Chapter 9 #2
The carved features crumpled. Not physically, but Locke could see it in the way Jack’s shoulders curved inward, the way his voice dropped. “That wasn’t my intention.”
And Locke could see it all now. The hurt. The failure. The desperation behind every gesture. Jack had been trying to protect him and instead created something dangerous.
“I know. I know you were trying to help. But Jack... you can’t just...” Locke took a breath, steadying himself. “Banish it. Please.”
Jack stared at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, his carved expression shifted to resignation. He raised his hand, and the demon dissolved into smoke, the binding ropes falling away as the summoning was unmade.
Silence settled over the apartment. The only sound was the tick of the old clock on the mantle, the distant hum of traffic outside.
“Boss tried really hard,” Bramble said softly from the windowsill.
“I know he did.” Locke’s voice was tired. Fond. Sad.
The familiars dispersed, giving them space. Jack stood there, those carved features unreadable, looking defeated in a way that made Locke’s chest ache. Then Jack turned and disappeared into the bedroom without another word.
Locke sank onto the couch, running his hands through his hair.
The demon had been too much. Way too much. Rowan could have been seriously hurt. But underneath the anger and fear, something else twisted inside him.
Jack had summoned a demon to protect him.
The memory surfaced before Locke could stop it.
Portland, two years ago. He and Corbin walking back from dinner, laughing about something stupid, their hands loosely linked.
October evening, much like this one. Cool air, the smell of someone’s firepit, the kind of perfect autumn night that made you feel alive.
Then: gunfire.
Close. Too close. The sharp crack of it echoing off buildings, people screaming, everyone scattering in different directions.
Locke had frozen for half a second, trying to process, trying to figure out which direction to run. His brain couldn’t compute the sound, couldn’t match it to reality. This was supposed to be safe. They were just walking home from dinner.
Then Corbin’s hand was on his chest.
Not pulling him close. Not pulling him to safety. Not grabbing his hand to run together.
Pushing.
A hard shove that sent Locke stumbling backward. Toward the sound. Toward the danger. While Corbin ran the opposite direction, not looking back, not checking if Locke was following, just gone.
Locke had stood there, stunned, watching his boyfriend disappear around a corner.
Then someone grabbed his arm. A stranger, some random person who cared more about his safety in that moment than Corbin did.
They pulled him behind a parked car. They’d crouched there together, breathing hard, waiting for the sounds to stop.
The next day, Corbin showed up with flowers and apologies.
Expensive flowers. The good kind from the fancy shop downtown.
“I panicked,” he’d said, eyes wide and earnest, performing contrition like he’d rehearsed it.
“I was trying to grab your hand, I swear. I just... instinct took over. You know how fight or flight works, right? My body just... moved. You know I’d never. ..”
He’d made it into a self-deprecating joke. Called himself a coward, laughed about his terrible flight response, admitted to being selfish and scared. Brought expensive takeout (Locke’s favorite Thai place) and more apologies until Locke, exhausted and confused, let it go.
But Locke remembered the push. The direction. Away from Corbin. Toward the gunfire.
He remembered standing there, watching Corbin disappear around a corner, and thinking: I’m not worth protecting.
That feeling had lingered. Through the rest of their relationship, through discovering Corbin was cheating, through the breakup and moving back to Hollow Hill.
Through every interaction afterward. The knowledge that when it mattered, when there was actual danger, Corbin had used him as a shield.
Had pushed him toward harm to save himself.
And now Jack. Jack who’d summoned a demon. Jack who’d gone way too far, who’d created something dangerous that almost hurt Rowan. Jack who kept failing at every grand gesture but kept trying because he wanted to keep Locke safe.
The demon had been wrong. Absolutely wrong. Catastrophically wrong. But the intent behind it...
Locke pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes.
Jack had been alone for 259 years and his first instinct when Locke might be in danger was to summon protection.
Overboard, yes. Catastrophic, absolutely.
But protection. Not running. Not pushing Locke toward danger to save himself.
Jack had literally called forth something from another realm because the thought of Locke being hurt was unacceptable to him.
That was... that was...
Locke didn’t know what to do with that feeling. Didn’t know how to process the difference between someone who’d use you as a shield and someone who’d summon a demon to guard you. Both were wrong in their own ways: one through cowardice, one through excessive force. But the intent...
He thought about Jack’s voice during the confrontation. I was trying to keep you safe. Not defensive. Not making excuses. Just hurt and confused about why protection was unwelcome.
Locke had spent two years believing he wasn’t worth protecting. And here was Jack, a literal deity, acting like Locke’s safety was the most important thing in the world. So important that Jack would fail spectacularly and publicly and keep trying anyway.
“Fuck,” Locke whispered to the empty apartment.
He was so screwed.
The evening before Halloween, Locke was closing up the shop when Jack found him.
The day had been busy. Last-minute costume shoppers, people buying candles for tomorrow night’s festivities, the usual pre-Halloween rush.
Locke had been restocking the crystal display, trying not to think about tomorrow’s performance, trying not to think about Jack sleeping in the next room over, trying not to think about anything at all.
The shop was quiet now. Dim. The purple neon sign in the window cast everything in soft lavender light. Outside, the street was mostly empty, just a few people hurrying home in the October chill.
Locke was counting the register when he felt Jack’s presence behind him. That autumn-magic feeling, crisp and wild and uniquely Jack.
He turned. Jack stood in the doorway between the shop and the apartment stairs, backlit by the warm light from upstairs. His robes pooled around him, sage and burnt orange, and even in the dim shop light, Locke could see the tension in his posture.
“I want to show you something.”
Locke’s stomach dropped. Here we go again. “Jack, it’s okay. You don’t have to...”
“Yes, I do.” Jack’s voice was firm. Determined. A little desperate around the edges.
“The feast was sweet. The seed was beautiful. I would rather we talked about everything.” Locke set down the cash he’d been counting, turning to face Jack fully. They needed to have this conversation. Needed to talk about what was happening between them, what these gestures meant, what Jack wanted.
The jack-o’-lantern features twisted. “Do you know how humiliating this is?”
“It’s not about...”
“I am a DEITY. I’ve existed for millennia. I’ve been worshipped, revered, celebrated. Men and women clamored for my body.” Jack’s voice cracked slightly on that last word. “And I can’t even properly court a mortal.”
This was it. The moment. He let his voice drop, go softer. Seductive in a way he hadn’t dared before. “So you are trying to court me?”
“Yes.” Jack sounded embarrassed. Vulnerable. The carved features shifted, uncertain. “And I’ve only made your life harder.”
“They were sweet. Overwhelming, yes. Catastrophic, absolutely. But still sweet.”
Jack turned to face him fully, moving closer. Close enough that Locke could feel the autumn-magic rolling off him, smell that crisp-leaves scent that followed Jack everywhere. “Then let me try once more. Please.”
Locke’s mouth went dry. “What are you planning?”
“Something you’ll remember. Something worthy. We’re going to fly.”
“What? How are we...” But Locke already knew. He could see it in the way Jack was looking at him, determined and desperate and ready to try one more impossible thing.
Jack headed for the door. Locke followed, because what else could he do?
They stepped out into the October evening.
Cold and clear, the kind of night where you could see your breath.
The street was empty, most people already inside preparing for tomorrow’s festivities.
Above them, the sky was deep purple, stars just beginning to appear.
Jack led him to the church. Of course the church. The old stone building loomed against the darkening sky, gothic and imposing. And perched on its roof...
Jack looked up at the gargoyles. Stone figures that had sat dormant for over a century, moss-covered and weathered, their wings folded against carved bodies. “They’ve sat dormant for centuries. They deserve to...”
“Jack, NO.”
But Jack was already raising his hand, already gathering power. Locke could feel it building in the air, that harvest-magic that made everything autumn and alive and wild.
Locke grabbed his carved pumpkin head with both hands. Pulled him down. Jack was tall, too tall, and Locke had to stand on his toes to reach properly, his hands framing that smooth orange surface.
And kissed him.
Pressed his lips against Jack’s carved jack-o’-lantern mouth, against the smooth pumpkin surface that was somehow warm despite being vegetable matter.
The carved mouth was hard under his lips but yielded slightly, magic humming beneath the surface like electricity.
It was strange and perfect and utterly Jack.
The power gathering in the air dissipated.
The gargoyles remained stone. The world narrowed to this.
Locke on his toes, hands framing Jack’s pumpkin head, kissing a deity who’d tried so hard and failed so spectacularly and kept trying anyway because he wanted Locke.
Wanted him enough to risk humiliation. Wanted him enough to keep trying.
The kiss was strange. Pumpkin smooth and slightly warm, magic humming beneath the surface. But it was Jack. And that was enough.