rather listen to you.”

“Really?” Steven blinks at her, surprised, but quickly smiles. “Well, in that case.” He points to a star across the room, far away from where the presenter is currently focusing on. “See there. That constellation. That's Pisces. I'm sure you know that one. The two little fishies swimming together, tied to each other by rope. Did you know, though, it's actually one of the oldest recorded constellations in existence? Yeah, they found it depicted on an Egyptian sarcophagus from 2300 BCE. That's pretty neat right? Oh, and that one, that's Cygnus. It actually has one of the biggest stars in the galaxy. A hypergiant. Those are bloody massive."

He continues on, pointing out constellations and talking about their history and occasionally the stars they're made up of. Layla listens attentively, eyes following the sweeping motions he makes as he explains the wonders of the universe.

In the first few weeks after they met, he was always apologising and shutting himself up whenever he starting talking about things he was interested in, and it broke her heart everytime. She was quick to assure him she really did want to hear what he had to say, and that she enjoyed listening. Eventually, he got more comfortable with it, opening up more and more to her about the things he was passionate about.

She's glad they've reached the point where he trusts her enough to not shut him down. She loves when he rambles; he has a curiosity to him that is boundless, and a joyous wonder in how he takes in everything around him, so bright and infectious that when he speaks, Layla feels that same wonder herself. He helps her view the world in a different way, to see the beauty and brilliance in small things she had learnt to overlook. 

And how could she not love that. 

At some point, the presenter makes the projection spin above their head, and the stars paint a trail behind them as they travel. Steven's voice drifts off, his eyes glittering with awe as he watches the stars go by. Layla finds herself sharing in the same sentiment as she watches the screen above. It's nothing like that night in the desert, when he turned back the night sky, but it's still truly something to see.

"It's beautiful," she says.

"Yeah," Steven says softly. "It is."

It's the way he says it that has Layla looking over at his face, expecting him to be staring at her rather than the stars. But he is still looking up, fully absorbed in the galaxy spinning above their heads, his mouth still slack with wonder. 

Layla can't help but let out a laugh. 

Steven glances at her, confused. "What?"

"Sorry," she says, covering her smile. "Sorry, it’s stupid. Ignore me.”

He gives her a stern look. “Nothing you say is stupid,” he says.

Well, how can she stay silent after hearing that. “You know that thing in movies, where one person says something’s beautiful and the other person agrees, but they’re actually saying it to the other person? I thought you were doing that.”

“Oh,” Steven says, eyes wide. “Oh, bollocks, should I have done that?”

She waves him off. “It’s fine. It’s all so cheesy anyway.” Like she hadn't done the same thing earlier with the north star. But he hadn't picked up on that, so that could remain her little secret. 

Steven scoots closer to her. "No, no, this is a date. I want to flirt with you,” he says. Then, an unmistakably proud look comes over his face. “Though, I think I could do much better than that.”

"Oh yeah?" Layla says, raising an eyebrow, not quite believing it. Steven was lovely, that she knew without a doubt, but he was hardly a smooth talker. Marc and him had that in common. "Alright. Give me your best."

After a moment of consideration, Steven reaches out his hand, and brushes his fingers along her jaw, guiding her head ever so slightly to the side so she's looking right at him. He leans in, and at first, she thinks he's about to kiss her, but he brushes past her mouth and keeps leaning in until he comes to a stop just beside her ear, close enough for the warmth of his breath to tickle the hairs on her neck. 

“Pour toi, femme chérie,” he whispers, “je crois / que j'offrirais ma vie / cent fois / mais, satisfait de suivre / ta loi / j'aime cent fois mieux vivre / pour toi.”

Layla, who had been half-expecting a pun or, at best, a line of Shakespeare, could only stare, frozen on the spot and struggling to fight back the urge to throw herself all over him. Steven pulls away and beams at her, giddy, any flirtatious pretences gone in a flash. 

"How was that?" he asks, all innocent. As if he didn't singlehandedly make her melt like wax in his hands. "Was that good?"

Layla shifts in her seat and clears her throat. "Yeah. That was...Yeah."

The excited look on his face shifts then, his eyebrow raising with scepticism.

"Really? French poetry?" Marc says. "That's what does it for you. How is that sexy?"

It's enough to distract Layla from the warmth in her stomach. She leans over to him, smug. "Are you jealous Steven's better at flirting than you?"

Marc rolls his eyes. "No, of course not. I just don't get it. It's just poetry said in French. It's nothing special. I mean, Frenchie used to say stuff like that to me all the time. Didn't mean he was flirting with me."

"...Marc," Layla says, giving him a pointed look. She lets the word rest there, giving Marc the time to process on his own. 

Something clicks, and Marc's eyes widen ever so slightly. "Oh. Shit. He was, wasn't he." He groans, and rubs his hand across his eyes. "Damn it, how did we not pick up on that?"

There's a slight flinch, and then he pulls his hands away, an amused expression on his face. 

"We?" Jake echoes with a scoff. "Hombre, even I knew he was flirting with you. It wasn't subtle." A short pause. "A while. I would have told you, but it was just too funny. You were so oblivious." 

Ah, now that sounds familiar. "It was the same with me when we first met," Layla says. "He didn't even realise we were dating until I told him."

"Hey, don't take his side on this," Marc says, sullen. "And I kinda figured we were dating, okay, I just didn't want to jump to conclusions."

"Marc, we were kissing and sharing a flat. At that point, it’s not a huge leap to make.”

Marc shoots her a look, but it quickly shifts into a different kind of irritation.

"Alright, alright, both of you, bugger off," Steven hisses, waving his hand about like he's warding off flies. "This is my date. You can natter to your heart's content when we get home." He sighs. "No...No, we're not getting takeout...Yes?...Maybe. It does sound nice. Perhaps you can go there for breakfast tomorrow?...Yeah, alright...Mmmhmm."

Sometimes, listening to them talk sounds like hearing one side of a very funny phone call, and Layla struggles not to laugh as Steven tries to 'hang up'. 

Eventually, he manages to get the others to stop butting in, and he spends the rest of the show whispering star facts to her. Even on the ride home, he continues, and she listens to every word avidly.

“So,” Steven says, once they're back at the flat, “did you like it?”

Layla nods. “It was lovely. Really. Though, I'll be honest, I don’t think anything will ever compare to that night you moved the stars.”

Steven fiddles with the sleeves of his jacket, eyes darting away bashfully. “Well, I mean, it wasn’t all me. Khonshu did a good chunk of it. It was his power after all, and—"

"Steven, I'm going to kiss you now." She doesn't mean to interrupt, but she's been waiting all night to do it, and she can't hold back any longer. 

Steven straightens with a blink. "Oh, right, yes, we can do that if—"

The rest of his words get lost between Layla's lips, but he doesn’t try to finish his sentence, happily sinking into her embrace. She wouldn’t exactly call the kisses Steven gives her passionate, or even heated. They never are. But there is still something behind them, a desire for connection, for touch. 

But just like Marc, he never tries to push it beyond kisses. He doesn’t try to pull her shirt off, or to slide his hand across her body. He doesn’t shove her against any walls or throw her onto the bed. Layla doesn’t push any further either, despite her body wanting it badly. She knows his boundaries, just like she knows Marc's, and she is happy to never venture beyond them. This is enough for her, because when he holds her like he does, and kisses her with such care and affection, she feels like the most precious thing in the world.

The kisses eventually peter out, but Steven does not draw away, keeping his forehead pressed to hers. Like a cat lying in the sun, Steven’s eyes close with contentment, and Layla does not make any effort to draw away, happy to breathe in his smell and feel the warmth of his skin against hers.

After a few minutes of simply enjoying each other's presence, Steven opens up his eyes and presses closer, nuzzling his nose against hers. They stare into each other's eyes, but it only lasts a few seconds before Steven giggles.

“What?” Layla asks.

“When you’re this close to my face,” Steven says, “it looks like you’ve only got one eye.”

Layla lets out a snort, and pulls away to avoid butting him in the face amidst her amusement. “Well, I'm going to be thinking that everytime we do that now."

He beams at her, proud of making her laugh. 

"Come on," she says with an affectionate shake of head, leading him towards the bed, "it's late. Let's get some sleep."

"Mm, yeah, that sounds like a very good idea. I'm absolutely knackered."

They both get changed into their pyjamas, and as Layla washes off her make-up, Steven boils the kettle and starts to prepare a hot water bottle for the two of them. Though neither of them had ever said it aloud, they both knew it was more for Layla's benefit than anything. Even after all these years of living in London, she's never really acclimatised to the cold. She never admitted to it, but Steven noticed all the same, and quietly started the routine, even going so far as to buy a soft, minky fabric cover for the bottle so he could enjoy its texture while she enjoyed its warmth. Even when they roll away from each other in their sleep, their hands stay close to one another, enjoying the shared comfort.

By the time she's cleaned her face, Steven's laying in bed, the hot water bottle resting in her spot, warming it up for her. She smiles, and sinks into the bed, nudging the hot water bottle into the space between them. 

"Mm, thank you," Layla says, enjoying the oasis of warmth amongst the cool sheets. "That's lovely."

Steven curls up beside her, his head coming to a rest just under her chin. She plays her hand through his hair before wrapping her arms around him and pressing him in closer.

“G’night, love,” he murmurs.

She kisses his forehead, smiling as his curls tickle against her skin. “Good night, Steven.”

In the quiet of the night, they fall asleep in the comfort of each other's arms.

⸻⋆✫✦☆🌔☆✦✫⋆⸻

When Layla wakes, the apartment is filled with the soft whistling of an old song. She rubs the sleep for her eyes and peers over to the kitchen. Between the fish tank and the book shelf, she can’t see much, but she can just make out the familiar sight of Jake's hat as he drifts to and fro.

He must have heard her waking, because he pops around the corner only a moment later, with two cups in his hands.

"Morning," Jake says.

Layla sits up with a smile. “Hey.”

He sits himself on the edge of the bed, and Layla shifts closer, just so she’s not out of reach. She’s spent enough time with him now to know not to encroach on his space without warning.

Unlike Steven, Jake doesn't seek out touch; in fact, he goes out of his way to avoid it whenever he can. When they watch movies together, he sits on the other side of the couch, and if he's ever faced with going into a crowd, he lets Marc or Steven take over until they're somewhere more secluded. Even then, he keeps his gloves on and his collar flipped up, to ward off any unexpected touches. The only time he ever seems comfortable with any sort of contact is when he’s initiated it himself, and even then, those moments are far and few between, and fleeting when they do happen.

Perhaps that’s why, when he holds out one of the cups to her, his hand uncovered, she can’t help but feel touched by the gesture.

She takes hold of the cup gingerly, making sure to avoid his fingers. When she nestles it close, she expects to see tea, but the liquid inside is a rich and creamy brown.

“You made me coffee?” Layla says, surprised. She takes a sip, and is delighted to find hints of cardamom and nutmeg amongst the bitterness, just the way she likes it. "Mm, that's lovely. Thank you."

He says nothing and takes a sip of his own coffee, but she still catches the hint of a pleased smile behind the rim. 

They drink together in silence, and Layla makes no attempts to start a conversation, enjoying the quiet. Once she's finished her cup, he takes it from her wordlessly to go wash it up. Layla uses the time to go to the toilet and to start getting ready for the day.

When she returns back into the open space of the flat, Jake is wearing his favourite jacket, and in the middle of pulling on his gloves. He’s mumbling quietly to himself in Spanish, but for once, he seems to be talking only to himself, rather than Steven or Marc. 

"You're heading out?"  Layla asks, recognising the familiar routine. He always puts his gloves on just before he leaves the flat.

Jake nods. "There's a new restaurant around the corner. I thought I'd go check it out. It looks like it's got good food." He is quiet for a moment. "You can come if you like."

Layla blinks, surprised at the request. If Marc or Steven had asked, she wouldn't have thought anything of it, but Jake, out of the three of them, values his alone time the most, and he often goes off into the city by himself simply to do something on his own. In the past, he's only invited her to join if it's been for a mission for Khonshu, or because he was doing a job that required a second set of hands. He's never asked her to accompany him for something like this. This is new.

“Yes, I’d love to," Layla says, shoving down her surprise. "Just give me a minute to get ready.”

Once she’s gotten into something more presentable than her pyjamas, they walk to the restaurant side by side, a space between them the whole way. Layla doesn’t try to shorten it, happy to keep her distance if that’s what makes him comfortable. Even still, a part of her can’t help but yearn to reach out her hand and hold his, the action so habitual now thanks to all the years she's spent with Marc that she has to cross her arms to keep herself from doing it by accident.

As it turns out, the restaurant really is ‘just round the corner’, and the walk is over almost as soon as it had begun.

The restaurant itself looks quaint, but its novelty seems to be drawing in a lot of customers, because it's fairly packed for a Monday morning. Jake makes a face, clearly put out by the unexpected popularity, but he doesn’t back out, marching onwards to the door.

Thankfully, they don’t have to venture far in search of a spot, managing to score the table that is situated just beside the entrance. Jake sits down in the chair facing the door, and waits for her to sit down before he starts looking over the menu. 

It’s not long before one of the waitresses comes over, a notepad in hand.

"Hi, how are we doing? What can I get for you today?"

She says it in a chirpy voice, but it's obvious it's forced. Though she hides it well, there is a certain moroseness to her. The smile she’s wearing looks brittle, and the make-up around her eyes looks slightly smudged, as if it’s hastily been reapplied after something rubbed it away.

Layla sends her a gentle smile, but does not say anything, knowing that asking if the waitress was okay would probably only make her uncomfortable. She lists out her order, and Jake does the same, but there’s a frown on his face as he speaks, his eyes flitting all across the waitress’ face.

“Will that be all?” the waitress says, looking over the order she’s written.

“Yes, thank you,” Layla says, already turning back to Jake.

Jake, however, still has eyes on the waitress, and just before she can leave with their order, he waves a hand to grab her attention.

"If you don't mind me saying, señorita, but I love your earrings,” he says, smiling warmly as he gestures at the cat earrings the waitress is wearing. They’ve been made to look like a cat clinging to a ball of yarn, which hangs at the end of a thin chain. “They look lovely on you. Where did you get them?" 

The waitress blinks, startled by the question. Her hand darts up to the earrings and she fiddles with them for a moment. "Oh. I. Um. I made them."

"What? Really?" Jake says, sounding amazed. “How’d you do that?”

Something genuine leaks into the waitress’ smile then, and with quiet enthusiasm, she explains how she designed the earrings after her cat and how she learnt to make earrings so she could put them together. Jake nods and makes interested sounds every so often throughout her explanation, and for a moment, Layla thinks he might be faking it, simply to be polite. But not once does his attention waver or shift into anything forced. He is genuinely absorbed in the waitress’ story, and Layla finds herself smiling as she watches the unguarded curiosity flit across his face. It’s such a rare thing to see with him.

The waitress is just in the middle of talking about her cat when she seems to remember the notepad in her hand. “Oh, bloody hell, I’m so sorry, I’ll go put your order in, ” she says. “But it’s been nice talking to you.”

“And it’s been wonderful listening,” Jakes says. “You’re very talented.”

"Oh," the waitress says, a pleased smile creeping at the edge of his lips. "Um. Thank you. That’s very nice of you to say. I’ll, uh, I’ll be back with your order soon.”

"Thank you, cariño.”

Cariño? Layla stares at him with frown, not so much jealous as she is confused. For all the time she’s known him, he’s never been in any way romantic towards her or anyone else. If anything, he's always seemed completely disinterested in it, often going so far as to make fun of how much Steven and Marc love her. So to see him throwing out pet names to strangers, she can't help but be a bit baffled.

Jake must notice the frown on her face, because he shoots her an amused look. “Don’t worry, I am not about to elope with the waitress, if that’s what you’re thinking. You don’t need to be jealous.”

“No, it’s not that,” Layla says. “I just...never took you for much of a flirt.”

“Oh, believe me, I'm not.”

Layla’s frown deepens. “But you were just—”

“Flirting?” he finishes with a grin. He shrugs a shoulder. “By your definition, maybe. I prefer to call it being considerate. I know how much a kind word can go after a long day of dealing with cabróns. And she looked like she needed a bit of kindness.”

Layla can’t argue with him there. “So...you weren’t trying to get her number or anything? Go on a date?”

Jake scoffs. “Oh, no, definitely not. I’ve never really seen the appeal in any of that. Can you imagine me going on a date with someone? No, that’s Marc and Steven’s territory, not mine.” He rests his chin on his knuckles, and fiddles with the napkin. “I’ve always preferred the company of friends.”

Layla raises an eyebrow. “Is that what we are? Friends?”

Jake opens his mouth to respond, then frowns and cocks his head, eyebrows scrunched with thought. “You know, I’m not actually sure. I don’t want to kiss you, I know that much, or do anything else, but...there is something there." He pauses for a moment, considering. “I don’t really know how to describe it. But I feel differently with you than I do with anyone else.”

Layla can only stare, having not expected the admission. She'd always assumed he saw her as a friendly face and nothing more, someone he was close to simply because they were in the vicinity of each other. Of course, she'd hoped there was something more to it, because in getting to know him the last few months and spending time with him, she's found a strange, peculiar feeling growing inside of her. It's not any kind of attraction, she's knows that, and it's nothing like what she feels towards Marc or Steven, but it's still something. She's not really sure how to describe it either. But it's there.

Her silence must linger longer than she means too, because Jake's shoulders hunch, and he glances away, uncharacteristically self-conscious. “I get it’s not what you want. You look at me, and you see Marc. You see Steven. And they adore you, shower with all that romance shit. But I’m not them. I don’t want the same things. I’m sorry if that doesn’t sit well with you, but that’s just how it is.”

"No, no, it's okay," Layla's quick to reassure. "I don’t mind if we don’t do those sorts of things together. Because you’re right, you’re not them, and I’m not going to expect you to give me the same things they do. I’m happy for us to have our own thing. It’s not worth any less to me than their love is.”

It’s Jake's turn to stare, speechless. He sit up straighter and squints at her, wary. “You’re fine with it? Really?”

“Really.”

The wariness fades, and he looks her over thoughtfully, his head tilted ever so slightly. “You really are something, Layla El-Faouly."

He doesn't let the moment linger, quickly diverting the conversation to something completely unrelated. Layla lets him, not sure how to address the topic either. It doesn't leave her mind though, and she watches him as he goes on about cars and Frenchie's upcoming visit, trying to figure out what exactly it is that she feels when she's with him.

The waitress from earlier returns with their meals, and Jake resumes his chat with her briefly before they say their goodbyes once again. He is quiet as he eats, and Layla takes the opportunity to discuss the missing ushabtis with him. He pipes up with a few ideas here and there, but for the most part, he is happy to listen to her, with the same clear and genuine interest he had with the waitress. But there is warmth to it, a softness, that wasn’t there before, and Layla can’t help but smile at having something reserved just for her.

By the time they’re both finished their breakfast, they have a plan in the works: Layla would reach out to one of her friends who had helped her bypass tech security in the past, and hope they could use their skills to track down the digital footprint of the ushabtis as they were passed from hand to hand.

Happy with the arrangement, Jake points his thumb over at the counter. “I’ll go and pay while you call your contact.”

Layla nods, and he leaves to go wait in line.

The call doesn’t last long, so by the time she’s done, Jake’s still waiting in line, closer now to the counter. Sometime between the start and end of the phone call, he struck up a conversation with the woman behind him. He’s too far for Layla to make out what he was saying with any clarity, but it must have been funny or thereabouts, because the woman bursts out laughing, in a way that is just a bit too over the top to be completely genuine.

Jake doesn’t seem to notice, a pleased smile forming on his face at the reaction. He also doesn’t seem to notice the woman slowly but surely creeping closer to him. The woman gets so close that when she bursts out laughing once again, she easily throws out her hand to place on Jake’s arm.

It was perhaps the fact that Layla knew Marc’s own expressions so well that she notices the way Jake’s jaw twitches, and his eyes narrow ever so slightly as he glances down at the woman’s hand. His smile does not falter for even a second, but there was a tenseness to his whole body that hadn’t been there before. But he does not push the woman away, or make any move to leave. He endures his discomfort in silence.

Layla is up on her feet and walking over before she realises she’s moved.

Jake is quick to notice her approach, and she doesn’t miss the hint of relief that crosses his face as she nears. She arrives at just the right moment too, the woman in the middle of suggesting her and Jake sharing numbers. She trails off when she notices Jake’s diverted attention, and turns over to look at Layla with a frown.

Jake is quick to use the distraction as an opportunity to step away from the woman. The woman glances over at him, and draws her hand back with disappointment, but she does not try to reach out again, instead turning back on Layla. She hides her annoyance well, but there is still a distinct edge to her stare. 

“I’m sorry, can we help you?”

‘We’? Quite ambitious there. Layla almost scoffs. Rather than replying in the same tone, she decides to take a different route. She pulls her face into something close to apologetic.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt, I just wanted to let my husband know the Uber will be here soon,” she says, in a sweet and casual tone. She reaches her hand behind him, pretending to touch his back. “I know how my Jakob gets; he just loves to talk, don’t you, sweetheart?”

Jake stares at her blankly for a moment, clearly unsure about what role he should be playing, but he seems to catch on soon enough, because he shrugs and makes a ‘you-know-me’ expression. “You’re not wrong there, honey, I do get carried away sometimes. But that’s why I married you, my darling wife. You keep my head on straight. Without you, my love, my dearest, I would be lost.”

It’s...not the subtlest delivery, but he’s certainly better at acting than Marc, she’ll give him that.

The woman is fooled at the very least, because she blinks and glances between the two of them. “Oh. Oh. You’re—Right. Uh. I’m sorry. I didn’t. Um. I’ll. I’ll go.” She nods to herself, and after circling around awkwardly for a moment in search of an exit, she wanders off, leaving Layla and Jake alone.

Layla drops the affectation as soon as the woman is out of sight. She turns to Jake, eyeing him with concern.

“You okay?”

He draws away from her, rubbing absentmindedly at his arm. “Yeah, I’m fine. It’s not like I didn’t have it handled. But. Uh. Thank you. For doing that.”

Layla nods. “Of course.”

He shoots her a look. “But really, 'Uber'? ” he says, his face scrunching up like he’s eaten something very sour. He shakes his head. “Of all the excuses.”

She laughs. “Sorry. Should I’ve said ‘Lyft’ instead?”

Jake groans and mutters something in Spanish, probably along the lines of the superiority of taxis. “Oh, you should be glad I like you."

He pays for the meal, and they start to make their way home. Jake keeps his hands in his pockets, but the tension in his shoulders is gone, and he has a small smile on his face as they walk together along the pavement. Ever so often, though, he reaches up to his arm, and rubs at it, as if the woman’s hand left behind an irritating sore.

Outside of the door to their building, Layla asks, “Does that happen to you often?”

Jake looks at her, confused. “Huh?” He looks around, clearly unsure what she’s referring to.

“People getting the wrong idea,” she clarifies, gesturing to his arm.

Understanding crosses his face. “Ah. You mean people coming on to me?” he says bluntly. He makes a face and shrugs. “Eh. Sometimes. Nothing I can't deal with."

“So why run the risk?”

“What?” Jake says, raising an eyebrow. He holds the door open for her to let her through into the hall. “You think I should just be rude to everyone instead?”

“No, of course not. I’m just curious as to why you do it in the first place. What do you get out of it?”

Jake's good mood vanishes in an instant, and he looks away, his shoulders tightening, but he does not tell her to drop the subject or to go away, so Layla lets the silence remain, giving him the time to work out his answer. It is only when they’re alone in the lift that he speaks up.

“I’ve spent most of my life going from one fight to another,” he says quietly. “Because that’s what I was here for. To protect us. But because of that, I never really had the chance to just...be around people. And, sure, I like fighting, I’m good at it, but. There’s no joy in it. I’ve had to be cruel and brutal for so long, and I don’t want to be. I like being nice to people. I like seeing them smile. It makes me feel good. It makes me feel like...like I’m more than just a weapon.”

The lift doors open, and he goes to leave, but stops when he realises Layla hasn't followed him. "Layla?"

She stands in place, forcing him to turn back and look at her.

“Jake, you aren’t a weapon,” she says, fiercely. “You were never a weapon. And you’re not cruel. Don’t even say that. You’re not. If anything, you’re one of the kindest people I know. No, you are,” she says emphatically when he looks at disbelievingly. “I looked at that waitress, and I knew she was sad, but I didn’t do anything. But you. You spoke up. You listened to her. You made her smile. Simply because you wanted her, a stranger, to feel happy. I think that says a lot about you. Because, believe it or not, you’re a good man.”

He stares at her for a moment, before looking away. “And handsome. Don’t forget handsome,” he says, a weak smile on his face. Despite the humour in his tone, she knows he’s taken her words to heart.

Layla makes her way towards the door to their flat and returns a smile of her own. “Yes. Definitely the most handsome man I know. But don’t tell Marc and Steven that.”

That gets a rare laugh out of him. “Of course. It can be our secret, mi cielito.”

Layla blinks at the unexpected endearment. For a moment, she thinks maybe he said it simply to make her smile, like he did with the waitress, but he falters and glances at her in surprise, as if he hadn’t expected to say it either. Something unreadable crosses across his face, and he turns away, pretending to be preoccupied with unlocking the door to the flat.

The moment goes by unaddressed, and they return to working on finding the ushabtis. The contact she called at the restaurant won’t be able to get back to them for a few days, but in the meantime, they can still do what they can.

It’s evening by the time they give up for the day, deciding that they’ve done as much as they could. After dinner, they both go off to quietly do their own activities. Layla finds she doesn’t mind nights spent like this, when they’re apart but still together, enjoying each other’s company in silence. It feels easy, and simple.

She’s in the middle of reading one of Steven’s book recommendations when she notices that Jake has moved away from the model helicopter he’s been putting together for Frenchie, and is now standing beside her, watching her with a curious expression.

She lowers her book and smiles, letting him know she’s free to talk. “Hey."

Jake sits beside her, closer than usual. He says nothing at first, but it’s clear he wants to say something, his mouth opening and closing as he struggles to find his words. He fiddles with his sleeves in a very Steven-like gesture, and that’s enough to tell Layla that whatever he’s about to say is important enough to make him nervous. She sets the book aside and puts her attention wholly on him.

“Jake?” she says softly. “What is it?”

“I’ve been thinking,” he says. “You know that thing I was saying earlier today? About there being something between us?”

Layla hums an acknowledgement, trying her best to act casual, not wanting to scare him off by acting too invested in what he has to say. But she is absolutely invested. She’s been wondering about it all day.

Jake leans back against the couch, and rests his head against the back. "I think I figured out what it is.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says, a small smile creeping onto his face. He rolls his head to look at her, with that same warmth and ease he had in his eyes when looked at her in the restaurant. “It’s comfort. You make me feel...comfortable."

It's like a gear clicking into place, hearing him say the word out loud; she knew there was a feeling between them, growing and growing ever since she first truly got to meet him, but she’s never been able to explain it until now, never quite being able to find the words. But he’s right. It’s comfort, what she feels with him. It’s safety and understanding and it’s love, but not in the way she’s known before. It's different, and it's completely unique to the two of them. While Marc and Steven send her heart soaring, Jake is her safe place to land.

A smile breaks out across Layla, fondness sweeping over her. 

“You make me feel comfortable too,” she says.

She reaches out her hand and settles it in the space between them, palm up, making sure to telegraph her movements as she does so. She doesn’t urge him to take it, or say anything to suggest he do so; she simply lets it rest there, allowing him the choice. 

With a smile, Jake reaches out and takes it.

⸻⋆✫✦☆🌕☆✦✫⋆⸻

For the first time in days, Layla wakes to find the person beside her still fast asleep. 

She lies there beside him, simply content to watch him sleep peacefully. This is the only time she can't tell who's beside her, when they're asleep. She finds she doesn't mind the mystery; not knowing allows her to adore all of them at once. 

It’s only a few minutes later that he starts to stir, and Layla sucks in her lips to keep from giggling at hearing his sleepy mumbles and groans. His eyes flutter open, and he stares forward, too dazed to really take anything in. He looks like he's about to drift off again when he notices her watching him. 

"Hm?" he says, still half asleep.

Layla brushes back one of his curls. "Hey. Sleep well?"

He blinks slowly, shakes his head, and then blinks again, this time with more alertness in his eye. His expression settles into something more distinct. 

"Yeah," Marc says. "Yeah. Really good, actually."

She smiles, and wipes his lips with the back of her palm. "You drool when you sleep, you know." 

He bats her away with a laugh. "I do not."

"You do. It's cute."

"What? How is drooling cute?" 

"I don't know. It just is."

His eyes flutter again, and then he’s pouting. "Layla, you know we hate answers like that," Jake whines, rolling away from her to cross his arms. "It's so vague and unhelpful.”

“I’m sorry, okay, I don’t know how to explain it. You just look...relaxed. Calm.”

“Mm, with a nice long piece of saliva to boot. The epitome of cuteness.”

She rolls her eyes affectionately. “Just take the compliment."

He laughs, and when he looks over at her, it's Marc again.

"So, what's the plan for today?" he asks. "Another party? Chasing down bad guys? Seeing the sights?"

Layla reached over to him, and rubs her thumb along his shoulder. “Why don’t we just stay in today? Have a day at home."

"Oh, that sounds lovely," Steven says, snuggling up beside her. "Just a day for us."

'Us'. She'll never stop loving how much the space within that one word has grown over the last few months. 'Us' is her and Marc. It's her and Steven. It's her and Jake. It's all of them, in one single word.

"That sounds wonderful," she says, kissing his forehead.

A few expressions shift over his face, some of them distinctly Marc, and some distinctly Jake, but all of them happy. He presses his head into her collarbone, and wraps his arms around her.

"Love you," he whispers, his voice too low for her to make out who said it.

She smiles at the words. They never say 'I love you'. It's always just those two words, just 'love you'. Without the I, it was more open, less singular, and casual enough to be something said between close friends. In a way, it's their way of all saying it together.

Layla curls around him, content to spend the day lying by his side, doing nothing more than simply enjoying the warmth and company of him by her side. There was no need to kiss or to do anything else. Just having him there was enough to make her feel loved, more than she ever had. She would happily live the rest of her life in pursuit of moments like this. Because, to her, this was perfect. 

"And I you, ya amar."