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Steven's bored. Mind-numbingly, tooth-achingly bored. The kind of boredom that buzzes and makes you want to throw something, kick something, anything to just not be so bloody bored. Where nothing you do makes a blind bit of difference. That sort of bored.
This new job's an upgrade, but at the end of the day information kiosk bloke at the British Museum is almost as ordinary as gift shop cashier at the National Gallery. And he's not sure ordinary fits quite so well these days. Although, even with ordinary sitting across his shoulders like an ill-fitting suit, the lack of Donna is a nice bonus.
If ordinary seems a bit small and tight for Steven, ordinary is a size three shoe on a size nine foot for Marc. It's like sharing a cage with a tensed up tiger. He leaves Steven to it most of the time, for all the "Yes sir, the Rosetta Stone is on display in the Egyptian Sculpture room, through those doors across the hall there. Take a left by the bas relief of the goddess Taweret and you can't miss it," bits. The long tedious days when he absolutely doesn't add "You know, I met her when I died. She's quite sweet really. My sort-of-wife's her avatar," just to liven things up. Marc takes a backseat or sleeps; drifts along passively in the background. Steven suspects it's a military thing. Grab the down-time you find with both hands because you don't know when you'll next get some more. Marc doesn't seem to have realised that it's all down-time from now on.
So they bump along equitably enough, living quietly in Steven's jumbled library of a flat. Layla flits in and out as her schedule allows her to get home. They go to work. Feed the fish, argue over whose turn it is to control the remote, who should do the dishes.
Obviously, being out from that malevolent pigeon's bony thumb is much, much better for them. Obviously.
It's… nice. Ordinary. Boring.
It's painfully obvious that they're not alone in their head.
The worst part of it all is that Steven can't say a bloody thing, just in case their mysterious Ghost is lurking unnoticed. Not to Marc, not to Layla, not even to the flipping Guses. The second he voices what he suspects, whether out loud or as co-pilot, he could blow the fact he knows wide open. Whoever else is rattling about in here is going to great pains to remain undetected. And Steven wants to know why. He wonders whether Marc has picked up on the same cues; is it easier for Steven to spot because he's been through this hoopla not so long ago? It feels a bit disloyal to Marc, but The Ghost is a lot better at hiding his trail. Most of the time.
Not this morning.
Marc hits the floor with a crash to wake the dead, and slides a little to the full reach of the tether.
Not paying attention, Ghost. We stopped needing that once I knew why I was going for my night-time strolls.
"Wha…" Marc's still sprawled on the floor, rubbing their bruised chin.
"Oops," Steven says. "Must have been so tired last night I wasn't thinking straight."
All the while he's screaming with every fibre of his being, "Please don't state the obvious Marc. Just go with this. Silly old Steven went to bed tired and on autopilot. This is all perfectly normal." Lying to Marc sits on his chest like a rock, but if the Ghost believes they're oblivious he's more likely to slip up.
There's a convenient stand of hire bikes just around the corner from their flat. It turns out that cycling to work is quicker than the bus, and you have to chase after them less if you're running a bit late. Which he frequently is.
His last coherent thought, as he loses his grip on the handlebars, is that having fought and defeated Egyptian gods and returned from the dead on more than one occasion, Marc's going absolutely murder him if they die from getting clipped in the head by a lorry wing mirror. Then the world is a spinning blur of grey-blue-green and vertigo and everything is bright and white and he's skidding to a stop against a tree.
As he loses consciousness he's sure he hears sepulchral laughter.
Oh, you absolute git, he thinks as the world fades out.
This is his ruddy lunch break. He's missing out on falafel for whatever errand the Ghost is about and he was looking forward to those. Instead, he's doing his best Gus impression, floating silently along for the ride. And ride it is. Biggest poshest car he's ever seen wasted on a bloody pigeon.
He should have known, the bastard had admitted defeat far too easily in the desert. He tries to remember; what had Khonshu actually said? I will release you both. Grudgingly he thinks, oh clever clever Old Bird, playing with words like that, knowing we hadn't realised the Ghost was part of this already.
He tunes back in to the drama being played out in the limo.
Is that his suit? The cheeky bugger nicked my suit! What are the Ghost and Khonshu playing at? This whole scenario is a more than a little theatrically mob-bossish. Which raises yet more interesting questions; Khonshu isn't quite the timeless, unchanging figure he pretends to be. So why a creature from myth for Marc and himself, but something far more mundane for The Ghost? Well, not all that mundane, the whole skull aesthetic is certainly a bit odd in this context. Bloody stupid pigeon.
Why would I ever need anybody else when he has no idea how troubled he truly is?
Ooh, ominous. And rude.
Meet my friend, Jake Lockley.
Fuck-sake Khonshu, he thinks. A mafia hit on your old rival courtesy of Don Corleone the Ancient Egyptian god? Really?
But now the Ghost has a name.
Jake.
At least it explains the stack of gangster movies neither he nor Marc will admit to owning.
Steven looks at the toaster. The fork. Back to the toaster. It's a nice toaster. He found it in a jumble of 80s homeware at Hackney Flea Market, a tank of the toaster world; indestructible. Carried it home on the bus. He'll never find another like it. He stares at the fork, daring it to offer an objection, but Marc's still asleep. It's as good a time as any. And, quite frankly, no time is a good one for something as daft as this.
He lands on the dining table.
Alright, he thinks, as Marc rouses and starts yelling at him and Layla comes rushing in to see what the bang was and say "Why is the toaster on fire!" and "Are you ok?" while having a fight with the fire blanket. Got you, you old buzzard. How long before you work it out?
It takes a while, and blowing himself up with household appliances doesn't seem to do the trick. Too quick, he supposes.
It will have to be something showy to tempt out the theatrical old vulture.
You're doing this on purpose.
Suddenly Khonshu is perched off to his left, a gigantic crow on a telegraph wire.
"You don't say," Steven says mildly, focused intently on picking out his next hand and foothold. Below, the River Thames stretches away between the lights of the city, a million tiny moons winking on its choppy surface.
You were easier to manage when you were a coward, Worm. Khonshu's tone is dripping with disdain.
"Probably." He answers, teetering out along the armature that supports the bridge's cables. It may not be the tallest of the bridges in London but the drop from here to the tide deepened waters of the Thames is still considerable. There's a tug at his mind that almost distracts him, but he focuses on the steel under his fingers and the burn in his legs. Not today, Ghost.
Surrender the body. You must cease your sabotage.
"Uh." He pretends to think. "Nah, don't think I will." He considers the skeletal figure carefully. Back to the mummy wrappings, he notes.
He's at the end of the sweeping arm of the bridge now, scrambling cautiously out to sit with legs dangling. The slippery pull comes again.
"Ah ah ah!" Steven chides in a sing-song, raising a finger in admonishment. "It's not as easy if we know it's coming, is it mate? Pushing us out of the way?"
He turns to look at Khonshu. "If I could manage to keep Marc out sometimes when I didn't have clue what's going on, how much harder will it be for our Ghost if we're both keeping an eye out for him? No Knight for you without a body, eh?"
He gets a grip on the outermost cable, and it's surprisingly easy to swing down to hang from it. The way Khonshu lurches forward in alarm is gratifying, but doesnt quite make up for the ache that quickly sets in. This may not have been my greatest idea, he thinks.
Aloud, he continues, addressing the Ghost directly again.
"See, I think you get us out of situations we can't fix ourselves. And I think that this lousy old vulture knows that and has you doing his dirty work."
What is this nonsense! Enough!
Ah ha! Hit a nerve Old Bird?
The presence in his mind is intent. "When was the last time you were about for anything that didn't involve getting skewered or shot at on his behalf?" He asks. "Pretty miserable, I'd imagine."
You are not irreplaceable. Khonshu rages.
"No? So why keep saving me?" Here, right out at the furthest point of the bridge's sweeping wings he can feel the bounce and tremble of the structure as the wind buffets him. Keeping his grip is growing more difficult as his hands grow colder. "I don't think you have another candidate if you're so keen to keep my shy friend here around."
The reflection in the face of his watch is too far above to see clearly, but the shadows in its murky depths give the impression a scowl. Cheery chap, their Ghost.
"Look Jake, the point is, you don't have to do it on his terms. We got to negotiate, right, so should you." His arms are on fire, he's just got to hope he's said enough. "Now, can we please all go home and have a chat?"
He lets go.
And the suit surrounds him.