Work Text:
yeah, the city lights are in our head
but we don't have to leave this bed
forget about the strange world for a minute
david cook, strange world
When Steven wakes, it’s to the gentle ticking of the wall clock and the muffled sounds of traffic outside his window. He wakes slowly, serenely, a languid stretch easing the stiffness of a long sleep from his limbs, and he clings to it for a few precious moments, that twilight moment between slumber and true wakefulness, before the temptation of a new day becomes too much.
He opens his eyes.
The room is dim, the curtains having been tugged haphazardly closed the night before. With only the gentle glow of the aquarium to provide a hint of light, the flat feels ethereal, separated from the outside world, from reality. Dream-like.
His bedmate might have something to do with that, too.
Marc slumbers still, unbothered by the shuffling of Steven’s limbs beneath their shared blankets. Steven studies him silently, still amazed that he’s allowed to do that without the aid of a reflective surface. Limbs slack and face serene in sleep, it’s the first time he’s seen Marc Spector truly relaxed and without that perpetual frown. It’s unfamiliar, to be sure, and quite strange, to boot.
It deserves further study.
Now that their bodies are their own, it’s easier to spot the differences between them - some subtle, some not. Marc is sharper, fiercer, the angles of his face hardened by years of trauma and strife. Even in sleep his brows remain furrowed, as though his troubles have followed him in slumber, and before he can second guess himself, Steven’s hand is reaching out, thumbing the soft skin between Marc’s eyes in an attempt to smooth the lines of stress away.
He lingers there, feeling Marc’s warmth against the pad of his thumb, the soft hush of Marc’s breath against the tender skin of his wrist, and his heart does something altogether uncalled for before he pulls away.
“You’re thinking too much.”
The softly muttered words give him a fright, and Steven huffs out an annoyed breath as one of Marc’s dark eyes open, amusement clear beneath the haze of sleep. “How long have you been awake?”
“Long enough,” Marc shrugs, eye slipping closed as he yawns and stretches, muscles pulling taut before easing into a languid sprawl. “S’time is it?”
Steven squints in the direction of the wall clock. “Three a.m.,” he confirms. Bloody hell, had they really slept over twelve hours? He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten so much sleep.
Their last few days had been… full, to say the least. The business in Cairo, their terrifying trip through the Duat, the penultimate battle against Harrow - it was no wonder they had collapsed as soon as they’d returned home.
Home.
There had been no discussion about it - Marc had simply followed him to the airport with little more than a bare slip of a smile and an expression born of desperate fatigue, as though there was no question about where he belonged.
They no longer shared a body; Marc could have stayed in Cairo with Layla, could have gone wherever he pleased, free of Steven and his eccentricities, free of the lies and pain and blood that had bound them together, but instead he was here, sleep-mussed and dark-eyed, peering silently at Steven from beneath a head of messy curls.
“You’re a mess, mate.” Steven doesn’t know if he’s talking to himself or Marc. Doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing, either, reaching out to push Marc’s messy curls free of his brow as though that’s just a thing he does.
Marc’s eyes slip closed, and that’s good, because Steven doesn’t know what sort of expression he’s wearing at the moment, and some time to pull himself together would be appreciated.
“S’nice,” Marc mutters, and it’s only then that Steven realizes he’s practically stroking the man’s hair, pushing his fingers through dark curls and smoothing away the knots that had formed in sleep.
He almost pulls away, embarrassment lending a noticeable warmth to his cheeks, but Marc doesn’t look displeased by the attention; if anything, he seems to relax further beneath the caress, shoulders loosening and lips parting on a sigh.
“Would you look at that,” Steven breathes, a soft laugh escaping before he can swallow it down.
Marc glances his way, mumbles, “What?”
“You’re smiling.” It’s a small thing, but it’s there, and it’s real. “Didn’t think you were capable.”
Marc scoffs, expression turning inward, melancholic in a way that reminds Steven far too much of those memories he’d seen in the Duat. “NMarc catches his eye. “Khonshu’s gone, Harrow’s not a threat, and you’re still here.”
Steven hesitates, ventures, “And that’s a good thing, innit?”
Marc releases a breath, wraps his fingers around Steven’s wrist and drags his hand down.
“It is.” His voice is low, measured, his gaze boring into Steven’s, urging him to understand. To believe him. “Steven. I thought I lost you.”
He very nearly had. Steven remembers it all with vivid clarity: Marc screaming his name, the desperation clinging to each syllable while the sand spread icy fingers over his limbs. Marc clinging to him when they were freed. Marc telling him to go.
“Me too,” he returns, and it hits him then, the reality of that fact. There had been a time where it had been all he wanted - to be free of the voices in his head, to be alone, but that was before. Before the Duat. Before the truth of his existence came to light. Before he’d watched Marc sink into himself while their mother pounded on the door, hurling those hurtful, awful words.
ot a lot to smile about, before.”
Steven swallows, fingers stilling against the crown of Marc’s head. “But now?”
Marc huffs a laugh, though there’s no actual humor in it. He slides his palm over Steven’s hand, tucks it against his cheek. The rasp of day-old stubble tickles Steven’s palm.
“M’sorry I didn’t do any of it right.” Marc’s brows furrow over those dark eyes - so similar to Steven’s own, but carrying the weight of so much sorrow, so much guilt. Lifetimes of it. “I wanted you to have a good life, tried to give you everything I couldn’t have, but - “
“Marc,” Steven coaxes, thumbing at the curve of the other man’s cheekbone. Despite no longer sharing a body, he feels flayed open, exposed. Bare. It’s a terrifying feeling, but a good one, too. “You protected me. Kept me safe, until you couldn’t anymore.” In his mind’s eye he sees Marc collapsing to the ground outside their parents’ house, sobbing, cradling his rumpled kippah to his chest. “You shouldn’t have had to handle that on your own. No one should.”
Marc’s eyes have gone red, reminiscent of that awful memory in the Duat. “I’m sorry about Mom,” he breathes.
Steven’s chest goes tight. The pain is still raw, and he knows it will take time - a lot of time - to reconcile the true memories of his mother with his own false reality of her.
“I’m sorry about Mum, too.” What she did to you, the abuses she hurled at a terrified, grieving child. I’m sorry for all of it. The words cling to his throat, wreathed in barbs, but he needn’t say them aloud. Marc hears them, and his lips tremble, his fingers sliding between Steven’s, squeezing.
They breathe in the dark for a long moment, close, closer than even their shared body had been able to bring them. The warmth of Marc’s cheek beneath Steven’s palm is familiar and yet fantastically new, and to pull away, to allow space - to allow the world - to come rushing back in feels daunting. Dreadful.
“Your hands are softer.”
“Hmm?” Steven’s voice has grown sleep-hushed, the comforting silence having driven him perilously close to dropping off again.
“Your hands,” Marc repeats, his fingertips rapping against Steven’s knuckles. “They’re softer than mine.”
With a start, Steven realizes he’s right. He had known Marc to be stronger, had felt the strength of his hands in the Duat, with Marc grasping his shoulders to yank him free of the memories he had wanted to hide, and again when they had dragged each other towards Osiris’ gate, but their texture had escaped him, until now.
He pulls Marc’s hand to the sliver of space between their bodies, curls both of his own around it, studying the grooves and lines that make up the other man’s palm. The skin there is roughened, callused by years of weapon use and fistfights, and Steven trails curious fingers over the toughened flesh, nails dragging lightly at Marc’s palm, over his knuckles and down the line of his wrist.
“Gonna put me back to sleep.” Marc’s voice has grown softer, a low rasp against his pillow. His eyes are heavy lidded, a slight curl to his lips.
“Think we’ve both earned a nice, long rest,” Steven returns, thumbing at the soft, delicate skin of Marc’s wrist, feeling his pulse jump and settle, a soothing beat. “A week’s worth, at the very least.”
He half-expects Marc to counter with a quip or some sort of vehement denial - as long as Steven’s been aware of him Marc has barely stopped for breath, let alone a few days of actual relaxation.
But Marc’s quiet, watching Steven’s slow exploration of his palm, his curled fingers, the splay of veins along the thin skin of his wrist.
Steven tugs gently at Marc’s fingers. “Oi. What’s wrong?”
“Been a while since anyone’s touched me like this,” Marc admits, and then deflects by adding, “Folks who get this close are usually trying to kill me.”
Steven swallows, curls their fingers together. “Yeah. Same here. Not the ‘people trying to kill me’ part, but.” He waves his other hand, flummoxed by his own inability to turn thoughts into words. “You understand.”
Marc huffs a breath, fond. “Yeah, Steven. I understand.” He eases his hand free of Steven’s grip, but only to reach out and push his fingers though Steven’s curls. “You deserve it, you know? I tried to help with that, but - “
Steven remembers his disastrous failed date and smiles. It feels like so long ago. “Figured that was your doing.”
Marc grimaces, but Steven merely tilts his head into the other man’s palm.
“Water under the bridge, mate,” he murmurs, and he means it. “Extenuating circumstances, and all that.”
Marc’s fingers drift over his scalp, blunt nails catching on a stray knot. Steven tries to withhold a shiver and fails. “Still. M’sorry I fucked it up for you.”
“Hmm, keep doing what you’re doing,” Steven sighs, nearly melting at the caress of strong, sure fingers through his messy hair. “And you can consider us even.”
Marc snorts, but continues, attempting to ease Steven’s curls into some semblance of order. “Don’t know about that, bud. Got too much to make up for on my end.”
Steven shakes his head. “Nonsense,” he says, remembering the pain on Marc’s face while their mother screamed at him, remembering the agony in his voice as he fell to the ground, spewing apologies to her ghost.
Remembering You are the only real superpower I ever had.
“Steven,” Marc starts, but Steven pushes his finger to the mercenary’s lips, telling him without words to hush.
The thing is - the thing is - Steven neglects to pull away afterward. He should, and he knows it - they’re already breaking the boundaries of propriety as is, in whatever form those might exist for people who had shared a body, but despite his rational mind telling him that this is enough, that he’s made his point, his body seems intent on drawing the moment out. Lingering.
“You’re soft here,” he murmurs, and how those words made it past the barrier of his throat, Steven will never know. “I mean, of course you are. Why wouldn’t you be, right? I was just - “
“Soft, huh?” Marc’s lips purse against his finger with each word, and my, they are soft, fuller now that they’re not settled into their usual thin line of displeasure, and with just the slightest give when Steven applies pressure.
What is he doing? This has to be some form of narcissism, this ogling he’s doing of Marc’s face, this heat that’s settling into his belly at the soft curve of Marc’s smile.
“Yours too, I bet.” Steven has been on the receiving end of it often enough to know when Marc is teasing him, though this isn’t the casual cruelty of a man pushed into a corner determined to snarl his way out, or the gentle ribbing of a friend after all the secrets between you have been laid bare. This is something else entirely, something that sets fire to Steven’s belly and makes his mouth go dry.
“Only one way to find out, I suppose,” he returns, his voice far too light for the riot that has become of his insides, his gut roiling in a heady mixture of nerves and anticipation.
Marc hums, fingers drifting to the back of Steven’s head where they curl within the strands of his hair. His hold is loose, easily breakable if that’s the path Steven wants to choose.
He’s waiting, Steven realizes. Waiting for Steven to close the gap, to cross over the line they’ve both suddenly settled on the precipice of.
It’s terrifying to think about bridging that gap, terrifying to think about what it will mean and what might come after, and yet Steven is moving anyway, Marc’s fingers firming within the mussed tresses of his hair, and oh.
He was right about Marc’s mouth.
Steven had leaned in expecting - well, expecting a slew of things. That the moment would be awkward, that it would feel strange, that one or both of them would give it the old college try and realize immediately that they had made a grave mistake -
And yet.
There is a strangeness to it, but only in the newness of the act and the intricacies of engaging in it with a new partner. Steven goes slow, starting with a gentle press of his mouth to Marc’s, but even that makes his stomach swoop and his lips curl into a smile.
And then Marc laughs, a soft huff against Steven’s mouth, and his eyes are so fucking warm, and god, Steven’s really in the thick of it now, isn’t he?
There’s nothing gentle about their next kiss, Marc’s fingers going tight in Steven’s hair and their mouths parting, slick and so fucking eager. Steven feels knocked loose by the hunger of it, unmoored in the wake of the heat spilling through his veins, and so he curls his fingers around Marc’s jaw in a vain attempt to hold himself together.
That seems to be the cue Marc’s waiting for; with a sharp inhale he’s heaving himself from the bed, rolling on top of Steven with such practiced ease it’s as if they’ve been doing this for years. He swallows Steven’s gasp with a kiss that feels designed to render him senseless - deep and searching, all teeth and tongue, until Steven feels so deliciously overcome he’s practically trembling with it.
It’s as if they’re joined again, fitting together like puzzle pieces, halves of a perfect whole.
It feels terrifying and exhilarating, like summoning the suit for the first time, like coming up for air out of a frozen sea and finding Marc right there with him, because Marc had come back for him, Marc had saved him.
It feels like change, like standing at the precipice of a high drop and taking the plunge without a care for what might be waiting at the bottom.
It feels like home.