Loser

Chapter 7: The Jig's Up

It didn't seem possible that life could ever be normal again. But it was. Strangely, almost disappointingly normal. After he'd showered, Dax got dressed in his usual tar and grease stained dungarees. Jak made them breakfast and then they both went their separate ways to work.

On the street he was ignored. No one knew that he and Jak had had sex that morning and his skin still tingled from it. No one knew that Jak had kissed him goodbye as he'd shouldered his pack and headed out the door. Everything was exactly as it had been the day before.

He walked onto the job site like nothing had happened. Like the world hadn't just upended, and the guys treated him just like it was any ordinary day.

Was I expecting a parade? Dax chided himself as he took his familiar perch on the roof. No this was just the new ordinary. Life goes on. In the bigger scheme of things, it was nothing at all. Just a simple act in private between two people who cared about each other.

To think he'd actually been scared of losing his virginity. How crazy was that?


That sweet, comfortable normalcy lasted one precious week. Then finally, inevitably, the hammer fell. Ironically, the end wasn't due to the nightly fumbling or morning kisses or any of the mushy, tender stuff. Nor was it any pressure that Torn or Tess or even Jak put on him. No it came from the one corner of his life never expected to give him any serious problems.

It was Dax's job that dealt the killing blow.

"Did you hear about the metalhead sighting?" asked Stanford during their lunch break. "In the Gardens. Got a fucking kid." He took a large bite of his sandwich and wiped a trail of mustard off of his cheek with the back of a dusty hand.

Dax, who was sitting with the rest of the workers in a loose semicircle around what would one day be someone's living room, perked up at the word metalhead. "In the Gardens – you mean the City Gardens? Within the wall?"

Arne gave an ugly grin. "Yeah. Scare you Fire-rat? One of your cousins sneaked in through the sewers. Heard the kid was eviscerated."

"Was it killed? The metalhead, I mean," asked Dax, fighting an urge to head out and hunt it down. Not my job he told himself. Not yet, at least. It was just a matter of time though. Days at most. Jak was losing patience.

"Yeah, Krimson Guard got it," said Stanford. "Big fuss, they had to evacuate the area."

Krimson Guard – not Jak. Where was Jak? "They were sure it was metalhead, not just some ordinary critter?" Dax searched his mind. They'd been through the tunnels and ruins under the city so many times – it was nearly inconceivable that they'd left any orbs behind. But then metalheads did find a way to get where they wanted, and Haven City smelled pretty ripely of Elves. The gardens butted up against the West wall. Perhaps there was some newly dug tunnel.

"Definitely metalhead," insisted Stanford. "Neighbor of my sister saw the thing. And Torn was all over the place. They don't call him out for wild animals." Suddenly Stanford cocked an eyebrow at Dax. "You know Torn. Maybe you can find out more about it from him. Tell us what's going on."

There were grunting murmurs of agreement and a general swelling of "No one bothers to tell us anything" going around the circle of men.

Daxter felt uncomfortable. He was still waiting them to actually call him out on his relationship with Haven's Defense Minister. As of yet no one actually had, but it was more out of respect than lack of curiosity. The guys were not the gossipy type, but there was only so long they'd let the matter lie without someone poking at it. Daxter wasn't sure what he'd do then – concoct a lie he was more than apt to flub? Or tell the truth and aggravate curiosity until someone made the connection between him and the furry animal that Jak used to keep on his shoulder? Both options sucked.

He could only imagine what Arne would say if he knew that Daxter had once been someone's pet, carried around, stealing drinks out of a man's cup and submitting to being petted and cuddled by his friends. More than submitting, enjoying it. Seeking it out. Occasional protests aside, he'd been largely happy with his lot as a critter. No. At all cost, he had to keep that hidden from this lot. If he thought Arne's ill-humored teasing was bad now, imagine what the guy would do with some real ammunition.

The foreman's whistle saved Daxter from further questions. Briskly, he stood up and found a reason to be far away from the rest of the guys. He scampered out to corner of the roofs trusses, aware that he was being watched with equal amounts of curiosity and confusion. He was working solo up there today, so he managed to actually avoid any further talking until the final whistle blow, and the daily line up for pay.

"Hey Dax," whispered Stanford, stepping into line behind him. "You know you really should come get a beer with the us sometime. The guys are starting to get put out with you snubbing them. Point'll come where they'll start to shun you. I'll tell you from a guy who's been in this business a lot longer than you, it's not good to be shunned. You don't get a lot of jobs. Accidents happen when you do."

Dax's guts squirmed. The last thing his ego needed was to flunk out of what was supposed to be an easy vocation. "Makers, I want to," said Dax. "But I can't. Oh man, I really can't."

"Why can't you?" said Stanford, his voice laden with annoyance.

"Cause he's whipped," said Arne, taking his money from the foreman's hand and stuffing it into his pocket.

"I'm not whipped," snapped Dax. "I'm just needed, elsewhere."

"Naked," supplied Arne, crudely.

"Not your business," said Dax firmly, annoyed that one or two of his coworkers had started sniggering. He reached the head of the line and collected his coins, shoving them away without bothering to count.

"Makers," said Stanford with real irritation this time. "We already know you are gay. You don't have to be secretive about it. Though I think your boyfriend's an asshole if he doesn't let you have an occasional beer with your friends."

"I say dump him," said Rugar, joining up with them. "The loser is too controlling. This is Torn we are talking about, right?"

"I'm not gay," said Dax. "I've just made an exception. And no, it's not Torn." Dax realized he'd opened a can of worms. "Anyway, it's no ones business but my own who it is."

"Well, if that's so," grumbled Stanford, "Stop making it our business. Listen, I couldn't care less if you are blowing Lurkers in your spare time, just stop throwing your oh so private love life in our faces every time we try to be friendly with you. Come down off your high tower and have a beer with us for once, and stop making such a fucking issue out of it."

Dax felt torn. He couldn't, not now. Not with metalheads in the city. Jak was going to want to drag him out to the Naughty Ottsel to talk with Torn about S&Ding the threat. With Dax there, putting his two cents in … that would be it.

Dax's stomach bottomed out. It didn't matter what the guys thought of him. There would be no roofing job tomorrow. Torn wasn't going to put up with any more excuses. Dax was going to get roped into serious metalhead hunting in the tunnels beneath the city with Jak ASAP. And once he started, there would be no excuse to stop. Tomorrow, he'd be back in the ruins, jumping the pits, climbing the crumbling walls, risking his neck. Vacation over. The Precursors had him in their ghostly grip.

Or maybe he could just go for a beer with the boys after all. Daxter raised an eyebrow and considered it. It would piss off Jak, sure, and Torn as well, but Jak had been having his way pretty damn consistently of late, and all that rolling around between the sheets had to have earned Dax some brownie points. As for Torn, he should damn well be pleased, considering the incredible gall of his last request. Jak was back on metalhead duty, tension properly relieved. Daxter could simply sidestep the issue, come home late, go to work tomorrow, just like every other day. The deadline for giving up the last shred of life that was truly his could be put off for just a bit longer.

"You know what, guys," said Dax, smiling, "Screw it, let's get that beer."

The apartment was dark when Dax entered it, late, late that night. He'd closed the bar down and he didn't even feel remotely guilty about it. The unlit steps bothered him only a tiny bit – the streetlamp angling into the alley provided enough illumination to keep him from tripping. It was weird though, Jak always waited up for him. Maybe Jak was actually getting used to Dax's independence?

He slipped the key in the lock and turned it, trying his best to be stealthy. Quiet as a mouse, he crept into the kitchen, shutting the door and turning the latch slowly behind him. The apartment was utterly still. He'd slide into bed without waking Jak and ….

A force caught him and pushed him up against the wall with a bone jarring thud. He felt a wave of sickly cold that seemed to penetrate his clothes and smelled a distinctive musk reminiscent of damp earth. A body, devoid of warmth, pressed him mercilessly into the brickwork. A soft breathy growl rasped Dax's ear.

Fear crawled up Dax's skin, stealing his breath in a pained hiss. "Dark," Dax managed. "Please, it's me. It's just me. I'm not an intruder. It's just me. Dark. It's me." Oh Makers, oh fuck! Dax could feel the dark eco sapping his will, lancing into his muscles and making them ache. He tested the strength of the monster's grip on his upper arms to see if there were any give to it, but there was none. Dark pinned him there against the wall, one knee planted dangerously between Dax's thighs such that with a simple shift of weight Dark could crush his testicles. Dax felt utterly weak. All his efforts towards building up his strength were futile. Against Dark he was just as flimsy and powerless as when he was an Ottsel.

Dax did the only thing he could think of to defuse the situation. He leaned forward and rubbed his face, ottsel style against the underside of Dark's chin and caressed the monster's back and sides with his hands. Petting. He forced his tight throat into making soothing sounds. "'S okay. I'm back. I'm here. You can sleep, Dark. You can sleep."

It seemed that Dark was holding him more gently. The knee lowered, but Dax was still caged in and he didn't dare relax. There was no doubt if he made any attempt to flee, Dark's claws would shred his arms and his teeth would bury themselves in Daxter's throat. "Sleep," murmured Dax, never more awake. "Sleep."

Dax felt a clawed hand seize his chin and push it upwards. A moment later, cold hard mouth fastened on to his. He felt the sharpness of Dark's teeth grazing his lips, and every suck held the pent up pressure of a spring being tightened to the point of snapping. Dax kissed Dark back because it was what the creature seemed to want. It was like tasting the grave.

And suddenly the kiss began to warm and soften. Dark shifted back to Jak again. It was a heady feeling to go from being held by monster who might just tear your to bits, to being held by a lover, who barely flinched with surprise before renewing the kiss with passion and sensitivity.

"Sorry Jak," said Dax, when they broke apart. His lips ached from the pressure, and he had no doubt they were bruised. "I'm so sorry."

"I was worried," murmured Jak. "You didn't come home. Where were you?"

"I know. I … oh man… I'm sorry. I didn't think it would bother you this much. Not enough to turn you. I'm sorry." Dax felt like crap.

"Did Dark hurt you?" asked Jak suddenly. Dax felt Jak's hands seize him and pat him down, searching by feel for any tears in his clothing or dampness of blood. Dax bore with it patiently.

"No – scared me a bit, but he didn't hurt me. Dark would never hurt me," Dax said, as much to reassure himself as Jak.

"There are metalheads in the city, Dax," said Jak, suddenly all serious. "Five sightings along the west side of the wall. They found some way up through the tunnels under the city. There's a colony we gotta clear. Then you didn't come home. They could have gotten you. I didn’t know."

Dax felt his eyes tearing up. "Oh you big goof, you think some metalhead rats could hurt me? I didn't spend five years fighting the buggers for nothing. I can hold my own."

Jak kissed him again. It was full of soul and ache and desperation, somehow spelling with his tongue and lips all the things that Jak couldn't put to words. Jak's hand laced with his, squeezing, holding it up against Jak's cheek, as though that would bind Dax to him. Dax bore it, even though it hurt his bruised fingers, and the back of his hand still stung from being rapped against the bricks.

Dax felt Jak's fear and need in the hammering of his heart. More than that he understood it, like he'd toked up some white eco, or somehow developed psychic powers. He could tell that all Jak's old familiar worries were back with a vengeance: terror of his own strength, humiliation at his inability to control the other personas, horror that Dax was drifting away, abandoning him to a lonely, joyless life, to deal alone with urges and problems that were unique to him.

Nothing he could say would set Jak's heart to rest. Words were worthless when it came to someone like Jak. What mattered were actions. Jak needed proof of Dax's commitment.

The couch was so close that Dax could feel it every time he leaned left. Reading his body language fluently, Jak swept him up, lifting him by the waist long enough to turn him sideways and let him fall, backwards over the sofa's soft, padded arm and onto the cushions. Then Jak was with him, lying on top of him, pinning him, stripping him, making love with every tender caress. Dax gasped in breath and undulated, showing with his body that he wanted this. He mouthed words of encouragement that seemed ridiculous and meaningless to his own ears. Finally he pressed his own hardness against his friend, as if to say, "See, see, this is what you do to me. No one could do this but you."

Suddenly Jak's weight lifted. "Is it okay?" His voice was edged with eagerness and oh so vulnerable.

Dax knew what Jak meant. They'd danced around this subject every night of fumbled lovemaking since the first. Dax had always sent ambivalent signals and Jak had backed off. Penetration sounded so violent. So final. But Jak really wanted it. So tonight Dax said, "Yes." In his adrenaline edged state, he could think of no better way to prove his devotion.

He needn't have worried. Jak was oh so slow and achingly careful, approaching the whole thing as a puzzle to be meticulously unlocked. He took frequent breaks, to turn on a light, to retrieve some oil from the kitchen, to bring out pillows that might support Dax easier. Dax waited with ratcheting anticipation. When they started their lovemaking the final time around, it was unhurried and tender and completely wordless. Dax clenched his teeth and bucked, as Jak quietly filled him up and brought him over the edge.

It was the best sex they'd ever had.


Dax maintained a heady post-orgasmic glow all the way into the next morning, when, for the first time, he allowed Jak to walk him part of the way to the jobsite. As always, when in a good mood, Dax's mouth rattled off, glancing on issues and curiosities, mulling over theories, all completely inane and based off of nothing more than his own somewhat disjointed thinking. As usual, Jak said just enough to let Dax know that he was indeed listening and not just nodding his head.

Jak was in a great mood.

They'd rounded the bend into the neighborhood where the Dax's current jobsite was located when they both, simultaneously, noticed a girl leaning up against a wall. Dax's words dried up in his mouth and all he could do was gape.

She was gorgeous. Oh hubba. Busty, slim, oh yes, with an aura of probably unmerited innocence. Her clothes were flattering and neat, sexy but not trashy. Her blonde hair fell in a straight curtain to her waist. Her face had a sweet kind of delicacy, like a doll's. Her eyes met theirs with equal interest as they walked past.

As per usual, she lost interest in Dax immediately. It took her half a second, tops, for those large pretty eyes to take in his shortness, the slim arms and legs which despite daily exercise never bulked out much. And then her focus was on Jak, who was, of course, as sexy a hunk as anyone could possibly want. Dax saw a shy smile light up her face, and he turned as saw Jak flirting back with panache as natural as breathing.

Dax felt a pang, and suddenly everything he and Jak had done the night before seemed fake. Jak wanted that girl. And rather than being jealous, Dax found he sympathized with Jak. He wanted the girl, too – not that he'd ever have her. But Jak could. All Jak had to do was turn around and walk back. Say a few words. Charm her.

That was the natural order of things. Not this… this buddy fucking or whatever it was that he and Jak were doing. How had they gotten sidetracked like this? Dax felt a knife twist of grief well up in his heart. Jak had cost him Tess. And now he was costing Jak this girl, who was doubtless a ton better for him. Why? Why did they do this to each other?

"Hey Jak," said Dax. "Let's split up here." He leaned in and whispered. "She's really cute." He jabbed his friend once in the ribs with his elbow, "Go ask her out, I won't get in your way."

He then turned and headed off down the street at a jog, barely registering the look of surprise and annoyance on Jak's face. He half expected Jak to run after him, or maybe call his name, but Jak did neither. One last look as he rounded the corner showed Jak standing where he was, staring after him, glumly.

It was just as well, Dax assured himself, as the worksite came into view. Sanity settled it's chilly hand on his heart. The moment the guys realized that Jak was his elusive secret lover, his easy going relationship with them would be over. They'd understand his aloofness, and for a change welcome it. And oh, he'd get any job he asked for, and no one would think of causing him an accident, but it wouldn't be the same, because they'd all be afraid of Dax – afraid of what he'd have Jak do to them if they pissed him off. And at that point he'd have to quit, for their sake.

And he liked this job. He really, really did. If Dax had never met Jak, he was pretty sure this is where he'd be in life. Building useful things for people. Using his hands and dexterity to create a happy future, rather than to destroy a miserable past.

"Dax!" one of the guy's bellowed out.

He waved. The sun shone bright and cheerfully down on the site for Daxter's final day of work.


The midmorning peace was shattered by a deep masculine yell that echoed out across the worksite. A moment later came a general scattering and scrambling, and terrified curses. Dax realized with a jolt that something very, very bad was happening.

Adrenaline hit Daxter's bloodstream and without really thinking about it, he dropped what he was doing and ran out over the narrow plank pathway to where he could get a view. Below him, he saw the guys scrambling backwards, trying not to trip over loose piles of bricks and debris. Two of the bigger guys had taken up improvised weapons, a brick and a plank, and were edging closer to the object of attention in the middle.

A bundle of dark course fur, the height of a man's knee, hesitated in the middle of their loose ring, then suddenly lunged forwards towards one of the pipefitters. The elf spryly turned around and leapt back over a barrier of stacked two by fours, before the creature was distracted by one of the bricklayers and altered course. Dax caught sight of a yellow gleam in the center of its head.

Metalhead. Metalhead rat.

Daxter didn't think. He leapt down to a platform on some nearby scaffolding, then stepped off the sheet metal flooring, catching a support truss with his hands on the way down, and swinging out until he could drop to the floor of the site. He took some of the force of the fall on his bent knees, then rolled to lose the rest of his momentum. Coming up to a stand, his eyes lit on a cement shovel. Without thinking he grabbed it and then dashed out towards the throng of men, yelling at the top of his voice.

The metalhead was attacking one of the carpenters, ripping into his leg with its sharp teeth and claws, while others threw chunks of brick and Stanford attempted to bat at it with a short length of two by four. The rat flinched under the blows then squirmed and darted towards Stanford, who panicked and dropped the wood in his attempt to scramble away. Two other guys took the moment to drag the poor bleeding carpenter away.

"Hey you stinking piece of fur. Come 'n get me!" yelled Dax, running up behind the creature.

The rat obediently stopped chasing Stanford and launched itself at Dax, closing the distance in one swift dash, its teeth sinking deep into Daxter's calf. Ignoring the ripping agony of his leg, Dax brought the blade of the shovel down with a swift determined stab right behind the Metalhead's skull, sinking deep into the back of the creatures neck.

There was a sickly crunch and the Rat went limp, its jaws grew lax around Daxter's leg, and Daxter was able to shake it loose. It was dead. With some effort Daxter leaned on the shovel, using his injured leg to hold the mass of the rat still. He brought the blade up a little and jabbed it down again and again until the tough neck was finally severed and the head rolled free.

Then Daxter looked up. The men at the site had gathered in a tight circle around him, their mouths dropped in awe.

"Makers," muttered Stanford. "That was awesome." With that, it seemed the tension had broken and the guys started in to slap Dax's back and ruffle his hair.

"No!" said Dax, his voice still tight with terror. "Stay back, it's still dangerous." He hopped clear of the corpse himself. The guys obediently followed his lead and gave the thing some clearance. "Okay, I gotta go bring the head to Torn. NO ONE TOUCH IT!"

He needed something to contain the still active orb in while he hauled it off to Jak so he could deactivate it. The only thing came to mind was his own backpack. Yuck. He limped painfully back across the site to where he'd stowed it, then turned the sack over and dumped out his lunch onto the ground. A green eco ball rolled out. Dax leaned after it and snatched it up, breaking the shell with one hand. He felt the soothing coolness enter his bloodstream and race around his body. Ah, that was the stuff. Dax closed his eyes and momentarily savored the feeling of his pain ebbing away. He sighed with relief as the bite on his leg fully and scarlessly healed. Then he snagged the strap of his empty backpack and jogged back to the corpse.

To his horror the men had closed in on it again. "Back up guys!" he shouted. "Get away from it!"

"Calm down, it's dead, Dax," one guy had the gall to say.

"No it's not!" said Dax, rushing up to the knot of men and bullying his way into the center.

"You some kind of expert on metalheads?" asked Rugar.

"Actually, yes, I am, so you guys need to shoo back. Three feet at least!" They did, reluctantly. All but one.

Arne was still bent over the corpse, and when Dax circled in to see what the lug was doing, he realized with horror why. "A KNIFE! I NEED A KNIFE!" Dax shrieked. The guys flinched away, too startled to help in anything like a timely way.

To an untrained eye, Arne seemed to be contemplating the yellow gem in his hand. His face was screwed up in a grimace and he bared his teeth. It was easy to miss the pinprick sized dots of blood on Arne's forehead where the spiderweb thin metal strands had lanced through his skin and hooked into the bone. Four spots turned to six, then, eight, then more than a dozen. Arne held the gem in a tight fist, his arm shook, and his free hand grabbed his wrist. It looked to the world as if he were struggling mightily with himself. Then, as if with great deliberation, he brought the shining evil thing up to his head.

"A knife!" Dax cried out, but it was too late.

"Arne," murmured one of the workers. "What are you doing, man?"

Arne knelt hunched, hands against his head, silent despite the terror and pain he must be feeling. Dax felt a mix of fury and frustration and a deeper ache of regret. If only, for once in his life, Arne'd given him the respect he was due. If only he wasn't such a cretinous slab of muscle and fat. As much as Dax disliked the guy, he never wished for this fate on him: a living death, imprisoned in own his flesh, helpless to watch it become a weapon against his own friends. Dax hoped beyond hope that Arne wasn't aware, but he'd seen this thing happen before, and there was ample reason to think the elf was still in there, doomed, miserable and in pain. The kindest thing was to end it quick.

Dax turned and saw the bloody, cement crusted shovel he'd used to decapitate the rat. He grabbed it and pointed the blade at Arne's hunched back, and with tears welling in his eyes, and adrenaline making his entire body shake, he put all his strength into a swift downwards thrust.

At the last moment someone grabbed him around the waist and yanked him backwards off his feet. The blade of the shovel clanked uselessly against the ground. "Makers, Dax," cried Rugar. "You'll kill him!"

"He's dead," said Daxter, struggling to free himself. "He's a metalhead, Rugar. He's already dead."

As if to contradict him, Arne spoke. "My head is killing me." The bricklayer groped the ground next to him, then cumbrously pulled himself to his feet. "What happened? Can someone help me?"

The ring of workers, still shocked and confused, hesitated a moment. Then one stepped forward.

"NO!" screamed Dax, putting force behind his voice. "Don't! Don't go near him!" He twisted in Rugar's arms, finding the weak point in his grip and pushing until he was free. He raised the shovel again at Arne, but once more, he was thwarted, by two people this time. They gripped his arms and worked to free the shovel from his hands in a completely wrongheaded attempt to be heroic.

"Have you gone crazy?" Rugar asked, his voice squeaky with disbelief.

The workers stared at Arne and at Dax as if they couldn't make up their minds what to trust: Dax who had just felled a metalhead right in front of them, or their own sense of decency. It was an impasse for two seconds, then Arne groaned.

"Please, help," he pleaded. "I need a doctor. It hurts!"

Fuck, Dax had forgotten how horrifying it was to hear a metalhead talk. It sounded so normal – almost reasonable. It was so much better when it was some animal, and you didn't have to think that maybe, just maybe there was a guy in there who could still be saved.

The guys made their decision and to Dax's horror three of them came forward to help steady Arne on his feet. Dax winced as the metalhead, with terrible casualness, grabbed the throat of the man nearest him and crushed it in his hand. Using maniacal strength, Arne slammed the unfortunate samaritan into a nearby pile of bricks. He then turned on the other two, who were retreating away as fast as they could. Several guys pulled out their utility knives (where the hell were they a minute ago when they actually could have helped?) It wouldn't make a difference now: if they were close enough to stab Arne with those small blades, he was close enough to kill them.

The grip on Daxter loosened, and he tore his way free of his captors. Arming himself once more with the shovel, he danced out to an empty spot, away from the others. "Hey Arne!" he shouted, "Over here. I'm the one who did this to you. Don't attack them, I'm the one to blame!"

Arne spun around. "You!" His face curled in fury as he advanced on Daxter.

"Yeah," said Daxter, backing up, luring Arne away from the others. "If I hadn't killed that rat, you'd have never touched the gem. And if you hadn't touched it, it would never have gotten you. It's my fault. All my fault."

Arne growled. "You little weasel. You did this to me. YOU!"

Dax turned and ran, luring Arne deeper into the construction zone. "If I had just talked to you guys about metalheads, you'd have known to stay away. But I didn't. I held back valuable information because I was being secretive about my past! I'm the screw up. I'm the one who should be punished for it."

Arne spotted a plank and grabbed it, only the ungainly stagger of his step suggested that he was a puppet and not a man. "Fucking skinny little prick. You think you are better than all of us, with your fancy moves and your important friends. I'm going to make that smart mouth beg."

Daxter backed himself into a corner, where two brick retaining walls met. He saw a beam he could probably reach with a leap, from there he could draw himself up to the second floor, out of reach. He was sure he could defend the high ground with relative ease. But the plan fell apart even before he attempted it. The men, rather than running away like he hoped they'd do, were instead attempting to sneak up on Arne from behind.

"Arne!" Daxter cried, but Stanford took that moment to clobber the bricklayer with a length of copper pipe. It was a painfully solid hit and any normal person would have gone down or at least winced, but Arne wasn't a person anymore. That gem didn't care how much pain its host felt… and any dead elf was a good one.

Arne turned and threw his plank with all his might hitting several of the guys squarely across the chests. Then, with uncanny ease, he grabbed the end of Stanford's pipe and yanked the slimmer man towards him. Before Stanford could react, Arne had pulled him into a chest crushing hug. He then spun, dragging Stanford with him like a shield, putting him in the way of every subsequent blow. Dax's friend took two painful hits across his back before the crew realized they were doing more harm than good and hesitated, wondering what to do.

Dax shouted, "Back off, guys. For crap's sake, I know what I'm doing. Let me do my job! Run the fuck away!"

They backed off, but didn't run. Maybe their machismo wouldn't let them, maybe they just couldn't believe that Dax could handle a metalhead elf on his own, either way it made any strategy Dax thought up impossible. Arne wasn't going to stay focused on him when there were easier pickings to go after. Dax felt like crying with frustration.

"Hey, you wanna kill me remember!" he called out to the metalhead. "I'm the one who knows how to kill you fucking bastards. They don't know shit. I'm the dangerous one!" Dax was talking as much to his fellow workers as he was to Arne at this point. He hoped they got his point.

Arne, swung his attention back to Dax, still holding Stanford tight. The latter's struggles were weakening, and Dax realized it was a matter of time before he passed out and died from lack of air.

Dax launched himself away from the wall, holding the shovel with numb hands. Predictably, Arne tried to maneuver his captive in the way. Dax aimed left and swung the shovel low. It wasn't the best move ever, but it clipped Arne's ankle good, while not touching Stanford. Arne staggered a bit while turning, then tossed his limp shield away. Stanford fell to a heap and didn't move.

Dax swung the ungainly weapon again aiming high and this time clipped Arne's shoulder. It blossomed red with blood, but Arne didn't even flinch. He grabbed the haft of the shovel with one impossibly strong arm and yanked hard, much the way he had with the Stanford earlier in the fight. Dax was jerked forward, losing his footing for a mere fraction of a second before he let go and rebalanced. In that moment Arne closed the rest of the distance and grabbed Dax's throat with bruising force.

Dax kneed him. Unfazed, Arne glowered down on him, the yellow gem buried in his forehead gleaming ominously in the late morning sun. "This is your fault," said Arne. "You did this to me. Reap what you've sown."

Dax couldn't breathe to make a comeback. All he could do was stare into Arne's crazed brown eyes and know that his words had a kernel of truth. If Jak had been there, Arne would never have suffered. No one would have.

He needed Jak. Oh Precursors, he needed Jak.

He barely heard the change in the commotion. All that he was aware of was that suddenly the grip on his throat was gone, and Arne's attention was off in a new direction. With the last ounce of strength in his body he tried to attack, but his limbs were weak and wobbly and he could only stagger and gasp.

Then he felt the familiar cold of dark eco, and smelled the deep richness of soil and rotten leaves. A long white arm flashed in front of him, slicing Arne's torso with sharp claws. It was a smear of movement to his weary tear-blurred eyes. Then he saw Arne go down, neck flapping open and blood sheeting out. The white figure leaned down and stabbed a clawed hand around the gem still lodged in Arne's forehead. With a single jerk, he ripped it away and held it aloft like some bloody trophy.

Dax felt his knees give way and sat down on a sack of plaster. He stared up Dark who jabbed his arm three times in the air before tossing the dead stone towards the scattering crowd. Dark then turned and looked down at Dax, his eyes black and fathomless.

Dax coughed once more and found his voice. "Dark! Oh man, you are a sight for sore eyes. How did you know?"

Dark stalked closer to him, face still twisted ominously. With both clawed hands he reached down and grabbed Dax's shirt, lifting him with a hard jerk to his feet, then just as suddenly tossing Dax over his shoulder like a sack.

"Dark!" yelped Dax. "Ack!"

The construction workers hesitated just a moment before deciding en masse that Dark was yet another threat. From his topsy-turvy viewpoint, Dax could see the guys raising their improvised weapons and closing in. Oh, so not good!

"Let him go," shouted Rugar.

Dark spun around and, finding himself ringed, snarled.

"Dark, no!" screamed Dax. "Don't hurt them! Guys, back off! He's a good guy!"

Apparently, Dax's word had considerably more credence now than it had all morning, because the men looked at each other and backed away. Dax was then able to focus his attention on Dark. Reaching a flailing hand backwards, Dax found Dark's face stroked it. "Dark, man, let me down. I'm fine. Let me down, buddy, and go to sleep."

Dax saw skepticism in the eyes of his mates, but they were holding off.

Dark turned around slowly, surveying the elves around him. Then reluctantly allowed Dax to slide back down to the ground. Dax breathed a sigh of relief the moment he felt weight on his feet.

"Dark, I'm fine," Dax reassured. He caressed the side of the monster's face, trying to bring its focus back on him and away from the others. "Look, not a scratch!" He coughed a little on the last word, and hoped the angle of his face obscured the darkening bruises on his throat. "I'm okay!" Dax continued the moment he could. "You rescued me! And the metalhead is dead. You can go back to sleep. Understand? Go to sleep. Let Jak come back."

Dark reached down and lifted Dax's chin, and Dax knew what he wanted. Without thinking he supplied it. He stood on his toes and planted a kiss on the corpse cold lips and willed them back to warmth again with all his might. "I love you, you lug," Dax said, breaking contact. "I'm not going anywhere. Now let him back."

Dark reverted. The horns melted, the claws softened, and Dax could feel the warmth of the sun again on his back, and now Jak held him. Ordinary Jak, his yellow hair slicked down with sweat and fear carving deep lines on his forehead. He pressed Dax into a hard embrace even as he turned his head to survey the scene.

Dax suddenly became aware of the audience. For a moment he longed for nothing more than to shove that cat right back into the bag, but it was too late. They'd seen, they knew, and if a couple of the denser ones hadn't been able to connect the dots, the rest of the crew would do it for them in a few minutes.

Oh that Dax. That's what they were thinking. Jak's Dax. His sidekick. His other half. The bit of color on Jak's shoulder that was always hip deep in every bloody confrontation. Who'd helped fight the nastiest, scariest, most deadly and horrifying things the planet could throw at a person. That Daxter.

Some would be wondering when he'd become an Elf, and a few would wonder how, but neither of those questions rated as large as the one clearly spelled on all of their faces. Why the fuck is Jak's Daxter pretending to be a roofer?

Jak grabbed Dax's face and forced him to meet his eyes. "This is a waste of your time. I want you back. Come." His expression brooked no disagreement. He then released Daxter and stepped several feet away, surveying once again the crew on the site with obvious contempt. These are my rivals? The guys drew back, awed and terrified, hastily putting down their weapons and lowering their heads.

The foreman carefully came up to Dax's side and pressed his day's pay in his hand. "Son, anyone can put a roof on a house. What you do, that's a lot more important. Looks like you are wanted elsewhere." The foreman glanced at Jak, who calmly stared him down with icy intensity. Dax's boss lowered his head and looked away. This wasn't a fight he wanted any part in.

Dax looked at the coins, then up at the face of the man who hired him on the fly on a placid evening nine weeks earlier -- a day when Dax had felt similarly like his world had crumbled down despite all his best efforts. Dax felt a new ache at the bottom of this throat. The foreman had brushed him off as unequivocally as Tess had. He wasn't wanted. Fired.

For good reason. What a mess.

He looked over at Arne's body. He'd never know why Arne had taken such an instant dislike of him, but after weeks of trying, the oaf had finally found a way to get under Dax's skin. Dax hoped he was happy in whatever afterworld existed. He looked over to where Stanford was sitting, splay legged on the ground, hand on his chest still trying to get his breath, then at the battered bricklayer, and the bloody carpenter, and the rest of the guys, nursing their various injuries. They stared at him with all the awe and horror usually reserved for Jak. All trace of camaraderie was gone.

I lied to them, Dax realized, sickly. I lied by omission. I betrayed their trust.

He wouldn't be welcome at the bar with them tonight. Oh, they wouldn't drive him away if he chose to come, but it wouldn't be like the few stolen times he'd had before. The class barrier was down. He was their hero, not their peer, and it would be strained. He no longer fit in – never had, to be brutally honest with himself. And no one – not Jak, not his old friends, nor the construction crew -- had a clue why he'd even tried.

Dax put the coins in his pocket and walked away, not bothering to bid any of the guys goodbye. It was all a waste of time, after all. A pipedream. Two months of wearing out his true friends' patience chasing down a ridiculous, unattainable, brain-wrenchingly pedestrian fantasy.

Oddly enough, despite this, something in him actually grieved.

---

A/N: Heading towards the finish line now.

La' Wren: Yeah, this is kind of more dramatic than humorous. My inspiration was to try to think through all the consequences of their situation in a more or less realistic way, and it turns out, LOL, it's really fucked up. Of course, I wanted them in bed with each other, and that happened, but it's a at a price.

Kaybrianna: Sadly no. As you can see, the shit hit the fan. Plus Jak is just too big, powerful, and important to fit in Dax's shadow. Dax just has to get with the program, because the program ain't going to accommodate itself to Dax.

Thanks all for the compliments.