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Chapter Text

Chapter Text

"In the name of Adonai the God of Israel"

Marc initiates the Prayer for Protection and pauses only for a second before Steven joins him.

May the angel Michael be at my right,

"and the angel Gabriel be at my left;"

The American continues, tilting their head slightly to the left, furrowing bushy brows and letting a small lion wrinkle appear right above the middle of their closed eyes. He doesn't want to show his concern for the tiniest bit of desperation hiding in Steven's quiet voice as they're reciting the blessing together, therefore he does his absolute best to keep the tone of his own calm and focused. 

and in front of me the angel Uriel,

"and behind me the angel Raphael...", but he worries. He has been worried sick, actually, for about two months now. Ever since they escaped death and fought as avatars amongst the gods, Steven has been different, more guarded. For Marc, it became noticeable when Grant started losing his British accent. Not like he began speaking American English like Marc, no. It was more like he started copying Marc's mannerisms when talking; his voice dropping to a lower register day after day, lacking this elegant, though a bit grotesque, twang. Words that Steven was using also were kind of becoming a replica of Marc's Chicago slang, and honestly, it was a bit too much to handle, leaving him with a strong desire to punch London back into his alter's mouth. 

and above my head the Sh'khinah.

They repeat the prayer two more times, then Marc finally opens their eyes and claims the body for the next half an hour or so. Steven doesn't protest, he never does these days and Marc can't say he doesn't miss their fighting over who should front. 

On his way to the bathroom, he's deeply immersed in thought to the sweet melody of Steven going through bedtime Shema once more on his own. He's been praying a lot more often lately, it does not go unnoticed by Marc. After what happened in the Duat, they kind of fell back into their old routine of preying at least three times a day if not more. When he was busy or too tired to anticipate, Spector would hear a reposeful voice echoing in his mind during the day, no matter if he was fronting or not at the moment. Sometimes he wonders whether it was caused by Steven's need to be heard or perhaps the lack of willpower to block the other alter from his activities. Whatever the answer is, Marc doesn't mind keeping him company. Quite the opposite, he actually appreciates that Steven allows him to be close during that time. At the end of the day, that's what was there for, that's the whole point of him- to protect the Sun and make sure it rises every morning to bless his day. He gave him his heart, after all, didn't he?

He throws his plans for a long shower away as soon as he recognizes he's only wasting money on hot water that doesn't seem to relax his tense muscles as he needed it to. Instead, long red stripes cover his whole body and leave the skin too sensitive to rub dry with a soft towel. A prolonged sigh escapes his lips, he turns the faucet off and steps out of the shower, exiting the bathroom just like that, dripping, hot and naked. Wet locks of yet black hair are sticking to his forehead, and he forgot to brush his teeth, but he decides it doesn't matter that much, that they won't fall out of his mouth after one missed flossing. Having poured himself a glass of warm tap water, Marc slowly drags his feet through the mess that they called their kitchen, to the place in their bedroom where a simple ladder enabled them to climb up to an entresol just above their bed. He leans on a wooden pole for support and keeps his languishing look at their bed as he chugs tasteless liquid like it's the last glass in the middle of the desert, and only he knows the reason for it is a fear of spilling his drink with a shaky hand. 

Please, don't.

Like clockwork, Steven mutters from somewhere in the front of their head the minute Marc puts on the comfiest pair of pyjama bottoms he can in their closet, feeling almost pulled to the warmth of the ivory bed sheet. Sadness clouds their shared features and the one being in control grimaces at the thought of what's coming next. Same time of the day, same horrible light falling through the window on their olive skin, same talk- the only changing aspects of this weird routine being the rising exhaustion of a body, and Marc's misery.

"Steven, we're tired, we need sleep. Be kind and spare me this whining of yours today, I can't deal with it right now", he tries, he really tries keeping his cool, but their muscles are psychically aching in need of sleep, and he feels like throwing up if he doesn't jump into bed in the next fifteen seconds. 

I don't wanna go to sleep, Marc, I won't do it.

There it is. It feels like the British man has skipped a few steps, though. Or maybe it's just their pulsing in agony temples that make the world spin uncontrollably, and time pass by faster- Marc can't really decide.

"Steven...", Marc demands, balling his fists, partly in a desperate attempt to hold on to the body, partly because of his sudden need to have an emotional outlet. "Not today. Please, not today."

You can't make me!

This scream is the last thing Marc acknowledges. Steven's voice is raw, taut; his words piercing as he shouts them through gritted teeth. The body seems to know exactly who's in control of it because as soon as Steven takes the front, the whole posture drops immediately, eyes widen, the bladder loosens, and he's gulping down heavy breaths while looking for clothes. After he throws a black zip-up hoodie on his naked, still a bit damp shoulders, and puts on a pair of used sneakers, he doesn't take another second to rethink his actions; too blinded by his own demons he ignores the tears collecting in eyelashes and making it even more difficult to see, and he sprints outside the building. It's all rapid and lacks any sense, Steven knows it. He shouldn't be doing it, he knows that, too. 

Yet, he's out on the pavement, it's dark around him, it's freezing, but he doesn't feel it, no. All he feels is pain, fear, and panic washing over him like a wave, again and again, wanting to drown him. Marc isn't there, he's alone, he doesn't know what to do. Coming back to the safety of their house would be a rational thing to do, certainly. 

Instead, he races into the darkness of the night. Only to, he can at least hope, be found by Marc again later, and once again, with a bent spine and a weakened voice, to plea for his understanding, for forgiveness. Which he surely will get, that he's confident about because it's Marc. His Marc. But it doesn't make it easier.

Another panic attack toys with the scarred body in the mere light of the moon. Another few tears are being lost in the concrete of a city jungle. And with them, a man. 

A lonely man without his love.

He doesn't know when he drops unconscious, it happens so suddenly. One second Steven almost runs into a dog on a leash, the next one it's pitch black around him and just like that, he's gone. And the dog is staring with something close to curiosity as its owner pulls it to themselves, pure shock painted all around their face. The body shoots up, with one hand softly leaning on the dog's back while its legs are being thrown above beige hairs in a quick flip in order not to do any harm to an animal it was about to crush with. A head turns to the unlucky passer-by, revealing blinding white light in its eyes. The whole posture somehow appears stronger and wider, and he raises a hand to his shoulder to flippantly clean a speck of nonexistent dust off of it.

"Gilipollas", he says shaking his head, and calmly walks away.

* * *

When Steven regains consciousness later that night, he's laying next to a random bench in a place he can't recall. His feet are elevated, leaning on the said bench, the back of his head heavy on entwined palms of his hands. An unwanted feeling of confusion washes over his whole body which causes him physically shiver, even though he's not cold. Why he's not cold, he asks himself and before he can even process this sudden thought, he lowers his head just a tad bit and blinks away the tears shining in his eyes, revealing a piece of a muddy-brown jacket collar, the fabric of which is delicately brushing deathly-pale skin of his cheek. 

His brows draw together when it comes to him that not only his torso is covered with a new piece of clothing, but also his head. A hand shoots up from under the occiput and under his fingertips, he feels the harsh cotton of what he later on discovers is a black beanie. As he's checking his whole body experimentally, a yellow sticky note catches in between his fingers, and on it is a little doodle of a human stick figure dressed in a hat, a square-shaped jacket, with a long scarf tied loosely around its neck. Above the doodle, Steven reads a 13 number with a little circle and a letter C next to it, all finished up by a series of exclamation marks.

"Someone's being a proper dramasshole, I see", Steven mumbled to himself, only for his whole expression to harden when the realization hit him.

"Marc..?", he lets out hesitantly, hiding his mouth's movements behind a fisted hand scratching his nose with a single knuckle. "Marc, you there?"

Dead silence meets his words, and within a second, his heart starts pounding heavily in his chest again. He jerks up from where he was previously laying down and even if he regrets it right after, suddenly feeling way too dizzy for his liking, he pushes that thought down to where fear was settling in his lower abdomen.

"You better not be throwing a wobbly right no-oh-ow, mate." These words he almost spits angrily, and after that, he lets out a dry chuckle while terror overtakes his face in drastic contrast to how he's trying to come across. "I know you're there, so stop being bloody daft and speak to me, Spec'or."

He sobs, although there's something rough in that sentence. Strong desire taints his brittle voice, a desire to be heard, to be reassured. He's shaking uncontrollably as he tries to find his bearings, staring but not seeing a single thing at the moment. His shoulders are achingly tight, he makes a notice of the fact, and he's pretty sure his pulse is very much visible on his neck since he feels his heart hammering even in that lone vein that's always present on his forehead, especially when his blood pressure rises. 

"Love, please, come back to me, I-i don't want to be alone, I don't-"

Hey, hey, Steve, calm down, a gentle voice, a polar opposite to the one that the outer world around them can hear, rings in their head as Marc makes himself present again, happy thoughts, buddy, c'mon.

"Happy thoughts my arse, I'm dying over here, you prick,"  Steven grumbles, "where were you?"

Well, I would've been right next to you all that time if somebody hadn't blocked me out, now wouldn't I? Marc rubs his alter's nose in it, his voice light to indicate he's simply messing with him. We do need to talk about that, by the way, he adds slightly more sternly, not cool, making me black out completely and wake up wherever without my ID and stuff.

"Come again?" The other wastes no time and jeers, almost hissing at him.

If they were separated at that moment, he would see the corners of Marc's lips drop from a friendly smile to a flat, thin line, silently awaiting his inevitable comeback.

"Walked a mile in my shoes and decided they're not comfy, now that YOU disliked it?" Steven huffs theatrically before he adds, "Tell me about it."

Steven has this one weird hallmark that Marc can't make up his mind about. It's the way he involuntarily uses sarcasm to cope with stress-inducing or appalling situations. Whenever he felt overwhelmed, one snarky comment after another would slip through his mouth in an attempt to make himself appear bigger than his opponent, whether it be a person or the overall atmosphere created around him. And for the most part, Marc liked it and encouraged this behaviour even, seeing how it helped his alter stand his ground and gain the confidence he needed to get himself back a sense of comfort. It was some type of self-defence, a verbal equivalent of wrapping arms around himself.

But at moments like this one, Marc truly hated this cheeky tone. They are out somewhere in - he hoped - the outskirts of London in the middle of the night, Steven is visibly shaken to his core, panic keeping him hostage to their body so he can't hide from the physical pain the sudden distress is causing him, and Marc can't do anything due to being quite literally imprisoned in their collective mind. It's a lose-lose situation since even though Steven tries to stand up for his own good, therefore making a room for calming down, their corporeal form can still be very much responsive to the effects anxiety has on it, which includes but is not limited to clenched jaw, dizziness related to oxygen debt that short sharp breaths cannot pay, as well as trembling and cold sweats. Marc has memorised the full catalogue of symptoms a long time ago, down to the least severe one, however, it didn't really matter because when Steven was the one experiencing them, the American was helpless. He could only try to talk him down to a point where the British lad cooperates and gives up the control. And that's exactly what he does now. In his own way.

Watch your tongue, dude, before I wave your salty attitude goodbye and leave you be.

"No!" Steven yells at gut level, pushing his arms in front of him defensively and bending his knees a little as if wanting to stay close to the ground, pushing the air before him. It makes Marc wonder how that must look for a random passer-by. "Please, stay, it wasn't intentional," he adds shily, "Feel like I'm about to suffocate, it bloody hurts."

Fearing his words aren't enough, Steven puts one hand on his billowing chest while a grimace of utter agony is making its way to his face and watery eyes. 

I know, I know. Marc hushes him with a gentle voice. I need you to calm down just enough for you to allow the switch, baby, can you do it for me? he asks and without thinking, Steven nods his head furiously before closing his eyes in order to initiate their 'panic attack' routine. Marc wishes he could see his alter in any type of reflection; preferably a mirror, but right at this moment even the tiniest puddle would do just fine.

Like that, breathe in and breathe out.

"Will you count with me?"

Of course, Spector vowed without skipping a beat. One...

Steven does what he's told, and breathes as slowly as he can, counting on his own from five to one on each in-breath, inhaling with his nose and exhaling with his mouth.

Two...

He audibly acknowledges the panic and repeats to himself that it will soon pass and cause no physical harm to him, or Marc.

It always catches the other alter off guard, the fact that even during the scariest attack he still thinks of him, cares for him and puts his wellbeing first as an incentive to get better. It truly warms the former mercenary's heart; gives him the strength to fight both of their fights every single day, because it's worth it- all the pain, and all the struggle is worth the everlasting affection the other guy seems to feel toward him.

Five...

Steven's fingertips brush over the soft fabric of a hoodie, up to the small cleavage on his chest where his butterscotch skin stings a little underneath Magen David necklace, and not even a second after finding it, he closes the little star in his fist, with his thumb still caressing golden chain. He focuses on how it feels, the tiniest metal rings entwined; so fragile, so beautiful, so solid and perfect as individuals, yet only whole when combined together.

Seven...

As he's slowly re-attaching to reality, he takes another step toward inner peace, tensing up the muscle in his calf, holding the tension for a few seconds, and relaxing it right after. The whole body feels sore but it doesn't stop Steven from stretching it even more. He needs this kind of pain as proof of the fact that he's real, he's there. Ironically, this is the moment Marc chooses as the weak spot to slip through to the front. He doesn't mind, tho. Usually a strange sensation of being put in the backseat, this time it only brings relief to his squirmish mind.

Marc blinks his eyes open and clenches both of his fists experimentally. When he's certain Steven gave him full control, he immediately acts on it, looking around him, trying to recognise the place in the darkness, searching for anything and anyone that could give him at least a fracture of a clue of his whereabouts.

'M sorrey I legged it, Marc. 

"It's okay, you got scared away," he reassures with the gentlest voice he could maintain at the moment, "happens to all of us. You did great calming yourself, buddy."

He squints his eyes and there's a faint sight of a male figure far before him. Without any sign of hesitation, he takes a step forward in the man's direction while still actively listening to Steven babbling in his head.

It doesn't happen to you, though, yeah? Grant inquires, to which Marc hums nonchalantly, tilting his head slightly to the left at the same time as he lifts his left arm in a shrug as if Steven could see him be the embodiment of not being convinced by the words. You don't get scared away. You're always deliberate.

Marc presses the tips of his fingers up against the tip of his tongue and curls his tongue back to whistle the stranger up. When he finally approaches him, they have a quick chat during which he's told his exact coordinates, and then quickly thanks the elder Englishman, already calculating the fastest route back to their apartment. Turns out Steven has gifted them an hour-long walk home.

"After your first homicide, nothing really scares you off anymore, I guess." He points that out a bit early, he reckons when he sees the poor Mister's eyes widen at his words and hears the taps of his cane speed up as he rapidly walks away from him. The brunette doesn't pay much attention to that, giving only a lazy headshake in response to that. Then he turns the opposite way and starts walking with his hands shoved down the front pockets of their pyjama pants. 

Nah, that's not it, Steven chimes in afresh, I killed, yet I'm not even close to what you have going on in your wicked heart.

At that, Marc raises an eyebrow in sudden interest, with a light-hearted smile forming on his lips.

"Now hang on, baby, who'd you kill?" he asks as he's guiding his hand to his head so he can thread his fingers through his hair, only to be met with a hat band partly placed on his forehead instead of soft locks.

These lost souls in the Duat? An obvious answer comes right after and Steven pauses dramatically before he tops his statements off with some details. The ones trying to claim yours, remember them?

"Hm," Spector nods slowly, scratching his nose with the knuckle of his index finger, "is it really a true homicide when they're already quite, you know, dead?" He remarks, clearly winding Steven up. Steven swallows it easily. 

Remind me to never save your barmy arse ever again. Happy drowning in the eternal sands next time or whatever.

It makes Marc snort with laughter while crossing the street. He's grateful it seemed to be too late for other citizens to go on some nightly adventures, leaving the two of them able to enjoy their company without having to worry someone might see them laughing to themselves and think they're freaks. 

"We're not done putting your anxiety back on a leash yet, buddy. You know the drill."

Suppress the madness, embrace the trifles? 

"The spotlight's yours."

Steven groans dramatically inside his head, but obeys nonetheless, sighing in exasperation before he starts listing things they've done that day that he appreciated and was grateful for. The other alter only hums quietly, or nods, or makes some silly little sounds which the point of was to imply he was listening carefully to every word Steven got to say.

Darkness is well settled around them the whole time, deepening shadows making it a city of ghosts with them being nothing more than intruders as Marc carries the body back to their apartment. The moon is abnormally large that night, though almost fully hidden behind thick storm-grey clouds, as if craving to bathe the earth with its luminous glow but failing miserably. It's a pretty standard night, yet Marc feels like something's off. The air is dense on his tongue when he slips it out to lick his dry lips, it's unsettlingly gloomy, and he swears he can hear faint whispers overlapping one another.

...Surrender...

He pulls the beanie harder on his head, additionally covering it with the hood of his zip-up, then he puts his clenched fists in the pockets of a never-seen-before jacket, and subconsciously increases his speed when he feels trembling breaths too close to his ears, almost inside of his head. 

There are two times when he trips over his own two feet, maybe three. Whatever it was making him feel uneasy, he wasn't threatened by it, that he knew for sure. It's just a strong sensation of something creeping its way into his mind, crawling on the smooth skin of his neck like a predator awaiting its prey.

Needless to say, he makes it back home in thirty-eight minutes instead of sixty, cautiously glancing over his shoulder while pressing the key to their apartment to a small sensor above the entryphone to the building they live in. His defence instincts are kicking in but he does everything within his power not to make it obvious to Steven as it goes without saying that the brit has already had enough of anxiety for one day. For example, he locks the door with only four locks out of seven that they own, a perfect amount for a calm man with nothing to be worried about. The fifth one would be the alarming one.

"Oy, Steven, how are we feelin' about tomorrow's shift?" As Marc asks that out loud, he also checks the time on the clock above the extractor hood in the kitchen. "Uh, more like today's shift...", he adds, a muscle in his jaw twitching upon the realization that the night was almost over, the 7 o'clock alarm dangerously nearing the time set for their morning call. He exhales lingeringly before his glare falls on the illuminated fish tank, where he meets Gus #1, Gus #2 and a pinched-faced reflection of his alter, chewing on the inside of his cheek and staring back at him sorrowfully. Marc already knows what he'll hear in a minute, and it takes straining a few muscles for him not to physically lower his head. Instead, he nods collectedly, though he feels his heart sink deep in his gut.

I can tr-

"I'll go."

They smile at each other softly, their eyes drooping in a contrast to this little gesture. Marc moves his arm up to the glass for the sake of comforting Steven, and gently brushes his knuckles over the other one's cheek. They both know Steven can't really experience this touch, but they won't admit it, rather preferring to live in the sweet sweet bubble of denial. 

"Hey, Steve," the alter controlling the body purrs softly, his voice just a tad louder than a whisper, only wanting to catch the other's attention. He doesn't need to repeat himself, Steven's already boring him with his curious gaze. "s'okay, you know," he says, "we're okay."

The right corner of Marc's lips shifts slightly upwards when he notices Grant close his eyes right after he nodded at the sound of his reassuring words. He's not the type to talk openly about his feelings and stuff like that, but he was grateful Steven was so responsive to him, so expressive with every emotion that he caused him. After Marc and Layla officially parted ways, Steven was the only person to be there for him and be the one he could be there for. The brit allowing him to take care of him, and caring for him was the epitome of domesticity he desired so badly. Steven was his home. And even if that home was broken and fractured at the time, so what? It's still beautiful.

"Wanna play Tic-Tac-Toe?" He offers casually and immediately goes to find some loose piece of paper shoved somewhere between the pages of one of the books swaying at the edge of a desk, along with a pen.

Steven doesn't surprise him with his response, always eager to play games. 

Would be lovely, yeah.

Not even a minute later Marc settles their shared body in a chair at the desk in front of a window. He draws a simple 3 squares by 3 squares grid and lets Steven go first as they swap control of their hand so each of them can make a move when their turn comes. It's peaceful, and it's cosy with their little chuckles cutting the silence between them from time to time and Arabic trap music playing in the background. 

Neither of them really notices when they fall asleep. Steven drifts away first, prepping Marc with his voice gradually losing volume until he can't be heard anymore, leaving the control in the palm of Marc's hand. Marc smiles under his nose upon the feeling of Steven's calmness, and he doesn't even get to put the pen away before he's gone into the arms of sweet unconsciousness, too, still sitting in a chair, sleeping with his head and one of his hands on the table, while the other one shifts on its own in a few trying moves. Surrender bleeds with scarlet ink staining the white paper as the pen writes the word in calligraphy style.

...Mom! Mom! M-...

Quiet boyish cries asking for help ring in his ears prior to the reality around him cutting to black.

Chapter Text

Their dreams were primarily separate. Each of them would dream of different things, at different times even, which gave them something they could chat about in the morning during their breakfast time. Marc only shared his good or at least neutral dreams, not wanting to add to Steven's anxiety or ruin his good mood, even though the brit rarely had it nowadays. Part of Marc was quite impressed with the fact the other's jollity became rarer than his own, the other part was worried by it, settling the feeling of well-known unease down his lower stomach. 

Steven, on the other hand, would tell Marc about every single one of his dreams, making it a part of their morning routine. The thing was, he would talk about them quickly and without really elaborating on them as if he wished to leave this matter on a shallow surface, not wanting to dig deeper into the meaning of what his imagination was projecting for him at night. Marc never once questioned it, knowing better than to force his headmate to do something he clearly wasn't comfortable with.

However, there were times when their dreams interacted with each other in some ways; different scenarios mixing into one messed-up one, fighting for a spot of their own, or unexpectedly taking over their collective mind without any warning.

Like this time.

Marc starts the night dreaming of nothing, which was his favourite state. Every time his dreams were consisting of just a plain grey space without any sound, specific sight or unidentified scent, he couldn't be more grateful to his imagination, taking the opportunity to properly rest and gather the energy for the next day. He isn't ready for Steven's nightmare flooding his mind out of nowhere, to say the least.

His jaw tightens in sleep when it all hits all at once with a force of a train, the safety of a light room around him being replaced with the worst memories they both earned throughout their lifetimes. Whichever turn he takes, whichever direction he takes a cautious step in, a new demon appears right in front of him, ripping a piece of his soul out of his gashed open body. Fear coated the whole place with darkness, the only source of light being a red flash blinding him from underneath the silhouettes of monsters, whether it be Harrow calling him a parasite, his mother holding a belt in her hand and spitting venomous insults to his face, or his little brother, all stiff and cold from drowning alive in a cave. Nothing seems to help; Marc tries to escape but always somehow ends up in the exact same spot, tries to shout it is just a dream but the boneless figures only laugh hysterically at that, and tries to call out for Steven to wake up but he is nowhere to be seen or heard. 

"Leave us alone." He says out loud and locks his fist around the edge of a carpet that in the dream turns out to be cold sand on which he fell while backing away from the demonic version of his mom. It's not even her corrupt, livid body that frightens him, it's simply the sole fact that she was there and had him cornered with nowhere to escape. After all these years, he still wasn't ready to fully face this part of his childhood trauma, not even in a dream, not without full control over the time and way this would happen, and definitely not without Steven by his side. It's too much and he wants to get out.

"Stay right where the fuck you are, you hear me?" he mouths in the silence of their apartment, surprised that he can talk freely since he noticed that when he tried to scream, not a sound would come out of his mouth, he would just let out a trembling breath and nothing more. 

The ground underneath him starts moving, catching his attention for a second as his brows knit at the sight of his hands and feet slowly dipping in the sand, his whole body freezing suddenly but painfully. Should've been you, he hears each time a belt meets his skin in hard blows, crushing another part of his fossiled body until there's nothing left of him but a little bit of dust floating around in cold air.

With a dramatic gasp, he wakes up, rapidly raising his head only to crash into the underside of the tabletop he fell asleep under. Thoughts are racing in his mind chaotically, he's panting and whining from pain spreading across his forehead, leaving him unable to recognise his bearings. 

"Fuckin' hell." After he swears to himself, he lies back down on the floor, rolls over to his stomach and lazily crawls out from under the coffee table in the middle of their apartment. Squinting his eyes in order to protect his still sensitive sight from the sunlight pouring through one of three large windows, he caresses the spot on his forehead that took a direct hit, while the other hand he uses for support, pressing the palm against the wooden floor as he slowly stands up. Without thinking he drags the body to the kitchen to put a coffee pot of his favourite coffee blend on the burner; he's been making coffee the same minute he's heard his alarm going off for years now, so it practically became his instinct to touch the coffee pot before he even looked in the bathroom mirror on his way to take a morning pee. He might forget to shower, but he never once skipped his coffee time. It tasted best in Egypt, sure, but life taught him well not to complain as it always could be worse.

As soon as the drink was boiling hot and ready, simmering in a pot a little under an impatient look Marc was throwing at it, he pours the jet black liquid into the cup and immediately raises it to his face, closing his eyes and sighing softly on how pleasantly it smells. 

"How 'r we feeling today, Stevie bean?" he asks and then blinks surprised by his own raspy voice as he lazily makes his way to the middle part of their studio where the old green armchair is standing next to a simple little table (snowed under approximately a ton of books) and a drying rack full of clothes that were waiting for their turn to be folded neatly and put into a cupboard. He knocks on the surface of a full-length mirror in front o him prior to sitting down comfortably, giving his coffee a quick blow before taking a few sips. "It's another working day, is there a point in singing some counting rhyme to determine which one of us is fronting today?" he adds in a playful voice but that mocking tone leaves him the moment he sees a sorrowful look on a man in the mirror who should be just his own reflection but somehow wasn't.

"I ain't gonna bite you, so just, talk to me?" Marc tries, this time gently and not louder than a whisper. His alter only shrugs in response to that and then there's a good minute of complete silence between them. It's not awkward, no; just expectant. Within this time they're both simply watching each other, pondering - Marc on what upset Steven to a point where he's visibly holding back tears, and Steven on how Marc managed to look so calm, almost unimpressed, just moments after waking up from a horrible dream he knew he accidentally let experience them both instead of only himself. It seems for Steven as if not even a single wrinkle has appeared on their shared face due to stress caused by an unwanted image from the past, not a single redness on their cheeks secretly hiding a blush of anger, and not an uncomfortable glare coming from Marc's eyes but a clear expression of care and tenderness poured on dark chocolate of them. Brit's heart aches as he realises how close the two of them have become for the other alter to show affection toward him openly. Because that's exactly what it is, as strange as it may sound, since Marc letting anyone read anything, apart from annoyance, off his face is something that doesn't happen often.

After that Steven finally decides to speak.

'M tired. Had a nightmare, he says with an exhausted sigh, and Marc nods in understanding.

"I know. Uh, does it mean you'd prefer to just, you know, hide?" the one in front asks hesitantly, showing his worry even more with the way he rubs the nape of his neck. "Like, inside?"

It's Steven's turn to nod, and he's biting the inside of his cheek like he's afraid of Marc's reaction to his decision, even if he's the one to propose it. Marc quickly decides that he hates seeing his headmate this nervous in front of him. He shouldn't be, not with him, not with anyone really. But Steven's simply too pure for this world and all these little gestures are proof of it. 

Iff it's not a problem ffor you, I'd like to stayy inside and rest a bit, per-rhaps? comes from the man in the mirror, not quite stuttering, but dragging out some of the letters as if using the space between them for his personal needs.

Marc doesn't mind. He hums in agreement, one corner of his lips shifts upwards as he returns the small smile Steven gives him before disappearing deep to the back of their shared space within the mind, and in a matter of seconds, he's left alone with the system's body. He still can feel Steven somewhere, but it's obvious the British alter is no longer co-conscious and present in a way they agreed on after their little adventure in the Duat.

It feels weird, it feels wrong even, and a singular shiver climbs up on his spine at the feeling of being completely on his own, just like in their dream. 

While still looking in the mirror, he calls out Steven's name just in case, and as soon as he's met with no response and a reflection that is clearly his own, his whole demeanour changes. His lips fall to a straight line, shoulders drop a little, although still remain fairly straight compared to the frame Steven usually wears due to his years in the army, and dark-circled eyes seem to sink in even more than before, putting extreme exhaustion on a perfect display for no one to see but Marc.

He stays in this position, stilled in an armchair with his fingers curled around the coffee cup and his gaze directed at his image in the mirror, for a while, trying to gather the energy to face the stress he willingly put himself out for. When he finally moves, his whole body weighs twice as much, or at least that's what it feels like. Muscles tighten and strain under the pressure he puts on walking around the apartment, from the bathroom to the sleeping area to the kitchen and back, in a process of getting ready for work, having his alarm set for just the right time to leave so he won't be late. It's almost as if he's got a step-by-step plan written down in his memory, he realises somewhere between brushing gently his bouncing curls with a wide-tooth comb and eating leftover vegan dumplings Steven managed to order online the day before but didn't eat. Every minute out of thirty is used to the fullest, some of them are even spent on doing a few things at once, and well calculated to the point where he knows exactly how much time he has left before the alarm goes off.

Classical music is playing faintly in the background the whole time he spends alone going from sitting pointlessly in his pyjamas with the remains of sleep on his eyelids to steaming clothes he quickly chose after not giving the outfit prepared by Steven a second glance. It's easier this way, he reckons, listening to some melody and picking up all the instruments hidden within different notes, not giving his mind time to come up with intrusive thoughts he's been dealing with for ages now. With his alter not feeling well enough to even survive an entire day fronting, he finds himself not having time for his own issues when all of his energy he puts into fronting if necessary and not throwing up while doing so, since it is far from what he truly desires. 

The cool air from outside causes the hair on his arms to stand up and jars his shoulders with a rapid shiver as he strips naked in order to put on freshly ironed clothing. Strands of loose curls get in his eyes every time he makes a sudden move with his head, leaving him blowing dramatically in attempts to rid his sight of them; he's not used to having his hair like that, always preferred styling it with gel so it stayed slicked back for hours, not interrupting him during the whole day. But it's Steven's workplace he is about to enter, and there's already an element of surprise in the shape of a beard on his face, so he doesn't want to change yet another aspect of the body's appearance for Steven's colleagues to become curious about.

On this day, Steven only shows up, well, willingly, once more, two minutes before Marc's leaving the apartment. What triggers him to do so is a soft click of the clasp in Marc's favourite (and the only one) watch. 

Can you shave for us before you leave?

"No" is the only response Marc gives to this question, short, quick and emotionless not because he's being mean to him, but because he doesn't feel the need to sugarcoat something that won't have a direct effect on his headmate. Steven huffs loudly and tries again when he feels the body tensing due to moving towards the door.

I had clothes prepped for today, you know. The brit grunts shily and that has Marc chuckling a bit. Issa reason for them to be folded outside the cupboard, innit?

"If anyone has any reason why I should not wear this fine cashmere sweater-" Marc starts saying quietly as he steps outside the flat, locking the door behind them but Steven cuts across him with an almost offended-sounding: jumper. The American rolls both his eyes at the comment and his sleeves of a mustard yellow sweater up to the middle of his forearms before he continues. "Instead of this ugly patterned shirt that does absolutely nothing to our nice shoulders, speak now or forever hold your peace."

They will cut my paycheck if they see you wearing cashmere.

"Can’t hear ya, I’m too far now."  Words are leaving his mouth freely as he's heading to the stairs after choosing them over the elevator, certain that no one will hear him talking to himself. 

I’m quite literally in your head, you prick.

Marc snorts out a burst of genuine laughter at the sound of Steven's tantrum, then he gently tugs up the fabric of his black corduroy trousers on his thighs and runs down the stairs as if trying to pump some adrenaline into the drained body.

Instead, he pumps dizziness into the space between the brain and the skull, and nausea hits the stomach and the whole nervous system as soon as he's at the front door of the building. His vision gets blurry and he bends in half, leaning the palms of his hands against his knees, feeling his heart hammering painfully in his chest. 

One moment he loses strength and feels how darkness swallows him whole, leaving both the body and his mind floating powerlessly in attenuation.

Second, he feels his control over the body being taken away from him but differently, not by fainting. He's pushed inside and trapped there while the body is standing still next to some strangers caged in the same pose as it does in the middle of a pavement. He feels the presence of not just Steven in their collective space of mind, and all he can see is red, red bleeding in from everywhere, drowning them.

Three swearwords rip through the thick scarlet smoke.

Fuck.

Shite.

Joder.

Chapter Text

Fuck.

Shite.

Joder.

Although it's like they are all spoken in the headspace, each one of them actually leaves their shared mouth, one by one, each of them said with more struggle than the previous; each of them weaker and huskier while their throat is getting tighter as if a steely grip was trying to break their windpipe.

Even when being imprisoned inside the body, not having any hold on it whatsoever, they still can feel the temperature around it going down all of a sudden, leaving it shuddering, almost being tossed around by the howling wind. Physical pain slowly takes over all of their senses and makes them want to grit their teeth as they can so much as to scream dreadfully; only on the inside, because their physical form remains frozen in time, in a way, since they can't move no matter how hard they try.

Utterly blind to the outer world, they don't see a figure of a woman appearing on every reflective surface around them - she's seen by not a soul caged on cobblestone, but for eyes of a deity standing on the nearest ceiling, bracing itself on a golden cane with a crescent atop, she is noticeable. It lets out a sigh at the sight of her before it looks over to its avatar and sees how he's visibly trying to summon his
suit - black leatherette combats are replacing corduroy for a split second before fading right back away, and the thickness of textured fabric attempts to hide his curls under a silvery hood of a well-fitted jacket at the same time as smooth bandage-like stripes, some of which embroidered with Egyptian symbols, are wrapping and unwrapping his torso. 

The god has never seen anything like that - throughout all the years he's spent using different bodies as his fist of vengeance, he's never once seen an avatar fighting for a chance to suit up, yet failing.

The aura of pure desperation is rimming the one helpless body, mingling with the red mist in the cold air around it, while the other ones are already lost to fear, choking slowly and painfully enough for the veins on their necks to show up. She can feel it as she's walking by stiff figures, the same mist swirling around her hands while she plays with her fingers, the only part of naked skin on her gloved forearms; she sees his hands trembling as if wanting to reach his throat, she hears uneven breaths and almost non-audible groans and it all intrigues her nearly to the point where she's thinking about stopping by him and swaying his chin up to look in the eyes of the bravest warrior of them all. But she doesn't.

Instead, the billowing skirt on the back of her body gently brushes the fabric of his hanging loose suspenders when she passes him without noticing a single detail of his lowered face, and she lazily makes her way to the front of a small group of people gathered in one place between the buildings. Upon this view, the deity hits the ceiling it's been standing on with its cane and with this simple movement, it appears before her, to which she tilts her head slightly, and a ghost of smirk tugs one corner of her lips.

"Khonsu" a quick greeting leaves her mouth, a piercing look in her eyes almost paralysing.

"The Scarlet Witch..." The god responds quickly but the tone of his voice is stern as always. 

They both take a moment to salute each other with a simple nod of their heads, a sign of mutual respect.

"So you know me," she points out, now resting her arms down her sides instead of fiddling with her hands, "I'm flattered."

"A cursed witch, forged by the Chaos Magic-"

"Don't." She interjects, already knowing where this is going, but he ignores her warning and continues.

"-destined to either rule over or destroy the world."

At that, she clenches her fists and the red mist forms around her hands again as well as it wraps around the throats of innocent people all around the both of them, tightening its grip to the point when they simultaneously let out a horrific scream.

"Careful, what you say to me." This comes out in the form of a hiss from her, although her face remains perfectly unbothered, red-glowing eyes being the only sign of her malignity.

Khonshu turns his beak ever so slightly to the side to see his avatar dropping to his knees, the falcon's skull-shaped kneepads appearing just in time to insure his fall, and as soon as the witch catches the deity's sudden move, with obvious curiosity she starts to turn her head to the place it's facing. Just a second before she can notice the face of the avatar, she feels an unexpected gale surrounding her, causing soft curls to get in her eyes for a moment, sticking to her lips and tangling in the horns of her tiara. 

By the time she's raised her hands and thrown a few blood-red blasts that cleared the air around her, she finds herself being in a completely different place, far away from the one she craved to see. As a response to the situation, she lets out a dry chuckle, shaking her head. 

Khonshu is there as well, his position in front of her hasn't changed, contrary to their environment. He's towering above her, although it seems like she's the one trumping over him and, judging by her expression, she's aware of it. 

"Could it be dismay I feel in you..?" She asks politely, her fingers niddling again from the lack of other occupation, irony dripping off the corners of her lips like venom. "Why bother fighting if you know I'm inevitable?" comes in addition, only confirming her cheekiness.

"So, the prophecy comes to life," the god announces, oblivious to what has just been said. When getting no response besides a raised eyebrow, he adds, "you begin the end of the world by killing off the strongest ones first. Clever, that I must admit."

"If by 'the strongest" you mean the ones you have to hide from me behind your tricks, then it's not clever at all," she says, "it's a playdate."

"Don't you dare disrespect me like that."  The deity spits out, anger peeking from the bony skull. "I'm a God, you accurst creature. Lay your hand on my avatar and you-"

"I have higher matters at hand right now." The Scarlet Witch interrupts his threat with a teasing smile playing on her lips once more when the rest of her face is a beautiful painting of severity to be feared. "Therefore, God of the moon, as long as you stay out of my way, you can rest assured I am not going to cause a single hair to fall off your toy's head."

"He's not my toy."

"He's currently suffocating to death, yet you are here, chatting with me. Is it because you know you are powerless against me, or because you crave to know how much pain he can truly bear? Tell me, Khonsu, if you play with his life, what does that make him-" she pauses just for the time needed to step toward him with a curious look on a pale face. She notices how the god warns her by leaning his cane just a little bit toward her, nevertheless, she decides to ignore it. When she's close enough before him, she lifts her chin so she's able to look up at him. "-if not just a pitiful toy of yours?"

With that, she sends a single swirl of red mist to the sides of his head, more of a mock rather than attack, and then she backs away, not even glancing behind when she says her last words.

"You'll be seeing me when I need you, till this time you and your avatar have nothing to worry about."

The witch then waves her fingers, creating yet another bloody-toned wreath, and at that moment her silhouette fades away, leaving a speck of shimmery gold dust that later on dissolves into thin air. Like she was never there, to begin with.

The Moon-god only tilts his head at her exit, then, with a tap of his cane and a simple turn, he comes back to his previous place, on the ceiling of an old building next to his avatar's apartment; to the place where the red energy left people, including Marc Spector, collapsing to the ground as a result of their waking from the forceful trance.

Although certainly not the first one to gasp, Marc is back on his feet in a matter of seconds after shaking off the stupor. Holding one hand, closed in a fist, close to his chest and breathing extremely heavily, he reaches his throat with his other palm and starts massaging it with a gentle touch of fingertips. His mind is still clouded, his vision a little fuzzy like every time he tries to read something written in a small font without wearing glasses, and he still doesn't have a proper grip over his body, but after taking a quick glance at other victims, he's satisfied with his ability to move without falling back down. 

He takes a second to put his right hand in the front pocket of his pants, through the hole he cut out there, to the inner side of his thigh where a little pocket knife is strapped around the tense muscles. Confusion, settled into his brow the whole time, softens subtly at the contact with the blade.

"The hell was that?" he asks out loud while exchanging a few consternated looks with other people, then slides his fingers over his cheek, through his short beard. He doesn't look scared- that's the thing about Marc that comes to Steven's mind as a first thought whenever he thinks of words to describe the American alter -, he never does, his facial expression comes as far as to a display of unease, but he never shows fright. It's like he doesn't even feel it, though they know he does, he simply keeps it to himself, knowing too well not to show any of his weaknesses to the outer world as it's full of people only waiting for a chance to use them against him.

So that's what he does, remains neutral on the outside, stone-cold even, as he's offering his hand to some women still sitting on the ground in shock. 

"Steven, what'd you do?"  He breathes out voicelessly through a clenched jaw, just before asking an old lady if she's alright and whether she needs help getting back home.

It wasn’t me, so it’s either you or there’s another alter you didn’t care to tell me about, pal.

His alter's voice sounds different, he thinks to himself and his brows knit in wonder. The accent doesn't seem to fit his British headmate, there's something off about this one sentence, but he shakes his head at the thought and pushes it to the back of his mind, blaming the weird feeling on aftershock. 

"Very funny" is the only comment Marc leaves him with. 

He's less confused than the rest of the strangers gathered around him, that's for sure, simply because he's used to sudden blackouts at this point, so it takes him way less time to collect himself and restart his morning walk to work. That's what it felt like - a blackout. Agonisingly painful blackout.

Now working in a different museum, the Sir John Soane's Museum, they decided not to use the bus to get there, but take it as an opportunity to get some fresh air before and after work. This time isn't any different; Marc takes their regular path, picks up the pace only a little bit, out of his body instincts and learned routines, and after a few long minutes he's almost halfway there. He doesn't look at anyone and anything, as if tunnel-visioned, hands shoved down his pockets, head lowered and focused on the way shortly ahead of him. He's not interested in anything related to the outer world, hasn't been in a long time, so it feels out of character for him to look around and drink up the view and the atmosphere of the city of London. The sun seems to burn his skin, it's blinding and sharp, and painful, and he doesn't belong there, in the light of it. It's not his place, it's Steven's, and he spends his whole trip thinking about how badly he'd want to switch places with his alter, be able to hide again, be able to let go of all these mundane responsibilities. For a split second, he even considers triggering Steven back to the command of the body. And this one thought shocks him to his core, leading him to crouch for a minute at the puffin crossing. 

The heels of his palms dig into his eye sockets as he exhales with frustration at his own attitude.

He's tired, he decides after crushing an intrusive thought to throw himself under a speeding car.

He just needs some rest, he assures himself while making his way across the street.

It will go away, he mouths with a shaky breath, dipping his fingers into his messy curls and pulling not so slightly, just to be sure that it's all real; that he still can feel something physical.

It's gonna be alright, he hums silently as he stands at the museum's entrance, and before walking right in, he takes out his wallet and checks if he has both his real ID and Steven's fake one, just in case.

And Gods, is he wrong.

***

Marc is leaning against the counter, with both elbows resting on a shiny white surface, fingers of one hand tapping on it edgily, the ones of the other alternately tugging soft hair on his forehead and rubbing his temple. He's surrounded by books, stuff made by artisans, and objects such as scarves, jewellery or decorative accessories including, but not limited to plastic miniatures of the museum, figurines of exhibits, or even tableware inspired by the museum's themes.

The small screen before him reads one sentence Marc has already read multiple times, laughing at him from the greenish background.

enter security code

After getting past inserting Steven's employee ID he thought nothing else would surprise him, and yet he's here, unable to log into the system he's supposed to work on. Part of him regrets all of his life choices, especially the one he made not to pay attention to his alter's responsibilities throughout Steven's gift shop clerk career, opting to stay hidden during his shifts and gather energy for his nightly missions with Khonshu. He spent all these years limiting his share in the process to checking in on Steven whenever things got nasty, and occasionally taking over the body after the other's extra hours to ensure his safety on the way back to their flat. Other than that, instead of at least learning the basics in case of the situations like the one he finds himself in at the moment, he was happily burying himself deep in the back of their head the second his headmate put his foot inside the British Museum.

A different part of him, on the other hand, is actually glad he doesn't know the code, simply because by this moment he's already painfully aware of his lack of ability to operate a cash register, as well as his lack of proper manners needed in the area of customer service.

He's screwed, he decides while pressing some random numbers on the keyboard, audibly or not, he doesn't really care. Having learned the hard way to think twice the next time he volunteers to replace the British guy at work, Marc groans at the thought of being defeated by the machine as he flutters his eyes shut and sighs in relief at how pleasant the darkness proves to be contrary to the blinding bright lights hitting him mercilessly from every angle.

For a brief moment, he feels at ease.

Brief, because after what seems to last only a short minute, he hears footsteps approaching him from the side and feels fingertips curling around his bicep. Without giving it a second thought, he relies on pure instinct when he takes a sudden turn to his face the intruder, combat mode kicking right in. He throws his right arm to his opponent's cross tricep, hand gripping the meat there tightly, while his left arm goes to their same side wrist. In one second he pulls the tricep, shoots his left wrist inward and pushes it through the wrist which easily grants him control of the whole arm. Another second later he curls the wrist, comes over to put his hand on the elbow, then slips the left hand up into the tricep area, grabbing it while pulling down on the elbow, and just like that, in a blink of an eye he holds his attacker in a strong armlock that has their arm behind their back with their wrist out their mid-back and their tricep in a steely grip. Marc puts his free arm around their neck which results in keeping them tight, and only when a strand of their cocoa-brown hair tangles between his fingers and they gasp loudly, does he realise that he's not in danger, and that most likely he's holding one of Steven's female coworkers.

Now he's definitely screwed, he thinks to himself as he mutters a ghost of a sound that takes the form of the word 'fuck'.

Chapter Text

"Okay, okay, sorry!" A high-toned squeak is torn out from the woman held by him while the fingernails of her free hand dig desperately into his bare forearm's skin, leaving half-moon indents on it. 

Although Marc feels as if his brain is clouded, he disentangles her from the armlock instantly. Worrisomeness hides in crinkles between his brows as they furrow, and in the amber of his eyes now focused on her face after he put his hands on her shoulder and turned her around so she could face him, looking for any sign of distress in her facial expression. The tension in his body increases a notch when he realises the woman is, as a matter of fact, a girl. Young adult. Adolescent girl. Practically a child. He lets out an almost laboured grunt at that, a few of his own curses directed at him echoing in his mind. 

"Jesus, what was that?" The girl - Anna, he discovers after taking a quick glance at the name tag on her beige blouse - inquiries, a breathy cry in her voice loud and clear for his ears to hear being one part of the remnant of the abuse he's deployed on her, the other making itself present in massaging sore elbow and exercising a mild shoulder rotation.

"Please, accept my dearest apologies," Marc begins, his voice adopting Steven's tone and manner as if a default setting, his face not so cooperative, though, remaining more of his own than his alter's which he can tell even without seeing himself simply by not feeling the slightest tug of a single muscle. His wording choice, moreover, surprises both him and the girl in front of him, but it doesn't stop him from continuing, "I didn't mean to cause you any harm, it's just, I-" he stutters just a tad, hoping it would grant him some bonus points, and then focuses his stare at everything but her eyes, scratching his beard in a clear sign of discomfort. "I was in my head straight up fuming at this bloody stupid machine over here, and your touch caught me off guard."

As a response to his elaborated apology, Anna gives him as much as a simple shrug of her shoulders which almost earns her his scoff. Almost, because by the time he opens his mouth to express his discontent with her reaction, she muses:

"Should've guessed it myself." And as she gets no reply, with Marc just standing there, expression as blank as the circles dark around the redness of his waterlines, eyes now closer to the shade of onyx rather than amber, and plump lips closed in a straight line in between salt-and-pepper thick growth, she feels the urgent need to add: "I mean, with the way you always flinch when something unexpected or louder than you'd want happens around you, I figure I kind of deserved this whole American arrest hold."

After admitting that, her shoulders shrug again and then a devilish grin plays on her lips as she takes one step closer to him, barely leaving any space between the two of them. Marc's brows knit marginally at the movement, making the permanent crease in the skin between them even more prominent, but he doesn't back away from her as he examines her face in silence; freckle by freckle, acne scar by brownish patch, rosacea's redness blemishing her fair skin. So young, he makes a notice in the privacy of his thoughts when she cocks her head a little to be able to burn a hole in the lion's wrinkle of his with the sky blue of her gaze.

"Nevertheless, I think I also deserve a tight hug, eh?" Anna murmurs, later on drawing her lower lip between her teeth and keeping it there long enough for him to notice. "To ease the pain, you know, you're not exactly the weakest man alive" comes in addition, as if she tried to excuse her suggestion. 

With a faint, faked smile Marc nods in agreement.

"I guess s-" he trails off mid-sentence and instead nearly chokes on the air she seems to punch out of his lungs with the force she uses to pound into his embrace, enclasping his neck, giving him no other choice than to wrap his own arms around her waist.

Marc swallows the dryness in his throat at the sudden realisation that this, the hug, feels wrong. For many reasons, he tries to tell himself that the one being most crucial is the fact this girl is significantly younger than him and barely knows him, while he doesn't know her at all, even if she's not aware of it, therefore she shouldn't be this comfortable near him. 

However, the truth is, and the American resigned himself to the fact some time ago, it feels wrong because it's not Steven. For both of them, actually, it should be Steven but it isn't, and that aspect of the embrace lies heavy on Marc's heart, trying to sink it deep into the melancholy of memories of the one hug that's been engraved in his memory for months now and the one that came to his mind every time someone tried to give him something similar.

He would call himself a narcissist, yearning for the touch of his own body, if it wasn't for the fact Steven carried it differently to an extreme degree; to the point where it felt like a completely separate person. His touch was so tender whereas Marc's was firm, his was dripping hesitation when Marc's distinguish itself by confidence, and finally - Steven brought warmth, trust and love where Marc could only provide safety. 

Physically, they were also different. Marc was always straight as a ruler, unable to stoop, his posture always asserting dominance. Used to deploy an iron-clad grip, muscles constantly tense and on the verge of ache. Steven wasn't like that, no. There was a gentleness in the way he slouched a little, with his shoulders and bladder loose, prioritising everyone else's comfort above his own. Absurdly naive sometimes in his belief that everyone was good at heart, some people simply lacking something in their life if they showed other, cooler shades of their personalities. Letting them walk all over him due to refusing to accept the fact that some of them were just pricks and no amount of kindness would ever change that. It all showed up in the way Marc was constantly keeping his guards up while Steven walked around wearing his heart on his sleeve.

But when it came to holding his close ones in his arms, Steven changed diametrically; his grip strong and desperate, squeezing their body with his own, locking them in an unbreakable hold for what could last an eternity. Marc was his opposite; he would wrap his arms around another person with a sense of distance, not letting them cling to his body completely, so he could still have a good chance of blocking an attack or escaping. 

Of course, with Steven in his arms, he threw all his tactics away without batting an eyelid, letting his body join the battle over who consumed who in the tight embrace they shared twice. 

Marc still could recall his scent as he buried his nose in the British one's hair after quickly pressing his lips to his temple while Steven occupied himself with clenching his fists on the material of Marc's t-shirt, squidging the meat on his back and possibly bruising his shoulderblades in the process. The world around them seemed to stop spinning for a while, time frozen on a single second stretching to hours. Not an ounce of spare space between the two of them to fit the thinnest needle. Their knuckles white as snow on the tan skin of their hands, with veins more visible and bluer than usual. It felt like home when Steven was blowing hot air down the side of Marc's neck, his sharp jaw nudged into the American's collarbone. Desperate gaps that were making them both feel dizzy made the whole experience even more special, and Marc quickly decided at that moment that it was once in a lifetime experience no one ever would be able to replicate for him.

And yet, Steven did it again, holding him tight enough to steal his breath if he wanted to, not so long after the first time. His Steven. The incredibly stubborn, righteous Steven who refused to kill a hippopotamus and hijack an ancient boat to save his life.

Ever since then, no one could make Marc feel quite the same as he felt in his alter's arms. Not even his wife, and he loved and cared for her deeply. Nothing seemed to taste even remotely similar, at some point Marc resigned to this thought. 

Even so, he still can't help the immense tug of longing deep in his chest as he gives Steven's coworker a few friendly strokes on her lower back, earning a satisfied purr from her.

"Can't believe you finally let me do this, after so long?" she says with her fingers buried in his hair, playfully curling some locks at the back of his head around her finger. Marc stiffens at the sound of this statement, and as he slowly pulls away from her, he feels his heart sinking, joining the little tight knot already formed in his stomach.

"What'd you say?" He asks just for the sake of hearing it again, already knowing the answer and processing it in his mind.

"You never let anyone touch you, honestly I was starting to worry you'll never give up and let me hug you. I suppose you like using force beforehand, I don't know, some kind of hot and cold behaviour," the girl starts mumbling so fast the words blur together and it makes Marc's brain feel like it's about to explode trying to make sense of what is happening, "Hey, I don't judge, of course, I just didn't take you as an 'into bondage' kinda guy, know what I mean?"

"Anna" is all he's able to say as the begging of a headache builds up a familiar pressure behind his eyes. An ice-cold feeling shoots up his spine when the realization of the meaning behind her words strikes him with the force of a thunderbolt, and he lets go of her in a matter of seconds, glaring at her in unspoken reprimand that only he knows hides stupefaction behind its sharpness. She looks surprised, he can tell by the way her blue eyes widen and a faint blush makes its way to her cheeks and nose, but she's mainly confused, and to be honest, so is Marc. He only agreed to this hug because he thought it was a norm for her and Steven; a standard greeting they gave each other every day at work. He left the safety of his comfort zone because of this misunderstanding, letting unwanted memories get to him when he needed them the least. All because of a girl who decided to take advantage of his mistake.

He lets out an exasperated sign.

"Listen, I need you to understand that this was a one-time thing," he starts, his voice is soft but firm, letting her know he's not mad at her, but he's also not kidding with what he has to say, "I attacked you without reason, and you deserved some kind of a remedy, eh? But it doesn't change the fact that if I say I don't wish for you to touch me, I mean it. For as long as I don't voice out that I've changed my mind. You heard me?" as he asks that question, he points at her with an expectant look in his eyes, actually meeting hers for the first time in the entire duration of their conversation.

"Loud and clear, Steven." Anna nods while answering him, and at that, he shakes his head, more to himself than at her actions, and settles himself behind the still not fully operative cash register, muttering under his breath something alongside the words:

"Something to keep in mind for the future, yeah?"

* * ☾ * *

She lives up to that promise for approximately two hours. 

Two long hours, or not long enough, Marc can't really decide. The entire room seems to be spinning as he tries to mimic Anna's actions around the gift shop, discreetly peeking at what she inserts into the system while scanning merchandise, hesitantly serving some older clients (which he chooses on purpose, hoping their age would help them be more patient with his pace than younger people), and sneaking around the room, pretending to be tidying up the store just so he can avoid the stubborn cash register. As he's picking up different figurines, puzzles and books, he actually takes short moments to inspect them in his late attempt to get to know what kind of job Steven deals with on daily basis. Obviously, he's ignoring the fact that half of the letters on the books' covers are barely visible to him without his reading glasses - that goes without question. In his opinion he doesn't need them, glasses are for the other guy, and he does just fine without them. And if his eyes start hurting after the first hour of having to read small letters on everything, he tells himself there's surely another reason for it. Thus, he settles on rubbing his eyelids every five minutes as a solution to the problem.

When the clock on his watch hits 12:10 pm and he's standing next to the scanner with the fingers of one hand curled around a paper cup halfway filled with coffee and the other fidgeting with a stray wiry basket with some cheap bracelets in it, that's when Anna shoots her shot again.

With one smooth move, she places herself in the small space between him and the counter, and Marc's hand, forced to abandon the basket, is quickly shoved down his front pocket. He raises an eyebrow at her ministrations, not sure what the sinister sparkles in her eyes could mean. The silence around them feels thick on his lips, sounds loud in his ears, and it all makes him uncomfortable, so he tries to step backwards in a desire to regain the sense of personal space, however, he's stopped dead in his tracks by the slender hands on his sweater.

"I know I'm not allowed to touch you," she asks with a sweet, gentle voice, attention directed at one of his sleeves which she finds herself absentmindedly playing with. One of her fingertips accidentally brushes over soft skin there and she feels how the dark hairs on his forearm stand up as a direct result of goosebumps. A ghost of a smirk dances on the corners of her lips as she makes notice of his reaction to her touch, "but you didn't really tell me why. Don't you like me?"

"I-I don't know" comes as an answer, to which confusion settles in her furrowed brows.

"You don't know?" she repeats after him in a form of a question and he only nods in response.

It's true, he doesn't know. Not the slightest idea comes to his mind as to why Steven feels repulsed about his co-worker to a point where he visibly keeps off her touch and makes her aware of that, even. Out of the two of them, Marc is pretty sure he's the one who avoids socialising, with Steven being the one craving it so badly, he's willing to go to a steakhouse, despite being vegan, just to meet up with a girl he had a date scheduled. The American once again regrets not paying attention to his alter's behaviour at work and therefore being left in the dark as to why it seems like for once in his lifetime Steven is running away from human interaction instead of chasing it.

"Listen, Anna. Please, listen to me," he murmurs after putting the coffee cup away and he snaps his fingers to get her attention before putting his hand in the pocket of his pants. "I'm 38, come to that I could very easily be your father," he adds in the hope this excuse will be enough to take the girl's hands off him. Unfortunately, he quickly discovers how wrong he was for thinking it when Anna places her hand on his cheek and focuses on tracing the line of his growth.

"Wouldn't mind calling you daddy, you know." As Marc registers her purr, a cold shiver slides down his spine at her words and for a moment scotomas are taking over his vision. 

"Why would you- it wouldn't make sense, now, would it?" he asks, disorientation painting across his face, and it has Anna chuckling genuinely but Marc continues nevertheless as if she hasn't interrupted him with her reaction. "I meant that I could be your father, I'm old enough to be. I'm not, so there's no-"

"Steven." Her voice takes a demanding tone, yet her expression remains soft. She's looking him straight in the eyes and he's not looking at her at all, glancing at the scanner behind her instead. "See that's why I like you so much."

"You do?"

"I do," nodding, she swipes at his lower lip with her thumb, making him thread his brows in consternation. "You're so awkwardly funny, so adorably unaware, and so freakishly hot with your tan skin, forever exhausted look, and now this," she accentuates her last word, gesturing lazily at his entire frame prior to going back to her rambling, "fuck, you're looking good today. Can't take my eyes off you."

At that moment Marc is too close to passing out, to say the least.

"Sorry. But..." comes from his mouth, he sounds husky and it encourages him to clear his throat while he takes a quick look over the store to check whether there's someone in there save for them. Then his eyes lock with hers, "Are you flirting with me?"

"Been doing it since you first arrived here, thanks for finally noticing." Before, during and after making this statement, she's laughing gently, there's pure joy in her eyes, that he could be sure of. "Bit late to the party, aren't you?" she asks next but she doesn't sound rude. Something in Marc wishes she sounded rude, though, so he could end this conversation. 

"I don't actually do- speak... the language of love. Or whatever." It's obvious he's trying to act as nonchalantly as he possibly can, but nervousness pours out from the tone of his voice. Once again he makes an effort to step away from her.

"Oh, I'd gladly teach you if you let me." A suggestion dripping with something that tells Marc she wanted to sound coquettish, which only adds to his rapidity as he wraps his hands around her wrists and pulls away from her.

"No, thank you," he says, already on his way to the store's entrance, "Be right back, need to use the loo."

Needless to say, he doesn't return.

His head is throbbing agonisingly while he's making his way across the hallway in search of the toilets. Stroking through the mess of wild curls, he scratches at his scalp hoping to find relief in mild pain. Words can't seem to describe the utter confusion that ties a knot in his abdomen.

He looks over his shoulder when cautiously scanning the space around him, as if expecting Anna to follow him for some reason, and when he makes sure she isn't, that's when he bumps into something, or rather someone, and if it makes him jump a little, he will take this secret to the grave with him.

"Steven!"

"Mr- Security guard," Marc breathes indiscriminately, just to hawk as soon as the elder man knits his brows at him, and immediately corrects himself, "Mr Henry" comes from him right after glancing at the man's nametag. "Mr Henry."

"I'm old, Steven, not deaf" the guard snaps at him, Marc winces, even though he doesn't show that on his face, and the older one sighs without any particular reason. "Where you headed, eh?"

"The loo."

"It's the opposite way, kid."

"Oh. Right."

For a moment they resign to the dead silence of the awkward situation. Both of them cross their arms on their chests, Marc hawks two or three more times, and somewhere between the second and the third time he switches his pose to staying straight and rubbing the nape his nape. Meantime Henry absentmindedly taps the silver clasp of his belt with the fingertip of his index.

"So... How are you?" Marc begins, trying to sound as friendly as he can, but trails off as soon as he sees Henry's hand waving at him dismissively. 

"You know I'm not a fan of small talks, Steven," he admits, making Marc instantly like him, "Might wanna hurry if you really need the loo, they are closing the museum." 

After that, Henry is already continuing his walk across the hallway, leaving Marc even more confused than he already was. The younger looks at the dock of his watch and his eyebrows furrow for gods know which time this day. His stare chases the slowly pacing co-worker, and before he even acknowledges it, he shouts after him.

"Any particular reason for that?"

"I don't know, something in the air is killing people again and the authorities told people to sit their arses at home. It's like the damn pandemic all over again..."

The guard is still grumbling as he slowly disappears behind the corner, but Marc doesn't listen to him anymore. He lets out another exasperated sigh, trying to wrap his lost head around what's going on exactly.

"What pandemic - never mind, actually," he adds a blurred fuck this day in his mind, then gives up in favour of making his way out of the museum with the heels of his palms digging ruthlessly into his eye sockets.

The ex-mercenary doesn't go back home, though, instead, he drags his feet to another familiar place that is the storage locker. Again, on his way not even once does he look around, a part of him secretly wishing for a deep hood in which he could hide his face. Forever grateful that the word seemed to have spread about the lockdown, the streets and pavements are almost empty, with only a few lost souls here and there rushing homes and a distant siren of an ambulance reaching his ears. Marc detached himself from the external stimuli, with half-lidded eyes watching the route before him but not really seeing anything peculiar.

The warm light of a single bulb welcomes him in the well-known emptiness of military green boxes stocked neatly along the walls, right after he's greeted by the guy working at the reception and given the key to locker 43. With a prolonged glance around the room, he makes notice of the artefacts of his old life - some clothes, emergency supplies and a cot in the corner with a modest, flat pillow on it. 

Weirdly enough, tin walls blurrily reflecting his body, with the pervasive order of the room coming from every single thing stored in it, somehow manage to ease his every nerve, spreading a sense of peace through every limb.

With a quiet sigh, he makes his way across the room until he's standing at the side of the cot. He sits up on the edge, takes his sneakers off to set them aside, lined up with the box standing next near, and lays himself on the flat, a bit rough even, surface.

He stays in late, just lying there and staring at the ceiling.

If he takes the pillow from underneath him and puts it on his face for a brief moment somewhere along the way, there is no one with him to witness it.

If he lets himself scream once or twice in the same pillow, there is no one there to hear it as well.

If he passes away from enfeeblement, he also comes to on his own, still able to deny he's tired, in case someone asks him about it.

He doesn't feel Steven, which in this precise case is good, too. Other than that, he wants him back already. Still, he does nothing to trigger him back to the front.

Even as a single tear carves its way along the crow's feet, down the side of his cheek.

He's not tired.

Chapter Text

When morning comes, Marc is lying on his side near the edge of the bed, shoulder tucked mercilessly hard into a too-soft mattress. His other arm is sticking out of bed with his fingertips barely brushing the harsh wood of the floor the whole night. The stiff hand on the mattress grips loosely at the edge of it; a habit Marc has developed during his childhood and stuck to up until late adulthood.

He's been aware of his constant need to physically feel or at least see the exit point of every environment for the longest time now and never really tried to quit it as it helped him throughout his whole life- in his early life he could calculate his way under the bed by feeling the seams of the bedsheets or count steps required to get his body into the safety of behind the bureau from the corner of his room he always curled up in, awaiting the beating every time he heard how rage laid its claws on his mother's throat, destroying her last frictions of love and respect toward her own son; at his adolescence, after he'd run away from home, it made it easier for him to get out of bed when a panic attack shook him from shallow sleep with a crushing strike to his chest so he could run to the bathroom so small he felt claustrophobic every time he had to use it, and throw himself to the ground in front of the toilet and puke bile; during his time in the military, holding onto the edge of his cot got him through various amount of dangers - humiliation caused by his hell week or getting into yet another fight with other soldiers being only explamples; and finally, it was a good enough excuse to convince Layla - his now ex-spouse - to sleep facing the wall, which later on granted him a way out of their marriage bed once and for all without her noticing.

The moral is that he's used to small, hard-lying surfaces and closed spaces, he used the storage locker as his accommodation as a direct result of it, and because of that, he wasn't feeling the most comfortable in Steven's studio apartment. He made Steven the exact opposite of himself, though, so it kind of made sense to him why Steven preferred open places and big and soft things to surround himself with - it was all Marc had desired in the past but was never given and therefore wasn't used to and didn't trust enough to actually try to enjoy it.

Now that he's been in command of the body more often than not, these differences between the alters have started to show and bother him.

He wakes up as the third droplet of hot sweat runs down his left calf slowly among the dark hairs on his leg, tickling the skin in quite an irritating way that pulls a raspy grunt from the deep of his sore throat.

His surroundings look just the same as they did an hour earlier when he woke up for the nth time. His shoulder aches to the point where, when he lets his feet fall to the floor and tries to push his upper body to sit down, tight muscles remain cramped up in place as if still pressed with the full weight of the body against the mattress, and he clutches his teeth to pull back a broken scream as he's falling back to his previous position. 

"Fuckin'ell" he breathes, words blurring together, muffled into the fabric of pearl-white sheet. There's no pillow under his head - he has tried sleeping with one several times but it simply never worked for him, every pillow seemed to be too soft, too thick or overall too comfortable for his body to accept it.

He then spends around three full minutes massaging knotted muscles and shifting gradually up, his face scrunched up in pain. The cold light of the spring sun pours into the studio in two stripes, leaving everything in between in greyish shadows, undeserving of the blessing of the day. In one of the shadows enshrouded Marc is chewing on his bottom lip, willing himself the strength to stand. One perk the American found in fronting so much was certainly that he didn't suffer from backache as the body wasn't constantly slouching. Normally he would appreciate it, sadly this morning he wouldn't mind the pain of the spine to consort with the one consuming his shoulder. And that pain would mean Steven was there, so.

He fails to stand up twice; once simply because he stumbles and needs to sit back down as nausea hits in, and second - when from the corner of an eye he sees a shackle on his ankle and remembers he restrained himself last evening. What for, if he hasn't been sleeping lately, he himself could not answer if he had to. Still, he carefully unties the cuff and hides it under the too-thick for him comforter. Then he gets up for the third time, eventually succeeding, and moves to drag his feet across the wooden floor that's creaking lightly with each step as the only sound in the attic flat basked in peaceful silence. He steps over a few piles of books on his way to the kitchen and curses Steven's messiness under his nose every time he does so.

Rubbing his cheeks and eyes with the back of a hand, he takes a quick glance at the yellow sticky note on the coffee machine; 'was here, sorry, take care x. - Steven, Friday 7 pm.' written with a red pen. Right under it is a single line made with black ink, Marc brushes the automatically building up concern off, though, guessing the Londoner wanted to add something but then changed his mind and chose to return the body to him before he could notice a significant loss of time. To accentuate his lack of worry, he puts the yellow paper away and pours himself a full mug of coffee- cold and black as his soul, deciding he's got the whole day to drink a hot one and at the moment it's better to calm sweat dripping from his temples in warm beads with a cold drink. Also, he can't really find it in himself to actually make any effort this morning.

Not that he's tired, it's just one of those lazy days, obviously.

With a bitter taste on his tongue, and the first sparks of caffeine running through his veins he finds himself standing in the middle of the flat, looking around and taking in what he calls Steven's essence. 

Books, an infinite amount of books laying in every corner, on each and every flat surface, filling the space of every shelf. He's quite certain he even saw one title shoved into the fridge. He doesn't have the time nor any interest in checking all the titles but from what he learned from glancing at them every now and then, Steven had a small collection of pretty much all genres known to mankind; from cheesy romances and thrillers, to french and german poetry, to Spanish exercise books, to the history of all great empires throughout centuries, to documentaries on multiple ancient countries, to cooking books. Papers older than his great-great-great-grandmother could be found on a small table next to the ugly, well-worn green armchair, some of them threatening to turn into dust anytime soon. 

Aside from books, there wasn't much else resting in the open space of the studio. A few notebooks, colourful pens with various ancient Egyptian figures atop, a walkman with wired earphones wrapped around it on the nightstand, some puzzles, a couple of cups with black tea stains inside, and lots of postcards from Steven's mum. Also known as Marc Spector.

He huffs a dry laugh at seeing them, all pinned to walls and wooden bookcases, and walks closer to contemplate a little, remind himself of all the places he went out of his way to be able to stop mid-mission and buy a damn postcard. 

Dubai. Cairo. Karachi. Lagos. Paris. Wuhan. Saint Petersburg. Wrocław.

Confusion settles into his brows, he puts the coffee mug away for a moment and licks the corner of his lips as his eyes identify postcards he hasn't seen before.

Guadalajara. Toronto. Madrid. Santiago. Tehran. Bogotá.

"Got yourself a daddy I'm not aware of?" he asks out loud, knowing full well he won't get a response. A weird feeling arises within his stomach, he bites at the inside of his cheek and lets out a defeated sigh through the nose before he decides to leave that matter for a different time as he knows pondering many questions that flooded his mind would be pointless at the moment.

The whole place was strewn with the scent of dust, he concludes with something close to disgust painted all over his face. Every tendon in his body feels strained and he is barely standing, but he's also in a constant state of alarm, even though Steven has hidden so deep inside the shadows that Marc couldn't feel him anymore. Still, he decided to stay awake just in case. Just in case his headmate needed his hand to guide him through a nightmare he could not handle on his own. Despite how loudly his whole body screamed for a solid eight hours of sleep, how badly it begged for rest.

Without thinking, he finishes his coffee and then gathers all the detergents he can find in the flat, as well as a few garbage bags. Just as he's about to start cleaning the mess Steven calls his apartment, he realises he's still only wearing boxer briefs and a pair of white socks. Another sigh slips out from his lips prior to him walking towards the drying rack in search of some warm clothes - in this case, his own black t-shirt and well-fitted joggers, and a thick, baggy orange cardigan that was of length to his knees as well as the property of Steven. Rolling up the sleeves, he stops by the kitchen to grab a bag of pecan nuts which he opens and puts in one of the cardigan's pockets, after that he takes a bottle of local beer and opens it by placing the bottleneck right next to the ridge of tabletop and slapping the cap with full force. It froths up due to how rapid the movement was, but he doesn't mind, already having decided he was going to wipe the floors anyway. Cold alcohol runs down his throat and it tastes amazing, Marc quickly decides - the bitterness of the hop stings just the slightest bit, leaving a pleasant aftertaste on his tongue, and there's a hint of citrus that the man thinks a nice touch.

He really shouldn't do it, considering it's Saturday in the morning and he should focus on resting and relaxing, but he wants to keep himself busy; he needs to keep himself busy and what's a better idea than complaining about his alter's messiness while cleaning the whole place to the tune of Frank Sinatra? 

So that's what he does for the next few hours or so; walks around the flat, checking titles of books piling up across the floor, playing basketball with the ones he decides are no longer of use and the garbage bag.

The dawn of everything

The years of extermination

Der Siebente Ring

The Female Quixote

The Picture of Dorian Gray

Crime and Punishment

Chaos

Magicians of the Gods

The history of magic, witchcraft and the occult.

He goes through all of them, reads every title, eyes every description on the back covers, and browses each one looking for bookmarks and dog's ears. He also winces when he hears Fly me to the Moon, cursing under his breath. The duster in his hand is getting dirtier with every minute he spends wiping bookshelves and old furniture. The fact that every piece of furniture is from a different tale, the wild mixture of bright colours, is giving Marc a headache just by looking at them, and they're all so old and used, he's actually impressed his alter was able to function in an environment like this. He's not a man of fancy taste, honestly, used to simplicity and modesty, but the flat was... a mess, he isn't afraid to admit it.

"Gotta freshen up the design, buddy," he murmurs to himself, his nose wrinkles because of the dust floating in the air.

Despite a couple of lamps hanging all over the place and a few windows, the flat is still fairly dim, he notices while squinting his eyes in order to focus more on the dirt he's cleaning up. The light from the lightbulbs is warm and nearly sunset-like orange; Marc can stare into it without being blinded by its glow. 

A mess, he tells himself again, shaking his head. 

When he's finally done, there are three full bags beside the front door, filled with books, paper towels, empty boxes of pralines and a bouquet of withered carnations he bought some time ago as a gift for his headmate, only for him to not ever showing up to see them. Marc's bladder withholds about four bottles of beer's worth of liquid, begging for a release but he's holding it as if afraid he'd sober up after paying the bathroom a visit. He's hungry, but he feels full at the same time. The whole flat seems to be spinning for some reason, his head is light but also heavy like a ton of bricks, and he's blinking way more than he normally would. 

It's fine, he's not tired.

He was planning on going for a walk to The Green Park but one look at his wristwatch tells him he's only going as far as the trash cans were standing near the tenement. The air there may not be the freshest in the world, he's definitely been in worse conditions, though. 

Having gripped at the neatly tied bags, he takes all three in one hand, the other hand he uses to help himself slip his feet into a pair of sneakers, then he leaves the flat and, after checking twice whether the doors are locked, takes a step towards the elevator.

The next thing he knows, he stops in his tracks, feeling air being squeezed out of his lungs; as the heavy plastic drops to the ground, his eyes are rolling back and his vision becomes black. It's rapid, it happens uncontrollably and against his will, and it shakes him a little when he's back in control of the body like nothing ever happened.

But something has happened, he can feel it. He's trembling, desperate pants are making his chest rise and fall at the pace that causes his heart to ache inside his ribcage. But most importantly, he's outside of the building, in a dim alley, with the garbage bags lying in front of him while he himself is sitting against the cold wall, eyes half-lidded, sweat beading at his hairline.

His right thigh hurts as hell but there isn't blood soaking through the fabric of his pants, which means he somehow earned a big bruise down there. He makes mental note to check it later. At the moment, what he does is he slaps along the outer side of the thigh, hissing through gritted teeth, which leads him to acknowledge that there's some kind of large injury from the middle of the thigh all the way down to the knee. 

"You gotta be kiddin' me" once he has said it, a dark chuckle slips from his mouth; a dangerous one, the kind that threatens to turn into a burst of mad laughter. His lips are dry so he decides to lick them. A second later he isn't sure whether he actually did it, so he does it again. For some reason, he feels the metallic taste of blood on the tip of his tongue, to which he smacks his lips and immediately regrets it when the sound of it echoes in the alley, tearing his eardrums. God, he hates this type of sound. 

Marc.

He hears the type of sound he doesn't hate - the sweet voice of a British man - and he finds himself craving the visual of him, too, so he looks around in search of reflective things, feeling content the second he finds a piece of a glass picture frame that the feeble light from outside the alley hits just right for him to see his reflection in it. Steven's there and Marc wants to smile, though he can't really feel his mouth. The other looks concerned if he's seeing him right. He's not sure.

Marc, you're bleeding.

"Like it's not your doing," it starts off light, playful even, but by the end of the sentence, it sounds more like a hiss. "Next time you're slamming the body against the brick wall for funsies, at least have the balls to stay in it long enough to heal it before handing it over, 'kay?" Marc asks, sniffling before he adds, "what's up, huh? Having fun living my dream life?"

Are you nuts, I - Steven's stuttering in the man's mind and he looks as lost as ever on the jagged surface of the frame, but he quickly recovers from that state, or at least that's what Marc takes away from the image of him. - Are you able to get up? he asks instead of finishing the first question. Marc ignores that question; he doesn't care if he has the strength to get up or not, he's more interested in what his alter's game is. The words he's using may not be the ones he would want to use, he admits it in the safety of his brain, but that's what he does anyway as he kind of cannot control the way he's speaking to him.

"I wonder when we both agreed on this fucked up swap of our lifestyles. I don't remember signing anything." He almost spits venom from his mouth and the grimace painted on Steven's glass face tells him the Londoner feels it, too. His shoulders drop to an even more closed posture than he usually wears while the ones Marc's in command of remain in a perfectly straight frame. It's almost as if Steven is about to start apologising to him frantically for daring to anger the American, and the other hates the realisation that he's the one who made him look like that.

You said- I thought tha- I thought that you're okay with having the body, I mean, you said-

"I was okay with going to work for you, I never said you could just fucking disappear into thin air for however fucking long, never even check in for a stupid breakfast chat about the weather and take over the body for toilet breaks without me knowing" Marc cuts his stutter off with a reply that's fairly quietly announced but the firm tone of it comes off as piercing nonetheless.

His irritation blurs his vision, slowly taking away his ability to see and properly read Steven's expression after every word cutting deeper and deeper into his skin, but it's added to the list of things the host doesn't seem to be caring about, knowing full well his alter's appearance is more of a creation of his imagination, anyways, rather than a real thing. He cares about the hurtful accusations he's throwing the other's way, though, but for some reason, he just can't stop his damned self from making more of them with every second. 

"And what's it about with blocking me out and hurting the body, eh? Is this some kind of sick revenge for what I did during the time of our little adventure with Khonsu or what?"

I didn't hurt the body, I-ah-I would never hurt you on purpose and you know that. Steven responds immediately, sounding quite defensive despite his slouched posture and his face being a beautifully tragic painting of pure remorse. Remorse Marc should and is feeling, even if blinded by anger and emaciation. Don't do it, Marc, don't blame me for things I didn't do, he continues, looking at Marc with the evident plea in his eyes that bleeds into his voice as well while the other only cracks his knuckles of the right hand which- Steven notices- he forms into a fist visibly shaking. The ex-soldier wants to say that yes, of course, he knows that, he never doubted that. But then Steven accidentally says something that finally shatters the calm before the storm with three simple, apparently lacking any significant weight, words: don't be like.

It's nothing special, not even a full sentence. Innocent words without much sense if put out of context. Yet as soon as they're out in the open, Steven wishes he could've taken them back. It's too late for hopeless prayers, though; the Londoner, if asked, could point his finger at the exact moment his foul mouth poisoned his headmate's soul, planting sour phrase deeply behind his ribs to wrap its thorny roots around his broken heart and squeeze mercilessly.

From the glass, he can see how the man's eyes are hidden behind the glossy fog before he focuses them in a deadly glare dedicated to the one who dared to push him over his limits. Right at that moment, Steven couldn't regret more them not being in the Duat anymore; them not being in separate bodies, so he could throw himself at Marc and hold together the pieces Spector has dashed into. Instead, he's forced to passively observe how the other's jaw tightens with plump lips curling into a thin line, how his arms stiffen as if frozen, and how little flames seem to be furiously burning down the chocolate of his eyes as he grumbles,

"Like who, Steven? Say it."

I don't want to cuz I didn't mean it.

"Say it," Marc repeats as his alter's shaking head as if verbal denies weren't enough. The one in command of the body snorts sarcastically when met with no other response. "Don't be like her, right? That what you wanted to say. Say it," he demands once again, piercing glare making the other curl up in himself even more.

No, Steven says in a manner that tells them both it's his final word.

Spector spits, this time in the literal meaning of the word; blood-stained saliva falls to the concrete just a few inches away from the glass frame while its owner keeps himself busy wiping his nose with the palm of his hand.

"Coward" is only the beginning of the intended reply, yet already it hit the Englishman straight in his gut. He can't handle the weight of the American's sharp stare which makes him look away and scratch at his nose awkwardly, not knowing what else he could do with his hands but desperately in need of doing something, anything. "Can't even put up a fight." He hears him continue his tirade, "You're just like him, Steven. If you wanna play the comparison game so badly. Just like our beloved daddy who didn't even lift a finger when she was putting other bruises and cuts on our body. Scared to go against the abuser, even if it means pain and-" Marc coughs drily mid-sentence. Pure disgust is dancing across his face; pouring out of every fine line, dripping from the corners of his lips, scrunching his expression with the bitter taste it leaves on his tongue. Blood is still running from his nose in a thin strip but he ignores it or perhaps doesn't even feel it, Steven reckons, which makes him appear even more terrifying in his eyes.

"Agony," he murmurs, "Just like him, taking and taking whatever bullshit you're given. S'what you do, innit it?" he asks, mockingly taking Steven's accent while putting the question on the table. He's thirsty, it shows up more and more with every lick of his lips; he's incredibly mad at himself for saying all the things he's saying, not able to control his logorrhoea; he wants to apologise to his alter and take them to the safety of their loft, but he never does just that, spilling more venom instead. "Just like him, Grant. Just like him."

You don't mean it. Steven's voice is frail when he says it. He's still not looking at Marc, aware of the knives the man is throwing at him with the dangerous look he's been serving him for a while now. You're tired, you don't mean all that. You just want to upset me.

"Upset you?" asks Marc, almost repeating after him only to taste these words on his own tongue which he then clicks, shaking his head. "No. You're the reason why I'm upset. And I don't even have an outlet for it because I'm forced into this fucking body that's fragile and doesn't heal anymore since there's no magic armour anymore, no petty stupid god I could be the fist of vengeance and beat the crap out of fuckers to get rid of the tension, to lower the awful pressure in my skull. Nothing," he sums up and cracks his knuckles the second time as if to prove his point. It's almost funny, the way he's saying the exact opposite of what he truly thinks. His own words surprise him as they come out - cause his eyes to widen, making him look insane. He doesn't even remember when was the last time he talked so much.

He does now, nonetheless.

"Shit, I left behind the literal heaven," he grunts, another drop of blood falls from his chin and crushes against the black fabric of his t-shirt. It's gonna stay there forever, reminding him of the argument. He liked that t-shirt. "I left the literal heaven to live in this hell of a flat, hell of a city, hell of a country. What if we move out, huh?" he asks, not really expecting the Londoner to answer. He continues before the other is able to even open his mouth, "I wanna move out, Steven. Go back to America maybe, I don't give a shit. I mean, we're here for you but you don't care, so what's the point? M'leving this fucking flat, Steven."

He's seated against the cold wall with his legs spread out in front of him and his eyes half-lidded when he feels something - someone - pushing to the front. His arms are slowly going limp as he's being forced out of control, in direct response to which he flutters his eyes shut, his brows furrowing so hard they're causing deep creases around his eyes, and curses under his breath, fighting the switch. He can feel his heart hammering against his ribs, a single shiver runs down his spine while his blood pressure goes up, and he's panting again, his chest heaving under the heavy breaths he's taking to keep himself grounded, even though the result he seems to be getting is closer to fainting because of that. 

"No," he hisses through gritted teeth and once the battle over the body's over, a quiet whine leaves his throat and he leans back against the wall, breathing shakingly. The second he opens his eyes again, he could swear he sees a whole different person in the glass frame - with a jaw sharper than Steven's, a crooked nose and a rough facial expression, looking as though wanting to reprimand Marc with so much as a simple glare. It only lasts a split second, before it's clearly Steven in front of him again, though, so he brushes the strange feeling off as quickly as it crawled under his skin. Nausea must be playing with him, making him see absurd stuff - that's the excuse he makes up in his clouded brain.

Steven is there, it's always Steven he sees in his reflection, there's no one else.

Right?

Steven's looking at him at last, appearing all apologetic and shy in the jagged surface of the glass frame. When he opens his mouth, he closes it right after before opening it again, a clear sign he's about to say something risky, something that Marc is certain he won't like. 

He knows he's right when Steven finally lets out sight and speaks his mind in the form of a tentative question.

Marc, are you sure there's only us... i-in 'ere?

"Shut up," a response is said in a stern voice that sends a shiver down Steven's spine and makes him fight back a strong shudder wrapping its claws around his shoulders. "Stop insinuating we're even more insane. Stop it, Steven."

There's something in the way Marc calls Steven by his name when he's enraged that puts a grimace of discomfort on the Britishman's soft features. That dark tone doesn't suit his name, it sounds strange and just...wrong. Marc shouldn't be using that tone when calling his name, it sets a strong sensation of fear in the centre of his nervous system and then it spreads across his whole body and soul like a deadly poison.

Marc feels that way, too, that's the irony of their situation. He craves nothing less than to apologise and comfort his headmate, explain himself, say he can't quite wrap his mind around what has gotten into him either. Somehow, though, his brain seems to have lost the connection with his mouth as the only thing he finds himself saying over and over again, like a broken record, is the word 'stop'. And Steven obeys, with his hands put up in a surrendering gesture and his bottom lip trapped between his teeth as if it's to stop himself from spilling further triggers.

Yeah, alright. His voice emanates with innocence as he tries to ease the restless waters of the ocean that was his alter. There is an answer he has for Marc's latest announcement, though, and before he ever registers it, petty comment tears from the shadows of his mind, echoing relentlessly in the other's temples. Bon voyage and don't forget to bring some magnets from Chicago on your crawl back, mate. Now would you come to your senses and let me take us back home?

If there's one thing they're both gonna learn from this argument, it's gonna be to bite their tongue from time to time.

"Excuse me?"

You heard me. Steven is quick to respond, rolling his eyes at Marc's squinted ones. What's been said has been said, he decides prior to elaborating his thought. You're mad at me, I get it, but don't act as though you sacrificed your happiness to arrive in England with me, yeah? You ran away, he states with a hint of roughness in his tone, then it immediately softens as he adds, and hell, over my cold dead body you're going back there. I have spoken, the Brit cuts his alter off before the latter has a chance to argue. Now, just, let me in, love, so I can take care of you, eh?

The dry chuckle the man lets out at this request is enough of a confirmation that he somehow used the wrong words once again, therefore accomplishing the opposite of what he originally intended.

In the dim light of the cloudy late afternoon in the alley between two high buildings, Marc laughs sarcastically while his hands are closed in shaking fists on his lap and it looks terrifying but Steven can't find it in himself to look away from the picture that will most likely hunt him in his dreams; it's as if deep inside he doesn't want to turn his head, even in a situation like this one wanting nothing but to keep his headmate safe, from the danger of the outer world as well as the man himself, his protecting instincts kicking right in. He wants to say something, wants to wrap Marc in the warmth of his reassuring words, brush his hair out of his sweaty forehead with the promise of them being okay, and lull their distraught body to sleep with whispers of the list of things he's grateful for this day. He wants to take over the body and clean it, so Marc could wake up without any traces of the foul situation they found themselves in. He wants all that.

Sadly, Marc seems to be having none of that.

"I don't need your care. I'm perfectly fine without it. I don't need it. I don't need it," the host shakes his head while mumbling those four words incessantly, desperate to prove his point. "I don't, I don't need it, I don-" at some point, these mumbles turn into a bawling, loud and rough, and Marc has his fists clenched on strands of his hair and his legs are bent and pressed against his heaving chest. With the heel of one of them, he kicks aggressively at the glass frame, shattering it into tens of useless pieces, hitting it every time with a precision he wants to be impressed by since his vision is long coated by blind spots, leaving him moving on pure intuition. He doesn't hear Steven but most importantly, he doesn't hear his own screams - the only sound in his ears is the sound of blood boiling in his veins and his heart pounding in his chest, somewhere close to his exhausted lungs, but honestly, he feels it even in his hoarse throat.

"I don't."

* * ☾ * *

He doesn't know how long he's been sitting alone between trash cans in a dim alley like the garbage he feels like. All he knows is that his throat hurts almost as badly as his bruised thigh, his hair is a complete mess of wild curls from tugging at it, and that maybe along the way he shed a few tears that stained his pale skin with salt. He also knows that Steven's orange cardigan will be needing a washing machine after sitting in dust and dirt, as well as being treated like a cloth for his nosebleed.

Steven's with him, he can feel him observing him with his wise eyes from pieces of glass spread on the ground in front of him. He doesn't say a word, though, and Marc is grateful for it. It's enough that the Londoner had to witness his moment of weakness, something that he knows for sure he's going to be dealing with great shame crawling under his skin for, eating away at every cell in his body.

The silence between them is ear-splitting and it almost makes him wince. Almost. Instead, he only sniffles when he feels the blood running down to his lips.

That's when he realises he's not alone.

“Scarlet is kinda my colour, you know.”

Marc hears as he’s trying to wipe the blood off his nose, only adding another nasty stain to the brightness of orange. When he looks up from where he’s been sitting for the past God knows how many minutes or hours, he sees a tissue being offered to him by a hooded redhead woman. Her smile is almost nonexistent, especially in the darkness of the place and time of day, but there’s a certain feeling of warmth in the way she’s looking at him.

“Should’ve trademarked it or something”, she continues when Marc accepts the tissue cautiously, only to then focus entirely on stopping his nosebleed. How long has he been bleeding out like that, he ponders the question he knows full well he won't discover the answer to.

Just for a split second, he glances at the piece of glass he’s shattered earlier, and he catches the sight of Steven’s frightened face in it. Actually, it's not pure fright, it feels more like a strange mixture of the shadow of fright with the light of angelic awe.

The Scarlet Witch, Steven whispers in shock, the feeling so strong Marc can feel the shiver running down his spine. The reaction intrigues the American man enough to encourage himself to stand up, only stumbling a little which he counts as a small success, and look straight into the stranger’s eyes; big and round, with a hypnotizing, yet paralysing, red light covering the iris, matching the redness of his own sleep-deprived ones.

“I’m Wanda”, she says politely after a while, once she's realized she wouldn't be getting a response to her attempts in playfulness. She extends a hand, offering a handshake, but the man doesn't even acknowledge the gesture, instinctively crossing his arms on his chest instead, standing wider on his feet as he always does when wanting to assert his dominance over everyone standing before him. 

And if this pose gives him better support for his flooded with dizziness body, nobody will ever know that.

He feels something - someone - shifting in the back of his mind, as if a single shudder was sent to his nerves, trying to shake him by his shoulders against his will, pull him away from the problematic subject. He's lived with Steven long enough to know it was the other's way to try and stop him from doing things he didn't approve of, therefore he blinks away the frown the sudden ghost of movement has caused his brows to wear and brushes off the numbing feeling of dismay before finally reacting to the woman in front of him.

“And I’m-”, Marc cannot introduce himself properly because she immediately cuts off his attempt at being social, voice sweet as almonds imprisoned in just one, awful-sounding word.

“Tired”, Wanda finishes his sentence without hesitation in her voice, the fabric of a woollen coat lifts just a little bit as a result of a subtle shrug of her shoulder. A phantom of a smile appears on her lips only to vanish almost right away; the man can't help but be impressed with the fact that his body even caught this little detail with how blurry his vision was becoming yet another time that day.

“A little, yeah”, he sighs in agreement, lacking the energy and willpower to try to prove her wrong after everything he's gone through up to this point in the day, which once again causes the kindest little smile he’s seen in a while to appear on a pale feminine face, only this time he is actually able to register it and fully take it in.

He feels another tug at the back of his consciousness, this time he flinches slightly in reaction, his jaw automatically tightening.

Run, you Doughnut.

"Do you need help?" One voice overlaps the other in Marc's skull, a sound that makes him feel the urge to scrunch up his face in pain. On the outside, his expression remains emotionless save for the tension pulling at his skin under the salt-and-pepper of his beard. The woman is looking at him with curiosity written all over her face, scarlet red mist swirling around the green of her eyes as she studies his face, taking in the sight of his personal fall to his lowest.

"Probably, but the doctors're full of shit, so," he says nonchalantly, then shrugs. At that, the redhead turns her head away so she can hide an amused smile sneaking to her lips. Marc somehow manages to catch that, for a brief moment trying to focus on the details of the godly creation that has occurred in front of him. The woman was slightly shorter than him, albeit she didn't even have to tilt her head up to look him in the eyes; a rather fragile posture but he can't be sure of it as her body is covered in an oversize coat, a few freckles are sprinkled over her nose that catches his attention when she scrunches it, looking back at him again.

"I meant with the-," she says, lifting her hand to scratch at the ala of nose with the knuckle of her index finger, "the nosebleed, do you need a doctor to look at it or something?"

The man blinks at her several times with eyes lost behind a fog, then takes a quick glance at his wristwatch to register the time; 6:42 pm. His brows are knitted when he returns his stare to her, voice almost cracking at the end of the question that slips from between his lips,

"What day is it?"

"Saturday?" is a question more than an answer, her facial expression mimics the one painted across his face.

He waves at her dismissively with a quiet, "then nah, thanks," pressing the tissue harder to his bleeding nostrils before he decides he needs to lie down for a while, give the aching body a moment of rest. So he takes one step forward, then another one and before he can fully grasp what's happening around him, he's already walking outside the alley, toward his apartment house.

He stops for just a moment and leans against the cold brick wall, looking at her over his shoulder when he breathes out a question that's been sitting on the tip of his tongue since Steven mentioned it.

"You're that witch, the red one?"

She doesn't respond; only tilts her head to the side and blinks at his words, blood-red light glowing even brighter in her eyes. Marc sees a small win in her reaction, as well as takes it as a confirmation of his accusation. He hums under his breath, adding "where's your cat?" to the equation, resulting in confusion settling deep into her brows as she continues staring him down from she's been standing for a while, even after he walked away.

"What?" voice sweet as almonds rings out and echoes against the brick walls straddling her small frame. She doesn't hide the surprise she was given by his question, something Marc knows he possessed too much pride to not feel an utter shame in showing to the eyes of strangers. They're even after that, he admits to himself with a mental grunt.

"Every witch has a cat, that's the rule. Otherwise, she's nothing but a fake." With the explanation, he earns a small tug upwards at one corner of her lips, forming a beautiful smirk that she's gracing him with before simply nodding at him which he reciprocates not long after. 

"Sleep tight, Marc," is the last thing he hears from her, and then his feet drag his body to the entrance of the building, to the elevator, to his flat in the attic. 

* * ☾ * *

When another morning comes, Marc is lying on his side near the edge of the bed, his whole body sinking into a too-soft mattress. His other arm is sticking out of bed with his fingertips barely brushing the harsh wood of the floor the whole night. The stiff hand on the mattress grips loosely at the edge of it; a habit Marc has developed during his childhood and stuck to up until late adulthood.

He wakes up as the third droplet of hot sweat runs down his left calf slowly among the dark hairs on his leg, tickling the skin in quite an irritating way that pulls a raspy grunt from the deep of his hoarse throat.

His surroundings look nothing like they did when he went to bed a few hours ago; the warm rays of sunshine high in the sky are pouring through the windows making the wooden floor flood with golden light instead of the whole room drowning in the darkness of the night. His shoulder aches to the point where, when he lets his feet fall to the floor and pushes his upper body to sit down, he feels the need to stretch out lazily, yawning one time with a wide-open mouth while doing so. 

Scratching at his beard, from the corner of his eyes he catches a glimpse of a black spot on the ugly green armchair in the middle of the room, so he slowly turns his head toward the intruder, intrigued by the small size of them.

Seated at the old piece of furniture, a black cat with white whiskers and scarlet-red symbols - runes, most likely, not that Marc knows anything about it - glimmering on its front paws is staring at him with a pair of curious eyes. Its tail is swinging calmly from side to side like a snake to a hypnotizing sounds of a man playing the flute. 

The creature lets out a broken meow dedicated to Marc, and then it stretches its paws and back at the same time before gracefully jumping down from the armchair, purring aloud as it scuttles to the nearest window and disappears behind him, all its movements intently observed by the man sitting at the edge of the bed.

Marc hums to himself at the view of his now empty loft. Once he's given himself a few additional moments for the body to adjust to being awake again, he takes a quick shower, eats a vanilla yoghurt and changes to fresh clothes. His head is throbbing in mild pain but he doesn't take any medications for that, instead deciding on getting ready for his walk to The Green Park in order to get some fresh air that would calm the tension in his temples.

"We need to get some new furniture," he murmurs, throwing one last glance at the flat his headmate calls his home. Then he locks the door behind him and heads toward the elevator.

A yellow sticky note is pressed to the teapot in the kitchen, and on it in black ink calligraphic letters are arranged in a few simple words.

I'm sorry.

- Marc, 11:04 am.

Chapter Text

Hi loves!

We're just about to enter what we've all come here for in this fanfic - Wanda and Marc spending time together.

BUT, before it happens, I need to make a quick public service announcement.

The next chapter will be (probably) the most intense out of the whole story I'm cooking up for You. I initially didn't do it but a few more tags concerning Marc's past (for example child abuse and neglect, and military violence) are going to be added to the story tags, as well as proper trigger warnings in the chapter summary. 

The chapter will most likely be titled least-favourite son, it may change a tad bit, though. In it, I will be digging head-deep into the relationship mainly between Marc and his mother, but also between him and his former army companions and supervisors. 

I cannot guarantee I'm gonna finish the chapter this weekend; to be honest, I'm pretty sure it's gonna take some more time for me to include everything I have in mind in it. This raises another matter I'd like to discuss with all the lovely people who decided to read this story.

I noticed every chapter is getting longer and longer, and it's not something I've planned for this story. It was supposed to be short and easy to write as I work full-time, am part-time tutoring at the moment, starting my master's degree soon and planning on finally going to therapy. But oh whale, hah.

So. I'd like to ask what's more comfortable to read and feels better for You - getting shorter parts of chapters more often (I'd say each week but at this point, I'm scared of promising that) or getting long (+6k words) full chapters less often? I'd appreciate Your opinion.

I'd also appreciate Your opinion on if it's an okay story or if You'd like me to change something/focus on something/anything, really. I know it may be a bit too soon for asking this, as Wanda has just met Marc in person in the previous chapter but still. Just, talk to me about Your ideas :).

Okay, that'd be it. 

See Ya in the next chapter! Thank You for reading this story xx

Take care

Chapter Text

He doesn't know where he is, who he is with and how he ended up there.

Everything seems too far away; the harsh reality is twinkling at him with the shine of the most carefully polished diamond enticing the eyes of a robber from behind the thick weaves of the mourning veil called powerlessness, distant and exclusive, forbidding his eyes the privilege of observing his surroundings, and his ears of hearing what wicked rumours are being spread of a miserable creature that he is. 

What he does know, is he makes quick work of gathering neatly in the centre of his foggy mind, guided by the hatred of being left in the dark - unprepared for a fight, at the mercy of what's about to come at him. 

New pieces of information flood his brain as he's trying to dot-paint the work of art of his current situation on a shredded canvas of his numbed senses.

There isn't much that he can hear, his heart throbbing ear-splittingly loud is taking almost all of the space made for sound to be heard, but in between rapid beats, a voice barely above whisper tries to enter in a mission of straddling his temples with the sweetness of caramelized almonds. It's calling for him like a siren song lures sailors to destruction, and it sends shivers down his everything - his bones shaking within the coat of flesh, the blood boiling inside his veins, his skin sinking under the hills made out of crispation. 

"Easy, soldier," the voice, most likely a woman's voice, says. "I've got you."

The tone she's using is soft, his injured brain states. It's soft and warm like a favourite blanket in the middle of winter that one puts over their lap on a couch to rest in front of a TV with a mug of hot cocoa burning the skin of their hand in the nicest way possible. He doesn't second-guess the fact that he likes that tone.

Contrary to his hearing, his feeling seems to be working overtime with everything hitting him all at once. His heart pounding against his ribcage in the rhythm of his panting; hot breaths bouncing off the wall of skin close to his mouth and coming right back at him, crashing over the hairs of his own bearded chin; his knees weakening slowly under the weight of his limp body; cold waves of wind assaulting his bare arms as if deeply offended he dared to stand on its way in the voyage across London; accelerated pulse underneath fingertips clawing at her neck and pressing there with descending strength; pulsating pain cuddling the knuckles of that same hand; and finally - the way a scarlet-red trickle of blood is staining its way from his forehead down his face, breaking pale skin in two almost equal islands of pure distraught.

He's hurt, not only emotionally, but also physically, or so it seems. Having imaged things that weren't true for years that day, he can't be sure if he's actually bleeding, and even if he wanted to ask, he couldn't; his voice stuck deep in his throat, blocked by the lump resting there.

Once he has finally let go of her neck, allowing his hand to slide down the delicate porcelain of skin on her chest and through her breast clothed in a black blouse, he feels his knees give up completely, to which he answers with a weak sigh slipping through his lips. He doesn't fall, though, even if he's prepared for it by closing his eyes and jaw clenching in direct response to pain about to strike him. Instead, a pair of arms is being wrapped around his waist in a matter of seconds to keep him in place, standing still in a warm embrace, although with his face squeezed a little by the cheek of her tilted to the side head as if in attempt to hold him tight with everything she has to ensure his safety.

"Gosh, you're heavy."

As she says it, the beginning of her struggle hits all of his senses and yet, he can't do much to support her trembling legs under the weight of two bodies, or her back leaning dangerously far back in order to create a surface for him to lie on; despite his willingness to help, he can't force his limbs to tense up and stand on his own, so he just is there, with his face nestled to the crook of her neck and his nose between two small buttons of her blouse.

"Hold on," she mutters as if he had a choice, a hint of labour engraved in the rhythm of her breathing right across his ear. One of her arms then leaves his waist while the other grips the fabric of his shirt tighter and he wants to protest, whether against her abandoning him or Steven's favourite shirt being crumpled in her fist - he doesn't know and frankly, he doesn't care. He wants to say something, craves to let out a growl and maybe pick up his pride from the level of the lowest circle of hell that he thinks he has dropped accidentally when he landed in her arms in the first place, but he can't and sadly, it's quickly added to the long list of things he despised himself for. 

While he's busy fighting with his own thoughts, from the corner of his eyes he sees her palm facing the ground on her side, with fingers bent in a way he would call uncomfortable, and red energy coming out of them, bolting to the cold concrete just a moment before they're both standing upright again. She's no longer ruining his shirt, instead, she gives his lower back a few gentle pats prior to leaving him be - still a little dazed and unsure. His brows furrow at his body feeling weirdly light being held in place by the very same scarlet mist surrounding him from every angle from his toes to his hips, dancing blithely between his legs and even around his shoulders and head, as he takes quick notice of some swirls in these areas.

What's also there, is the familiar pressure right behind his eyes which he feels like he hasn't felt in months. It's not invasive like in old times - in fact, it's barely there, subtle, gentle like the person it's associated with.

Marc, Steven purrs into his ears, a clear worry soaking his voice. Love, are you alright?

"Hey," is all Marc can muster to breathe in hush tones. Despite everything, that had happened that day, despite all the blue feelings pushing and pulling him in every way like a rag doll, his voice still sounds stern, the tone of it still floats on a low register. The only real difference that can be heard is the obvious relief in it.

Before he can say something else, ensure his headmate that yes, he's fine now, and maybe hide under some basic statements the fact that he missed his voice, the woman in front of him lights up a little at his greeting. 

"Hey," she repeats after him, eyes bright not because of the red glow covering her irises, but because of the delight wrinkling the corners of them and pulling the corners of her lips upwards slightly but enough to bare a few of her teeth. This smile suits her, Marc can't help himself but think as soon as he sees how genuine her expression seems from where he's standing. 

Blimey, she looks gorge with that braid. Steven's voice catches his attention again, causing him to frown at the revelation. Indeed, her hair was loosely braided on one side of her head, falling lazily on her shoulder on full display, with a few lonely strands refusing to stay in a rusty-red plait. 

"What 'r you up to?" Marc means this question for Steven as he feels a stronger tug in his chest that almost makes him wince, but since Steven can't be seen by the outer world, in his opinion it becomes quite fair that it's Wanda who tilts her head again, this time guided by curiosity, not a difficulty, and folds her hands over her chest, the looseness of it imitating that of the braid perfectly. The black puffy sleeves of her blouse look massive in comparison to the rest of her petite figure.

"Well, actually... I was thinking of coffee, maybe...," a hesitant reply enters the air between them, more of a question rather than a statement. "Wanna grab one with me?" comes next and Marc raises both of his eyebrows in pure surprise. Like everything the body does when he's in command, it happens quickly, almost unnoticeably - every emotion vanishing from his face as soon as it crawls under the skin there, taking over facial muscles for a fraction of time so tiny, one could miss it with a blink of an eye.

He then notices he's no longer drowning in the red mist of hers, to which he responds by smoothing the fabric of the patterned shirt on his stomach, then lifts one of his hands and clears his throat, coughing once in the closed fist before opening his mouth with clear intention to politely decline her invitation. He feels fuzzy, his head migraine-heavy, yet uniquely light at the same time, like all his thought have been somehow captured in a bubble and squeezed shut, away from his consciousness.

The delicate fragrance of something - tangerines and vanilla, he thinks - hits his nostrils, takes his attention away from how the redhead's eyes turn the natural shade of green again.

"Eh, y-yeah, why not."

Excuse you, what?! Usually sweet, the tone of the Brit's voice at this moment sounds more like a shriek of an irritating quality, causing Marc to flutter his eyes shut, pain sitting in the deep crease between his knitted brows. Steven seems not to care at all, though and continues spilling words of a lecture that ring in his ears and echo throughout his entire skull, Are you mad, it - no, Marc, it takes two to decide in this household - or is it bodyhold? Dunno, the point is, we've just voted no, haven't we? My days, you've just said it out loud, are you really gonna change your mind just 'cause she asked the same question twice?

Steven is babbling, meaning he's either irritated with him or nervous, that much Marc is sure of. Probably both, is the conclusion he settles with. Maybe he can feel Marc's desperate need for water, too, since he's shuddering internally, feeling extremely cold on the outside and quite hot from within. He almost slips there a little, close to actually flinching hard at the mix of dehydration and his headmate's reprimand, but he manages to catch himself and trap the body in his signature tension before the woman in front of him takes notice of it. Though, for a moment he wonders if he wasn't too late with that reaction, simply due to the way he finds her staring at him with a look intense enough to make him want to curl up in himself and hide the exposed nerve he thinks he has somehow become in the face of that studying gaze.

"Wanna share with the class what's on your mind that took your head high up to the clouds?" she asks, voice just above the whisper, which he wouldn't catch if it wasn't for his constant wariness. There's this ghost of a smile, dancing on her lips, that holds the warmth of a thousand suns.

Marc sighs. "It's just that...," he mouths, his hand jolting to the back of his head to rub at the skin of his nape. "I don't think'm a good companion, I feel like shit."

As soon as he admits that, with a nonchalant shrug and eyes focused on everything but her look, she's visibly biting a widened smile that tries to deepen mimic crinkles on her cheeks. For a moment it looks like she's contemplating something before she takes a single step toward him.

"Being absolutely honest with you, you kinda look like shit, too." There's a playful glint in her eyes when she says it, then takes another cautious step while gesturing at his forehead. "May I?" A question equally cautious arises in the small space between them, making Marc arch one of his brows, doubt clear as glass nearly breaking the indecipherable expression.

Slowly, he nods but his glare follows her every move as she gently touches the skin in the centre of his forehead, thumb hesitantly sliding down his face in almost the exact same route he's tracked the blood earlier. The feeling of release comes after, there's no longer this dull sensation boring into his frontal lobe and he hides his surprise well, even if he feels himself grow more and more suspicious of her doing.

"That's better," she mutters as if to herself, then without any explanation turns around and starts walking toward the nearest gate. Marc's nose wrinkles when he doesn't feel the itch of blood staining his skin, and he scratches the expression away with a knuckle, almost instantly hissing under his breath at his own stupidity, being painfully reminded of the presence of fresh cuts and wound swelling decorating both of his hands.

Marc, please, just- just allow your survival mode to kick in, yeah, and let's go home, la- 

Steven's in his ears again, cut off almost right away; his voice is carrying a full range of the worst emotions Marc can find in it - dread, concern, panic, all tied by extreme fatigue that Marc's feeling as well. Has been feeling for a while now.

"You coming?" Wanda - he genuinely hopes he remembers the right name - calls after him, glancing from over her shoulder, and when she sees he hasn't moved an inch, she doesn't even wait for him to answer, already coming back to where she previously stood. "C'mon, it's just a quick coffee break." Her talking reminds him so much of Steven's babbling at the moment, which makes him wonder whether it's a sign of stress in her case, too. "Promise I'll let you go right after. Won't even force you to order a pastry. And I'm pretty sure I've seen a small café right down the street, so it's not like we have to tramp for miles to get there."

By the time she's done talking, she's already standing by his side, lightly grasping his elbow. He doesn't expect it at all, therefore he jerks away like he's been burned by the touch, his jaw clenched, his hands closed into fists lifted defensively as if ready for a fight. As a response, he gets her wide-open eyes and mouth opened agape, with her arms raised in surrender and her legs moving back in an attempt of restoring the distance between them.

"Sorry," she says apologetically and clears her throat, a clear sign of discomfort. "Didn't mean to scare you."

He scoffs at the implication. "'s fine, you didn't scare me." I don't like being touched unexpectedly, plays the lower parts in the harmony of his reply, hidden but giving the statement the right, a little dark shade of seriousness.

They're walking side by side, their shoulders don't brush against each other even once. Marc is dragging his legs rather than actually walking, lazily but cautiously following Wanda wherever she is leading them; his gaze is focused on the ground as always, not really interested in the world before him, but his body is set slightly rightward to where she's taking one step after another at a mild pace, whether to block a possible attack on her or to block an attack from her - he doesn't really know. They don't talk, even Steven has resigned to aimless naming things they're seeing along the way, but that doesn't mean they're stuck in uncomfortable silence; actually, it's better this way, Marc thinks, neither of them feels compelled to fill the space in with useless words and they don't draw the unwanted attention of random passers-by. 

Dog.

Marc is walking along the edge of the pavement as he always does when women accompany him, in case they stumble, it's easier to catch them, preventing them from falling under speeding cars. He's done this so many times with Layla and even girls before her, it became part of his nature, the only exception being his mother. 

Kind-looking old lady.

He notices Wanda has her hands casually shoved into the back pockets of her black jeans, though there seems to be something off about her behaviour. He could be wrong, but she looks way less relaxed than she was at the back of the museum Steven's working at. Despite not looking directly at her, he can see from the corner of his eye that at some point her body has welcomed the tension twin to his own, letting it devour her bone-deep.

Fancy car.

It's interesting, Marc admits to himself, to see someone else equally disturbed in public. He has watched Steven from the comfort of the backseat of their head for years, a silent observant of the mundane life his headmate has created for himself, so he always knew Steven shared this personality trait with him, although driven by completely different reasons - Marc avoided crowds because he felt out of control over a situation and overwhelmed by the possible danger waiting for him around the corner, too many alien faces to be wary of, too little space to see a knife or a punch coming his way; Steven to some extend craved relationships with people, which made him more trusting than Marc would ever allow himself to be, but he also always preferred meeting one or two people at a time, simply due to the fact that, if there were more people around him than he could focus at, an intrusive thought would creep into his mind making him feel anxious that they were laughing at him and talking behind his back about how big of a weirdo he was. But still, Steven was always a part of him, a part of his world, a treasure Marc felt he needed to protect. They were in this together, even if for the most part Steven wasn't even aware of him. Layla was always open to the world, she liked people, she enjoyed being around them, or at least didn't ever mind being among them. She smiled a lot, she had no trouble making friends - that she wasn't exactly honest while doing so, it was between her and those who would catch her red-handed, Marc being one of the very few examples. She would never get uncomfortable in a crowded place like the city of London mid-day like Wanda did now, apparently.

Some daft cow on an electric scooter.

"Oh, for fuck's sake." The man curses out loud, a raspy voice cutting through the silence between him and his company like a sharp knife. That earns him her furrowed brows, so he quickly gestures toward the kid crossing the street. "He should get off the scooter before the zebra crossing," he murmurs as an explanation, then takes his eyes off of what's in front of him and devotes himself to looking at the sidewalk beneath them. Her understanding nod is the last thing he sees and Steven's huffed sigh is the last thing he hears concerning this topic. 

Silence coats their fragile forms once again, letting them gather their thoughts in peace, so neither of them would say something they don't mean.

Ladybird.

Marc grunts in warning, even though Steven's voice overlaps with the sound of a bullet being shot that his mind has pulled out of the darkest corner of his memory just for him, and a part of him is grateful to the Londoner. Nonetheless, it's a threat and Steven's well aware of it, so he goes silent right away, not daring to speak again for the rest of their little trip down the street.

Call me weak once more and I'ma stick the next bullet up you fuckin' ass, understood?

The American grips the doorknob tight enough for his knuckles to go white from the force. He pulls the door, lets Wanda in first and blindly follows her to the second floor of Selfridges where they're welcomed by grey walls with big mirrors placed in the middle of every panel created by some kind of purple flowers draped down to the diners as well as hanging from the ceiling. There were... a lot of flowers in there, too many for Marc's liking, settled quite literally everywhere, not only on walls but also bureaus in shades of milky white and greyish baby blue, and atop windowsills, amongst the putrid green of moss. 

On their way to one of the free tables, he sees some young women dressed in an awful shade of pink dresses, one of them sitting with a superstitious smile on her face, a cup of coffee in her hands and a wicker bag put at the table, posing for pictures the other one is taking. He rolls his eyes at the sight, then catches a glimpse of his reflection in one of the mirrors - the figure, so much alike but clearly not him, is holding his hands close to his chest and looking around the place, amazement written all over his face - and he lets out a defeated sigh because of course, he should've guessed his headmate would appreciate a climate like this one.

Wanda chooses the table by the windowsill, Marc pulls out a chair for her before taking the seat opposite. He's sitting straight, averting his eyes from Wanda's exploring gaze, toying with his watch as a distraction for his shaking hands. He can't necessarily say the atmosphere looming over them is tense or heavy, it's just that he doesn't have anything to say to her; hell, he doesn't even know why he agreed to come here with her. His headmate also couldn't understand, Marc judges by the pout painted on his face that he's gracing him with from the mirror above the redhead woman.

The energy seems to have shifted, even though nothing really changed besides the air becoming lighter as if their presence got somehow erased from the consciousness of people around them. He doesn't mind any of it, in fact, it causes him to exhale deeply and lean back against the backrest.

Steven, on the other hand, has his arms crossed over his chest, an attempted - and failed - intimidation dancing across the soft edges of his face. Marc quickly decides not to spare him any attention.

Understood?! 

His own voice, dripping with rage, spitting venom mixed with unshed tears, rings in his ears, followed by the sound of a thud. It purses his lips in a thin line, deepens his frown, and even almost forces him to squeeze his eyes shut, but he fights against it; swallows it hard, sending it down to the lowest pit of his stomach.

"Good afternoon," an audibly bored greeting enters the closest space around them. Marc turns his head to his right only to see a young waitress nearing their table, and tilts it to the side at what he wetnesses next; one second the girl looks like she doesn't even care to hide tiredness crawling out of every pore in her pale skin, not a trace of professionalism in the way she's approaching them - the next she has a polite smile stretching her lips upwards and sprinkles of joy spilt across her eyes as she continues: "What can I get you today?"

"Well, I came in here with a coffee in mind, but now I think I'd rather get a cup of frothed milk with a drop of honey, please." 

Marc's neck almost snaps from him rapidly turning his head back to Wanda after he hears that same sweet tone of her voice he's started associating with her, now sounding a bit different due to the sudden change of an accent. His face betrays nothing, though, and he clears his throat when the waitress directs her focus to him.

"Tripleshot of espresso to go," he says without even a hint of hesitation, which earns him a suspicious look from the green eyes in front of him. There's something hidden in them, something Marc rarely sees - worry. Wanda throws a glance at his hands, then she looks back at his face while gesturing with a flat palm of her lifted hand for the waitress to wait a moment. "I'm not staying," Marc adds automatically before she cuts him off.

"How many of 'em have you drunk already?"

Mommyboy's gonna cry?

Steady beats of his heart are starting to pick up pace as the derision bounces off the walls of his skull, echoing mercilessly. He feels his lungs pressing against his ribs, it's painful and it makes breathing difficult, causing him to clench his fingers in a fist around the chain of his watch in a desperate need for an outlet of some sort.

Soon there are two other hands covering his own, loosening his grip and disconnecting them just so the owner can take them in her own. It's a gentle movement, her thumbs rubbing swollen knuckles as if he was about to shutter any minute from now; as if he was drowning in agony. 

Which wasn't so far from the truth, but that's something he doesn't intend to reveal.

"Yeah, we'll have two frothed milks with honey, please, both to go." With these words Wanda turns to the waitress, sending a warm smile her way. "Names are Marc and Wanda."

"I don't-"

"I'm not trained in dealing with heart attacks, Marc, and I sure a hell don't wanna witness one today," is what she answers to his protests with, cutting him off before he's even got a chance to spit out his rights.

The waitress exits the booth they're sitting in, Marc could swear he sees her flinching a few steps away from their table, her arms slacking to the position he first noticed when she approached them. Normally, it would feel weird and Marc would want to investigate. Normally, he would stand up and walk out the door without saying anything, because it would be clear to him that something was wrong and he didn't like it. Normally, he most likely wouldn't even be in such a place with a person he's only met once.

Normally. But nothing about his current state is normal, therefore he simply rolls with it. 

He can't say it's not impressive in his eyes, that she sounds so confident and the look on her face shows pure determination when his frown is so prominent it almost hurts his forehead to strain the muscles any longer. He's used to the fact that his murderous glare intimidates his opponents to the point they trail off in what they're saying and avoid his eyes, looking for the easiest way out of the confrontation. She - Wanda - keeps her head up, eyes never leaving his when she asks:

"How many sleepless nights do you have behind you?"

Marc doesn't answer. Instead, he makes himself more comfortable in his seat, taking his hands away from underneath hers, placing one of them on his lap and pinching at the moss with the other. All while pretending he hasn't noticed healthy skin on his knuckles that were very much covered in wounds up until a moment ago.

"What's with the accent?" he asks after staring her up and down. The smile on her face turns from genuine to bitter in a matter of seconds and she lowers her head as she lets the question fully sink in, at least that's what Marc think is happening. She doesn't respond for a moment which leads him to elaborate his thought, "Clearly, you ordered with an American accent but when no one's around but me, you speak with a different accent, a bit harsher one, Slavic-sounding. Bulgarian, perhaps?"

Sokovian.

"Sokovian." Both Wanda and Steven answer at the same time, at which Marc's brow arches slightly. He nods, signing for her to continue. "I'm keeping their minds in a fog, so they don't freak out when they see me. But- ahh, even though I can control what they hear and how they react to it, with the way they hear it it's always a gamble. American accent helps with staying incognito, it's umm, the final self-defence mechanism."

The man hums in reply. For a moment he seems deeply immersed in thoughts, not saying anything, only picking at the moss, and she waits patiently, with fingers of one of her hands fiddling with a button of her blouse.

"So, you're a witch, huh?" He doesn't sound like anything, really, when he queries. His tone is monotone, flat just like the expression he's wearing on his face. Not a spark of freight in the brown of his eyes, not a twitch of snark pulling at the corners of plump lips. A facade impossible to penetrate is what his mien resembles. On the outside, the inside is a whole different story; in his chest, the heart is hammering against the hardness of his ribcage, bruising with each drop of blood pumped from it, the lungs are refusing to give out too much oxygen to the body already rotting with guilt, causing shortness of breath, and the nerves abusing their power over the muscles of his legs, sending tremors down his foot. He receives sensation after sensation telling him Steven wants him to leave the place and hide in the safety of their flat, but he forces himself to sit still, simply because he isn't believing in the concept of safety this day. 

His eyes abandon the few freckles sprinkled on her cheeks in favour of the waitress entering their booth with two different-looking paper cups. He thanks her on behalf of both of them, then watches as Wanda takes her cup and then takes a few lazy sips of her frothed milk. His question rests between them unanswered long enough for him to start forgetting it even has been spoken aloud, but finally, she parts her lips in response,

"Does it matter to you?" a question to a question, not really polite of her, he thinks to himself and his eyes soften just a tad at that thought.

"No."

"I am," she replies properly this time. Then adds, "but you already knew that, didn't you?"

"Yes." He feels his headmate huff at him for lying like that, it's so dramatic that he can almost visualise the Britishman's eye-rolling him with his arms folded against his chest. "You said them, not you. Means my mind is being spared?"

"Yes." A short reply is meant as an echo, he gets this much from the gentle smile she serves him right after. A mimicry of his previous response, as she elaborates without him loosening her tongue. "I don't have to. When we first met, you didn't panic, you didn't run away screaming, or call me a monster worse than Thanos, even though you were scared. You still are, yet you're here talking to me, knowing full well I could torture or kill you."

"M'not scared."

Yeah, sorry... She's prolly talking about me.

Marc resists the urge to deepen the frown pulling his brows down, instead, he rubs the skin under the tail of his right brow with his left thumb, using this movement to cover up his panicked glance at his ankle as a direct result of a sudden feeling of restraint squeezing the bone there. Painful memory fades away as fast as it's become vivid in his mind, shocking him to the core with its intensity, leaving his lips even more dried and his soul even more shattered.

"Been both tortured and killed before," he says after clearing his throat to avoid the risk of something in the tune of a squeak ripping out of it instead of his usual low voice. "Got bored, came back." There's an obvious nonchalance slow-dancing on the tone he uses while saying it, and he knows he seems relaxed as ever, even if the experience he's referencing couldn't be more traumatizing if it tried.

Wanda squints at him. She says nothing as she takes in the sight of him, studies his face again, and for a moment he finds himself fearing for her to read his true colours. Then she visibly relaxes, leaning back in a more comfortable position, crossing her arms loosely enough to still be able to drink her sweet milk. He tries some of his - it's a bit too sugary for his liking, but overall the milky foam tastes quite good, its light form tickling his palate before warming his throat. He won't ever admit it and he most likely will never drink it again, so he lets himself enjoy the drink for a minute.

"So..." with it, she initiates a question that he already knows he won't like. "Are you gonna tell me how long it's been since you last had a good night's sleep?" 

There's this soft smile playing on her lips again to let him know she means well and it's working because he knows she has good intentions behind what she wants to know of him. All the same, he still can't gather up the energy to reciprocate all that. That's why he decides to get up, finally listen to his mate, his lad up in his head, cosily sitting right behind his eyes.

"M'fine," he states for the nth time that day as his fingers curl around the paper cup, with 'Mark' written lopsidedly on it, and lift it, so he can take it with him. His other hand reaches down the front pocket of Steven's chinos to fish out two banknotes and put them on the table. 

Before he takes his first step, though, Wanda closes her own, velvety-smooth hand around his wrist, with one simple yet not too intrusive gesture stopping him in his tracks for a moment she doesn't intend on wasting.

"Let me help you, for your friend's sake if not for your own."

Both he and Steven raise their brow at her words. The latter says something, Marc knows he does, even if it's not audible around his skull, he just senses it. He, on the other hand, just licks the left corner of his lips in preparation to speak. The exchange then happens too quick.

"What friend?"

"You have so many that you have to know the name?"

"I don't have any, that's how I know you're lying."

While she remains silent, he takes the time to properly think his own words through, and let them sink in. He means it, he doesn't have any friends. Always a lone wolf, always unwilling to trust anyone, always too hurt already or locked away from people considered normal by social standards. He had a friend; Layla was the closest person he ever let near him, the closest person to a real friend. Could've been just that if he wasn't the way he was, keeping his distance, hiding things from her, keeping secrets so crucial for their happiness buried in his heart just like Ammit's tomb was buried in the sands of Ancient Egypt. Losing her in Cairo just like he's lost her father.

"Layla," he hears from the outside of his mind which snaps him back to reality. Unspoken question writes itself all over his face while he's drowning in the pale emerald of her eyes, utterly lost for words and on the edge of a stroke caused by shock only. "You wanted the name, right?" is the question she raises next, a bit too early for him to fully comprehend it. "Now, will you let me help you?"

Marc stares her up and down. His thoughts are racing, each one weakening him, each one deafening the outer world so he'd ultimately be left trapped within his own scarred mind, away from the sense of mortality, of humanity.

Steven lets out a sigh.

Chapter Text

I've been thinking lately of coming back to this little idea. Not sure whether it's a good decision or not.

So, let me just shyly ask - would anyone be interested in continuation?

let me know :)