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Steven’s been deep in thought all evening. He half-watches his documentary while aimlessly stirring his lentil soup, curled up in the corner like he’s hiding from his own thoughts.
Marc leans over the back of the couch on his forearms, right next to Steven. “You okay?”
Steven glances over, then looks back at his soup. “Yes.”
“You sure?”
Steven nods.
Marc gives it another few seconds. When Steven doesn’t react, he pushes off the couch. “Okay.”
He doesn’t make it back to the kitchen.
“Marc?”
“Yes?”
“It’s…” Steven grimaces. “It’s a selfish thought, really.”
“Okay.” He comes back and resumes his position. “Hit me.”
Steven’s mouth opens and shuts. Then he whispers, so quiet that Marc has to lean in a bit closer, “I liked the adventure.”
Marc blinks, brows furrowing. The adventure.
I feel like I’ve been waiting for this my whole life, he’d confessed to Layla in the desert. The adventure of it all.
“Really?” he says, urging him on. He needs more context.
Steven nods. His throat bobs. “It was nice. I mean, helping people so directly. A-And you stopped killing, which was also nice.”
Marc is quiet. Then he murmurs, “You want the suit back.”
“No! I mean, not if you don’t want it.” He looks away. “Told you it was selfish.”
“No. I see where you’re coming from.”
“Forget I said anything.”
“Steven.”
He stirs his soup. “I-I mean, we already saved the world, we don’t need to keep the suit. There are plenty of heroes. It’s best if we just leave it to others.”
Marc remembers when Steven first saw himself in the suit. He’d been caught off guard; and yet he slipped into the role without thinking, the need to protect and do good finally having an outlet. A channel. A direct place to go, missions that made him feel alive. Missions that gave him true purpose.
Marc weighs his next words carefully. “You enjoyed the suit, Steven. There’s no shame in that.”
Steven shakes his head. “It’s unfair to you.”
“What, are you gonna have this conversation for me? Give me a chance.”
“I don’t want to guilt you into doing anything you don’t want to, Marc.”
“You’re not.”
“I sort of am.”
“You’re not.” He inches closer to Steven and grasps his shoulder. “You’re better than me, Steven.”
Steven rolls his eyes. “Oh, please. Don’t start.”
“You are. You know why? Because when you first saw your suit, you were thrilled to help.” He sighs. “And I was thrilled to hurt. It was rage. It was unhinged.”
“Exactly. It’s best that we leave it in the past. You’re happy now, and that’s all that matters.” Steven stands with his bowl, kisses Marc’s cheek, then walks around the couch to the kitchen.
Marc follows with his hands deep in his pockets. “Your happiness matters too.”
“I am happy.”
“You’re restless.”
Steven pours the rest of his soup back into the black pot on the stove, then turns on the sink.
Marc hooks his chin over Steven’s shoulder and watches him scrub the bowl. The dish soap smells like pomegranate. “You don’t watch the news anymore. Or read the paper.”
“Who needs bad news?”
“You feel guilty.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m not happy.”
“I get it, Steven. You don’t need to front.”
“I’m not…” Steven trails off, rinsing the bowl.
Marc waits.
Steven turns off the water. Marc hands him the dish rag off the counter, and waits in silence as he dries the bowl.
Steven sets the bowl down on the counter with a soft, ceramic thud. “I… don’t want to take your peace away, Marc.”
Marc presses a delicate kiss to his neck and feels him shiver.
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
Steven sighs. “Don’t say something cheesy.”
“Aw come on, you like cheesy. Besides.” He hooks his arm around Steven’s waist, and smiles as he shivers again. “It’s true.”
“Alright. Let's hear it then.”
Marc presses his face into the space under his ear. “As long as I’m with you, I’m at peace.”
“Marc.”
“You’re my Field of Reeds.”
Steven tries not to smile, squirming in Marc’s tightening hold. “Marc.”
“You’ve turned me decent. You’ve given me hope. I don't dread the morning anymore. And I’ll admit, I feel better without the weight of the suit but sweetheart, I mostly feel better because of you.”
Steven turns in his arms and kisses him, holding his face. Marc holds his waist, heart racing, doing his best to show Steven how honest he’s being.
They break apart slowly, remaining close. Steven is smiling, as he should be. “You’re getting better at that.”
Marc’s brows shoot up. “At kissing?”
“No,” Steven chuckles, and pecks him again. “At being honest.”
Marc grins. “I may even have you beat.”
Steven’s hand slides down to his chest. “And… you’re sure about this?”
Marc pauses, considering. Then he murmurs, “Just promise you’ll let me know if I’m going overboard. It’s easy, you know? To just—” He slams his own fist into his palm.
Steven takes his hand and winds their fingers together. “I promise.”
Marc squeezes. “I think we can do a lot of good if we continue the whole avatar thing.”
Steven smiles, beautiful as the sun. “I have plenty of rules in mind for Khonshu already.”
“Really?”
“He won’t have complete control over you again, not if I have anything to say about it.”
Marc kisses his cheek again in gratitude. “That’s assuming he hasn’t already found a replacement.”
The lights throughout the apartment flicker.
They both look up, then at each other in surprise. Steven snaps out of it first and grabs a knife from the block on the counter. “Eavesdropping is never okay, you old vulture!”
Khonshu appears, leaning against the bookshelf Gus Sr. and Jr.'s tank with a bent elbow in all his eight foot, decrepit glory. His sepia robes billow in the still air. I knew you’d come crawling back.
Steven jabs his knife. “Shut up. It won’t be as easy this time.”
No?
“No.”
You’re assuming I haven’t already found a replacement.
Steven crosses his arms. “Do you?”
Khonshu grips his cane tighter and looks at Marc. Marc braces himself; he's known the bird long enough to see when he’s holding something up his sleeve. I warned you several times that I have candidates besides you, Marc Spector.
The window on the other side of the flat slides open. The rigged alarm goes off, beeping furiously.
Marc yanks the knife from Steven’s hand and shoves himself in front of him. Planting his feet. “Khonshu, what the hell?”
The alarm clicks off. Disabled. Silence rings out.
Marc’s grip on Steven tightens as the replacement steps through the window, then turns around to shut it back. He watches their every move with his knife angled in his hand.
White boots, but black fabric all along the legs, torso and arms. Gold crescent blades rest their chest and loaded gun holsters sit on each hip.
They turn around with their hands lifted in surrender.
“Who the hell are you?” Steven demands, with another knife already in his hand.
They pull back their white hood and unmask.
Steven gasps. The knife clatters from Marc’s hand.
Their third smirks at them, arms crossed. “Fellas. Good to finally meet you.”