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The last thing Steven remembered, he was taking the bus home from work.
Then, he woke up at the front door to his flat with the nagging feeling someone had taken a little detour.
He rubbed at his eyes, still feeling groggy from the switch. His bag hung in a way that told him it had been Marc who had been out. His hands felt dry and crusty- unsurprising given it was pouring buckets outside. His skin got terribly dry in colder weather.
Steven closed his door and collapsed down on the sofa, face-down into the cushions. God, his head ached something fierce. He’d have to take some Paracetamol for it later, once he could summon the strength to actually make it to the bathroom. He didn’t even care that he was dripping water onto his nice couch- something he’d usually have yelled at Marc and Jake for if they’d done it.
He laid there for a few minutes, catching his breath, before he pushed himself up using his elbows. He rubbed at his aching temples and frowned when something smeared along his face.
He brought his hands down.
Oh.
Of course. They were covered in blood. Why wouldn’t they be? Even without Khonshu, Marc still had the tendency to pick fights wherever he saw trouble. He stuck his nose into everything like a curious dog, and yet he had the gall to tell Steven that he was the most dog-like out of anyone in the system.
Steven heaved a great big sigh and swung his legs over the side of the couch. His head pounded in time with his heartbeat and black dots swam through his vision like Gus III in his tank. He shook the dizziness away and stood, mentally cheering when he only swayed a little on his feet. Small victories!
Steven kicked off his mud-soaked trainers, cringing at the state they had left his poor carpet and cushions in. Whatever, that was a problem for Future Steven- or Marc. Either worked. He stepped over the little puddle of mud and padded his way around bookshelves and through the hallway, eventually reaching the washroom.
He gripped the doorframe, trying to steady himself. His heart was racing, and the switch-spaciness hadn’t gotten any better.
Maybe he was just tired.
He shook his head and turned the light on. Luckily enough, his own reflection was the only one he caught in the mirror, although it was blurry enough to where he could barely make out any details.
He frowned and shifted his gaze over to the rest of the washroom. Everything else had the same kind of blurriness and slightly double-visioned look to it. Somehow he hadn’t noticed it before. He shook his head and turned back to the mirror. He moved his hands a bit and nearly jumped out of his skin when his hands slid across the porcelain countertop.
Right, blood. His hands were covered in blood.
He should get on that.
He turned on the tap, neither noticing nor caring whether the water was hot or cold. He pumped way too little soap into his hands and began to half-heartedly scrub.
He swayed a little in place. What was he doing again..?
A wave of scalding-hot water hit his palms, and he flinched a bit. Oh, right. He was washing his hands.
Why was he washing them again?
He shook his head. He was tired. He wanted to go to sleep.
Hot water kept shooting out onto his hands, but he hardly noticed. The dark spots in the corner of his vision were much more interesting to look at. His hands were wiggling around like worms, which was funny because he wasn’t even moving them.
He giggled. He was floaty and his heart was racing and skipping every other beat, and he was sure he could smell smoke somewhere. He wondered who was starting a fire this late at night.
Was it night? Steven couldn’t remember. He should get on that.
He took his hands out of the water and held them by his sides. Water dripped onto his socks and trousers. He stared at the floor, fascinated by the way the tile rippled with every drop that hit its surface.
His chest went clammy and tight, and suddenly he was sweating and he was scared. He tried saying something, calling out to Marc or Jake or Layla, but all that came out was a slur of incomprehensible babble. He blinked harshly.
Suddenly, he lost his balance and toppled forward. He slammed into the edge of the sink, and his breath spasmed in his lungs. The spots in his vision grew bigger and darker. With the last hints of consciousness he had left, he felt himself topple sideways.
He was out before his head hit the tile.
.
.
.
When he came to again, Steven could vaguely make out some kind of pressure against his body. Something was on his face, and there was something in his hand too. The hand that didn’t hurt was being tightly gripped in someone else’s.
Wherever he was, it felt okay. Not good, not bad, just.. okay. He was swimming on the brink of consciousness and unconsciousness, barely keeping his head afloat. He could hear people talking around him, but words had lost all meaning, and that was okay.
He was being jostled around, like he was in some kind of vehicle. There was shouting. Steven furrowed his brow.
“Mn,” he slurred, shifting his head to the side.
A hand came up and stroked along his forehead, brushing his itchy curls out of his face. He let out a shaky sigh.
“-shus?”
“Hngh?”
“Mr. Spector? Are you with us?”
Steven squeezed his eyes shut. He was starting to come into awareness more and more, and he could feel the nausea churning in his gut and the pounding in his head. His muscles were cramped and sore, like he’d just run a thousand miles.
He frowned. If he’d run a thousand miles, that meant Gus hadn’t eaten in a long time.
“G’s?” he slurred.
“What was that, sweetheart?”
The hand came back to his forehead and stroked gently. Steven hummed. The cool fingers were sapping out some of the pain like an ice pack. They felt familiar. Safe.
“G’s? D’fee’ G’s?”
There was a noise, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “Yes, I fed Gus, don’t worry.”
Steven sighed. Good.
“Mr. Spector, do you know where you are?”
Steven frowned at the unfamiliar voice. Before he could cut in with his own input, the familiar voice answered for him.
“He might be going by Steven right now,” it said.
“Alright then. Steven? Can you tell me where you are?”
Steven squinted, trying his hardest to rack his brain for information. He’d.. he’d been on the bus, and then he’d woken up at home. And he’d sat on the couch for a while, and he couldn’t remember anything else after that. He couldn’t remember leaving, so he must have been at home still.
“H’me?” he muttered.
“Can you tell me what day it is today?”
That was easy. They’d had Mexican food at work today. “T’sd’y.”
“Steven.” The voice was a lot clearer. Steven’s vision swam for a moment before a face came into focus, leaning over him.
“L’yla,” he murmured, breathing a sigh of relief.
Layla smiled at him. She looked sad. “Steven, honey, we’re on our way to the hospital.” He must have looked confused, because she continued. “You had a seizure.”
“You did,” the unfamiliar voice said. “It lasted longer than a few minutes, so we want to make sure you’re okay.” A masked face came into his field of vision, holding something Steven couldn’t quite make out. “Can you tell me- do you have Epilepsy?”
“No?”
“Any history of seizures? Family members, maybe?”
“Don’ thin’so.”
“I’ve never seen him have a seizure before,” Layla said. Her thumb stroked over his knuckles.
“That’s definitely worrying then.” The person above him walked away for a moment, still talking. “Did you hit your head today, maybe?”
“Dunno.”
“He hit his head on the floor, but I’m not sure if he hit his head before that.” Layla’s hand stroked through his hair. “Is he gonna be okay?”
“I don’t know. It’s too early to tell.” The person came back into view.
Steven’s face itched. He raised his hand to scratch at it, frowning when it came into contact with something hard and plastic.
“Don’t touch that,” the person said, “you’re not getting enough oxygen on your own.”
Steven whined, high and distressed. He wanted to go home. Layla’s fingers combed through his curls. “I know, I know,” she soothed, “we’ll be there soon, and then they’re gonna look at you and make sure you’re okay, yeah?”
He looked down at their conjoined hands and squeezed as tight as he could. Layla squeezed back. He wanted to go home, but Layla was worried about him. Maybe he could stick it out for a bit and let the doctors look him over? Just to bring Layla some comfort, not because there was anything actually wrong with him.
He nodded, mute. She leaned down and pressed a kiss to his forehead. Her lips were dry and a little bit chapped, but familiar. He closed his eyes.
“Alright, we’re here. Don’t go nodding off on me just yet, Steven.” Something clicked beneath him, and suddenly he was being rolled forward and down some kind of ramp. Layla’s hand let go of his. His eyes shot open.
“Layla?” His eyes searched desperately. His heart picked up when he didn’t see her familiar head of curls.
“Right here, Steven,” she said from behind him. His heart settled itself a bit.
He was still being rolled and jostled and there were doors swinging open in front of him. He tried to move but his body was strapped down to the gurney and he was alone and scared.
His breathing picked up as he was rolled down a hallway, the lines and tiles blurring past him like streaks of too-bright light. His vision was still kind of wonky and he wasn’t all there. It felt like he was in some kind of dissociative state, like he was about to switch or have a flashback, except he didn’t feel a memory inching its way forward and distorting his surroundings or the familiar press of someone else’s consciousness against his own. He was alone in a bloody hospital and something was wrong with him.
“What have we got here?” a new voice asked, walking alongside his gurney. Her face was passive, expressionless, as she looked him over.
“Marc Spector, responds to the name ‘Steven.’ Thirty-seven year old male on the Autism spectrum with severe Post Traumatic Stress. Experienced a grand mal seizure lasting approximately seven minutes upon coming home from work. Hit his head several times on the floor. Partially aware, but clearly dazed. No prior history of seizures in him or his family.”
Steven swiveled his head as best as he could, letting out a little whimper.
“Let’s get him into a room and have him checked over,” the new person said, “get him in for an MRI, order…”
Steven tuned out the rest of their conversation. He’d barely caught half of it in the first place anyways. He opted to stare at the floor instead, watching peoples’ shoes as they went by.
Suddenly, he was being moved again. They went down a few hallways and turned a few corners before they made it into a room.
Someone unstrapped the bands holding him down onto the gurney. “Alright, let’s get him into a bed- got him?”
“Yep.”
“One, two-”
Something lifted off the gurney, taking Steven with it. He tried to flinch at the movement, only to discover he couldn't- something was wrapped around his neck and he hadn't noticed. His stomach swooped dangerously at the sudden weightlessness of it all. Then, he was being placed down on a bed and whatever was holding him before was slid out from underneath him.
Something was clipped onto his finger and a cuff was fastened around his arm. Frantic beeping drowned out the commotion around him. Lights were being shone in his eyes and he was being instructed to follow fingers and count to ten and recite the alphabet and say his name and he just wanted to go home.
Steven’s breath stuttered in his chest. A tear dripped down his cheek and onto the hard mattress underneath him. Something was pressing at the edges of his consciousness, calm and insistent, and he gladly let it overtake him, feeling his eyes roll back into his head. Through several thick layers of mental glass, Steven could hear the nurses panicking and saying things to each other, but he didn’t care.
He let himself fall back into his own mind.
.
.
.
When Steven woke up again, he luckily wasn’t in any kind of hospital. He was in his old flat, familiar and safe. He could move and walk normally again. He recognised this place- it was their innerworld, their inner sanctuary where they could get away from it all for even the briefest of moments.
He padded his way forward past a pile of books and to the couch, where he proceeded to flop down unceremoniously, heaving a great big sigh.
There were footsteps from behind him. Steven didn’t even feel the need to look. He already knew who it was- something confirmed by the way their hand dropped down onto his head and ruffled his hair.
“Some time you had out there, ey corazón?”
Steven leaned his head back into the touch and closed his eyes. The hand retreated and then Jake was climbing over the back of the couch. He dropped himself down next to Steven, throwing an arm around his shoulders.
Steven didn’t hesitate to drop his head down onto his shoulder, letting Jake rub his arm with his hand.
“Lo siento. I meant to get Marc out sooner, but he was asleep.”
“Not your fault,” Steven huffed, turning his head so his face was pressed into the stiff fabric of Jake’s coat.
Jake chuckled, and Steven wrapped his arms around his torso, sighing contentedly at the feeling of his chest expanding in and out in a steady, consistent cycle. Jake’s hand moved to his back, rubbing up and down, firm and grounding.
“We had Epilepsy, as a kid,” Jake began. Steven’s arms tightened around him. “We were on meds for a while. It pretty much stopped once we moved out. Sometimes, though, we’ll still get them.” Lips pressed against the top of his head. “You’ve been too stressed recently- you and Marc. Take a break, yeah?”
Steven closed his eyes. He could do that.
Jake’s finger traced the knobs and divots of his spine. Steven shivered a bit. Jake chuckled.
“Go to sleep, corazón,” Jake said. “I’m gonna go have a word with Marc.”
“No,” Steven mumbled. “Stay.”
Jake laughed. Steven felt himself being jostled around at the movement. “I’ll stay until you fall asleep.”
Steven nodded and curled himself up against Jake. He’d had a rough day, but it was getting better.
Sleep now, consequences later.
He liked the sound of that.
He breathed, slow and deep, and let himself drift away.