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Layla gives them space for about a week. Time for Marc and Steven (and apparently whoever defeated Harrow for them) to settle back into Steven’s life to some extent. Time for them to figure out how to exist together and share control of the body. Time enough to buy a new goldfish and clean up the apartment at least. The first two things were a work in progress.
Steven misses her. He’s only known her for about a week, so he can’t imagine how Marc feels. She was Marc’s wife first. Now she’s Marc’s wife, and Steven’s… something. They haven’t exactly worked out the details yet, but Steven really hopes it’s something.
It’s a Friday evening when she breezes back into their life like a force of nature. Steven is cooking a meal (vegan, despite Marc’s protests), and Marc is retreating into the mindscape, uninterested, when a knock on the door brings him back to the front.
“Oh, bloody hell,” Steven says, startling at the sudden noise and almost flinging his tofu out of the pan. He sets it aside, and Marc nudges him to turn off the stove, and together, they go to answer the door.
“Hi,” says Layla. “Can I come in?” She’s carrying a large bag in her arms, and her hair is pulled back, and she looks absolutely beautiful.
“Layla! Hello! Yes, come in!” Steven beams at her.
Play it cool, Steven, Marc tells him.
Steven doesn’t listen. “I was just making some nosh. Have you eaten already?”
Layla smiles. “No, actually. Is that an invitation to join you?”
Steven blushes. “If you’d like. I’m making enough for two. Well, three. Marc’s around here somewhere.”
“I was just about to ask after him,” Layla says. “I was hoping to speak with you both.”
Marc pushes his way to the front. “Hi, Layla.”
Alright, I had it in hand, Steven complains.
“Oh, there you are,” she says. She sits down at their table, and drags them over to sit next to her. She sets her bag on the table, and Marc stares at her like she might be a figment of his imagination.
“You came back,” he says.
“Well, obviously,” she says. “I’m your wife. I’m not abandoning you. Or Steven.”
Marc swallows. “Yeah?”
Oh, very cool, Steven comments. He ignores him.
“Yeah,” Layla says and reaches out to grab his hand. He takes it.
“I missed you,” he admits. “Steven did too.”
Yeah… I did.
Layla smiles. “I just needed some space to think things through. And so did both of you. Or um, all of you?”
Marc grimaces. He does not want to think about there being more people in his head, no matter what Layla says about when he and Steven blacked out.
“I’ve been doing some research,” Layla carries on. “About dissociative disorders, I mean. It’s not as uncommon as you might think.”
“There are more people like us?” Steven bursts out. “I mean, of course there would be, but still, I’ve never really thought about it—“
Marc reins him back in. “You were researching…”
“Dissociative identity disorder. Although, I think what you have might be closer to OSDD, but I’m not a psychologist,” she says.
Marc doesn’t know how to feel about that. On the one hand, it’s kind of a sweet gesture. On the other hand, he doesn’t like to feel psychoanalyzed. He’s had more than enough of that from Fake Dr. Harrow. He certainly doesn’t need it from his wife.
If his discomfort shows in his face, Layla gives no sign of it.
“I think it’s most likely that you have another alter who only fronts when it’s absolutely necessary. You were discharged from the military for an episode you don’t remember, right? I think it’s safe to assume that wasn’t Steven.”
“No, it most certainly was not me!” Steven takes over again. “If there is another one of us, I’m not sure how I feel about him. He only seems to pop out when things get really nasty.”
Layla nods. “He could be a protector. He doesn’t seem terribly friendly though. Neither of you have heard from him?”
“I haven’t,” Steven says. “Marc, what about you?”
“No. I thought it was just you and me. I don’t know anything about why I was discharged from the military, or who defeated Harrow, or those informants in Cairo.”
“That really wasn’t you in Cairo, was it? Blimey…”
“What happened in Cairo?” Layla asks.
“Steven and I were struggling with who should be fronting while I was looking for information about Harrow and Ammit’s tomb. I found some informants, but Steven didn’t like my methods and let them go. I went back for them, and well—“
“It was bloody brutal. I’m really glad that wasn’t you, Marc, because that was awful.”
Layla frowns. “Well, I hope he’s as reasonable as you two are. I have some tips for system management. I brought you some things.”
“Er—Layla? What’s a system?” Steven asks. “Actually, erm, what’s dissociative identity disorder and OSDD? And alters?”
Marc sighs internally. He supposes that’s his fault for keeping Steven in the dark for so long.
“Oh! Right,” Layla says. “So an alter is what you are, Steven. And Marc and anyone else who might be in your body. All of you together makes up a system.”
“Oh, right,” says Steven. “That’s nice that there’s words for this stuff. Not sure I’m mad keen on there being more of us… It’s a bit cosy as it is.”
“And then um… dissociative identity disorder is…”
“What’s wrong with us,” Marc interrupts. “It’s usually a response to childhood trauma. The developing brain can’t cope with reality so it sections parts of the identity off.”
“Oh. So there’s a name for it,” Steven says. “But… That means there are others! It’s not just us!”
“Okay, bud, but I don’t think any other systems were ever Avatars of an Egyptian god.”
“Could be! It’s a strange world, innit?”
“There are definitely other systems,” Layla interrupts. “Whether or not they ever met the Ennead remains to be seen. But some of what they’ve worked out might be useful for you two.”
They stop arguing and turn their attention to Layla. She rummages about her in her bag and produces…an ordinary leather-bound journal.
"What's that for?” Marc asks.
“So you’ve mentioned struggling with black-outs sometimes. The journal is for keeping track of who’s in the front, how long, what they did, any messages they need to leave for who ever comes next.”
“So we can leave notes for ourselves.”
“Yes, exactly. And if you have another alter, it might be easier for him to communicate this way instead of directly,” Layla explains. “And anyone else who comes along.”
“I wish you would stop talking about there being more,” Marc grumbles, but he takes the journal.
“Don’t mind him,” Steven says. “He appreciates the gift, really. We both do.”
Layla smiles. “Thank you, Steven.” She pulls something else out of her bag, a folded square of fabric in a clear plastic case.
Steven takes it and almost drops it. It’s not especially heavy, and the body is very in shape, but he was expecting it to be light, and it’s not.
“Is this a weighted blanket?” he asks.
“Yes, it’s good for grounding and anxiety,” she says. She pulls out a box which Steven is instantly able to recognize.
“Oh, you brought us tea!” he gushes and eagerly accepts the box.
“Yes, there’s nothing special about it. I just thought it would be nice.”
“Ah, that’s lovely. You’re lovely. Thank you, Layla.”
What did I say about playing it cool?
“Of course,” she says. “I would’ve done something like this sooner, but Marc never tells me when he needs help.”
“Oh, yeah, he’s awful about that,” Steven agrees while Marc sulks in the passenger seat. “He thinks you’re gonna leave him or something if he proves too much trouble.”
Steven! What are you talking about?
“He’s the one who left me,” Layla says pointedly.
“Hey, don’t shoot the messenger, love. Here, I’ll put him back on the phone, as it were.”
Steven cedes the front to Marc who is unhappy to find himself there. “Layla…”
“Yes?” she says and lifts one eyebrow. She’s so beautiful, even when she’s annoyed with him.
He grimaces. “Steven’s… not wrong. I like to handle things on my own because I don’t have a lot of people I can depend on. Except you. And Layla, I don’t want to hurt you.”
“It’s a little late for that.”
“I know. I’m really good at hurting people. Not so good at loving them.”
“You’re not so good at apologizing either,” she says, and he wants to flee to the back of his mind, but Steven nudges him.
That’s your opening, mate.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “For leaving. And for not telling you sooner. And for not trusting you with the truth. And all of it, Layla. If I could take it back, I would.”
She sighs and looks down at the floor. His heart stops. But when she looks up, there’s a half-smile on her face, a little sad but a little hopeful too.
“I know, Marc. I’ve already forgiven you.”
“You…?”
She what?
“I’ve already forgiven you,” she says. “I told you. I’ve been thinking and researching. The question is: are you ready to forgive yourself? Are you going to stop punishing yourself and try to be happy? Can you do that for me?”
“I—“ His voice shakes.
Steven clears his throat. “Sorry. You’ve overwhelmed him. He’ll be back in a mo’. I think his answer will be ‘yes’. He just needs to cry about it first.”
“And he can’t do that in front of me?”
Steven shakes his head. “He’s not doing it on purpose. Actually, it’s partly my fault for sticking around near the front. He probably would’ve stuck around if I’d been asleep. Here, I’ll make food, and he’ll come back when he’s ready.”
To Layla’s credit, she takes the sudden switch in stride. It feels oddly quiet without Marc near the front, so Steven fills the silence with chatter while he resumes his vegan tofu stir-fry.
“You don’t mind that it’s vegan, do you?”
“No. Marc’s not vegan, though. Is that you?”
“Yes, that’s me. Marc’s still not on board, but he doesn’t put up too much of a fuss if I do the cooking. Anyway, veganism fits pretty well with a kosher diet, so he really can’t complain too much, can he?”
And so on. The stir-fry is finished, and the table is set by the time Steven hears a voice in his head.
How long was I gone?
“‘Bout fifteen minutes,” Steven answers aloud. “We made stir-fry.”
Shit. Do you mind if I uh…?
“'course not,” he says. “Layla, Marc’s back. I’ll give you space.”
Their eyes unfocus for a moment, and then Marc clears his throat. “Sorry,” he says in a gruff voice.
Layla meets his gaze, and he tries not to panic. He swallows. “Can I, uh, have that weighted blanket?”
She beams like he’s said something incredible and tears open the packaging before draping it around his shoulders. It’s nice. Surprisingly nice.
“I want to try, Layla,” he says. “I don’t know if I can. But I want to try.”
That’s my guy.
So much for giving us space, Marc replies.
Layla leans forward to kiss his forehead. “It’s a start,” she says.