Archive of Our Own

“We’ve barely got back here,” the voice continued, still filled with some kind of hope that Marc was about to shatter. Maybe it was naivety, he thought to himself. “Got somewhere to go already?”

The American sighed, then straightened his back, and snapped to attention like an obedient soldier. He didn't dare look at his inquisitor, instead, he focused on the bookshelf headboard in front of him - the books resting there, full of stories to be discovered, tempting with the smell which many people would compare to mold, whereas through his very own bookworm’s nostrils, he could easily pick up the earthy scent with a hint of vanilla.

“New York,” he replied after a while, the sound of it flat and shallow as if he was talking to a stranger and not the person he’d known for nearly his whole life. “I’m moving to New York,” he added when not a word was said in response to the revelation, “with Layla.”

“New Yo-” Steven began but trailed off before he could fully repeat what he’d just heard. His high-pitched tone sent thousands of needles into the other’s heart, the clench of his sharp jaw was the best sign of it. 

One particular book caught Marc’s eye; a hardcover edition so old that the binding was threatening to fall apart at any given moment, holding together about a ton of pages of a book that he’d spent ages tracking across the whole of Europe just because his British alter had once mentioned desiring it for his private collection. The museum security guard wasn’t listening then but Marc was and he made a mental note of the title to later on snatch it up, almost staining it with a droplet of his target’s blood that drained off his wrist in a small antique shop in that one Georgian town. It’d been in the apartment’s library for quite some time now but when he looked at it at that moment, he couldn’t notice even one speck of dust on it. The corner of his lips shifted upwards for just a second at that, before it returned to his typical downturned mouth.

He wasn't sure how much time had slipped by between Steven’s words and the moment he found himself in, but fingers wrapping around his bicep snapped him back to reality with a soft pull directed more at getting his attention, rather than actually turning him around to face the person he was soon going to abandon. He turned on his own, anyways, and met a face drained of colour, with a lost frown of brows and dark chocolate shade of eyes trained on him, looking for answers to never voiced out questions in the pores of his olive skin. 

Steven obviously must’ve not found them, because after a minute he parted his dried lips.

“I’m not throwing you out, Marc,” he muttered in the space between them, the betrayal lurking from behind this statement made the atmosphere thick enough to cut it with a pocket knife he’d spotted peeking out from one of the socks worn by the man sitting at the foot of the bed close to his duffle bag. “Sure, the apartment may not be designed for two people that are not a couple, yeah, but, like- I mean-” he stammered, then blinked lazily and inhaled deeply, “we can put another bed in here, I can sell this one, so there’s more space for two-three beds, sorry mate,” at that, a lightbulb seemed to have lightened up above his head, suddenly reminding him of a cup of tea he was holding. “There you go,” he offered with an awkward smile, handing the cup to the man seated on the mattress. 

Having scratched the side of his nose, he returned his attention to Marc who observed that short interaction with a sharp stare.

“Steven…” began the American, yet his attempt was cut in before he got the chance to say anything else.

“Or, I could, I dunno, I have this curtain, yeah? We could buy some more and separate the living and sleeping area into three make-shift bedrooms, perhaps?”

“Steven…” He repeated, absentmindedly putting his hands on his hips. He was exhausted, his slightly slouched posture betrayed his state and made it noticeable for anyone to see and judge him. At least anyone military trained which Steven was not, obviously, therefore he simply continued his babbling. The man on the bed, though, studied his whole body for a split second prior to cupping the tea with both of his gloved hands, careful not to spill a drop while scooting toward Marc slowly as if ready to insure his possible fall.

“Or, or I can just-I can just sell the place, can’t I? I mean, the lease is probably in your name, innit, so I’d need your help with that,” the Londoner thought out loud as he ran a hand through his hair to physically stop himself from fidgeting with the sleeves of his pyjama top. “Then we could buy a flat more suitable for the three of us. Or four, if only Layla would be down for it, I wouldn’t dare exclude her.” A nervous chuckle ripped from his throat as soon as he realised his mistake, immediately raising both of his hands in a defensive gesture.

“It’s not about the flat!” Marc’s low grumble roared among shelves bending under the weight of books; the sound of it dry enough to suck in the air around them and leave them breathless. In response to that he met two identical, yet vastly different expressions - brows knitted together with widened eyes were seemingly care-soaked on one man’s face, whereas on the other’s they showed a kaleidoscope of gloomy feelings that he had never wanted to see in him. “Not another move from you,” he warned, using the last remnants of intimidation as he pointed at his mirror image sitting on the bed right after he caught him putting away the cup of tea and getting even closer to him than he was before. 

The stranger pressed his lips together at that but complied nevertheless, with a nervous tic similar to Steven’s but instead of fiddling with cuffs, he tugged at his glove made out of a thin, black, soft-looking material. He focused his attention on his own ministrations, causing the flat hat covering the crown of his head to cast a shadow over his face.

Marc let out an exasperated sigh, then turned back to Steven who still wore the same expression, almost as if time had stopped for him the moment he had heard of Marc’s decision.

“It’s not about the flat, Steven,” he started by repeating himself, “m’just… I, with Layla, we…’ve been doing some thinking on our way back from Cairo.”

“Oh, have you, now?” the Englishman snorted resentfully. “Care to share what you’ve come up with? I mean, besides that apparently, we’re moving to another bloody continent without you giving me heads up at the very least, of course,” he added while a light shade of flush crept up his face. 

Under other circumstances, Marc would’ve found the scene worth being painted by the greatest artist and put in art galleries, with the way the sunlight was falling through the windows and gilding the smooth skin of his collarbones, and with how water was collecting at the bottom lids of his eyes glancing up to the ceiling. Right then and there, though, that sight made the muscle in his jaw twitch. For a minute he was opening his mouth to say something and then closing it again, a movement that converged him to Steven’s beloved, but dead, fish Gus. And to the fake one he bought right after he’d realised that the fish shouldn't have been floating upside down in the tank, but honestly, it wasn’t special enough to remember it instantly.

“Only I. Am moving.” Short sentences went past his lips, at last, said in hushed tones as if he were afraid the world would explode if he said it any louder. At that Seven zeroed in on him again, somehow his face wasn’t scrunched up the way Marc thought it would after hearing those words.

“Sorry, what?” the British alter demanded prior to sniffing silently. 

There it was, Marc said to himself, his mind weirdly calm and empty now that there were two physical bodies for each of them. Three, even- he reminded himself, once again taking one quick look at the Marc Deluxe Edition now including head and hands accessories. The hardest part of his plan, the one that had kept him sleepless ever since getting on the plane from Cairo. With some modifications, he must’ve admitted, considering he had never in his wildest dreams thought of a scenario in which he and Steven would be in two bodies outside their head, in the real world, that was. Except for a few years during his childhood, when he had imagined them playing together. A bitter-sweet memory he struggled with holding back the smallest smile bringing up.

“Let me explain, okay-”

“Yeah, alright, but first, can you repeat what you said earlier?” Once again Steven disrupted his train of thought, this time also catching the third man’s eye and making him follow the most subtle of his moves, all while casually rubbing his left eye with the navy blue sleeve. “M’sorry, I didn-didn’t quite understand you.” He looked apologetic when he admitted that, a little embarrassed, too. 

The gesture that followed was quick, but Marc still noticed that his arm wasn’t the only one that jerked towards Grant’s in desperate need to comfort him.

“Either ya slurred or I’m just way more tired than I thought I was. Which I am, oh, my days, I’m totally knackered.” As if he wanted to prove his point, he yawned loudly, not even bothering to cover his mouth. After that, he shuffled his feet across the wooden floor, and his hand went straight behind his head to stroke the nape of his neck as he continued, “I’m aware of your past in the army, Marc, but honestly, those days are behind you, you can lose the habits now. Like waking up at ungodly hours when I don’t need to sprint to work risking being put on inventory. Funny, come to think about it now, I dunno why I even could’ve been arsed doing so - it was Donna’s hobby, putting me there, don’ya think?”

“Only I am moving to New York, Steven,” Marc let out in an octave between his normal voice and something that might be considered his yell. Despite rising it, the tone was still firm and commanding; that was one of the things Steven was jealous of sometimes - it wasn’t high-pithed as his would’ve been in a situation like this. It felt well-controlled, even though Marc most likely hadn’t intended to raise his voice at him.

“What the-” Steven trailed off the moment he fully registered the other’s words. The fall and rise of his chest were rapid which must’ve concerned even him because he put his hand to his chest and squeezed the fabric there. The room started spinning for him, they could tell that from the way he swayed back and forth- a movement nearly microscopic, yet it was all Marc needed to reach for his forearm and steady his shuddery headmate. ”What-”

“Carajos.”

The word was quiet, small. It’s got a wavy feeling to it, tinted with diffidence, yet able to get under their skin in no time and leave a tingle there to spread across the two bodies at the same time they both directed their gazes at its sender. A man looking like Marc had been copied and pasted, with only two things that differentiated the two of them - a deep, silvery-white scar on the bridge of his nose, and hair more loosely slicked back than Marc’s, with curls a bit more defined and bouncy. Dressed in a plain white t-shirt that hugged his torso and biceps with soft cotton, and black trousers with elastic bands curling around his ankles. He was barefoot- that was the most confusing part. Marc and Steven had kept the looks they had been given in the Duat, therefore the only rational thought appearing in their minds was that the third man had also remained in his. The thing was, their shoes were sitting beside the bed, the third pair, though, was nowhere to be seen.

He was sitting calmly at the foot of the bed, his left knee only inches away from Marc’s leg, his ankles crossed, hands folded together in front of his crotch now that he wasn’t holding the mug Steven had given him.

The scent of old books hit Marc’s nostrils again. It was a nice scent, he concluded, the notes of vanilla brought warmth to his temples in an attempt of calming his nerves. He found himself grateful for that.

“Exactly. What the carajos, Marc?” With that, Steven brought Marc’s mind back to the apartment, back to his very own body. The mercenary blinked at his counterpart, he blinked back at him. They both drew their lower lips between their teeth, however, the same gesture meant something entirely different; Steven’s was an expression of a letdown, and Marc’s was giving away his desire to run the furthest he could from the apartment. “Thank you..?”

“Jake,” the third man said in the same tone, barely audible and hesitant. Dark eyes he had trained on Marc still, only leaving his face when Steven directly addressed him. Intent on him the same way Marc was intent on Steven.

“Jake. Pleased to meet ya. I’m Steven.” In addition to his words, he patted his chest lightly, sent him a gentle smile before his head dropped a little and he winced. “You need socks,” he announced then, shifting towards the chest of drawers, in which he kept his underclothes neatly folded, without even waiting for Jake’s reaction. 

“Steven-”

“And I,” he continued, obviously choosing disturbing Marc for his today’s favourite thing, “need tea, then you can explain to me how the carajos did you manage to lie to Taweret and Osiris. I mean, I get that I’m easy to be told porkies, sure, wha’eve’, yknow, but the actual gods? That’s some real talent, lad.”

Babbling sharply, Steven made his way from the drawers to Jake, and from Jake to the kitchen to put a kettle on and scaut the place in search of his least favourite tea. His accent got drastically escalated by the nerves burning in irritation in his system, half of what he was saying Marc could barely understand. Luckily for the American, the sound of his voice was constantly overlapped by the loud and glitzy thacking and clinks of objects being tossed, pulled or god knows what else, so he could blame Steven for not getting the whole thing. On the other hand, he knew it was all his fault and that he shouldn’t have expected anything less than that. 

Steven was hurt, there was no telling otherwise. He was hurt, he certainly felt betrayed, and if he hadn’t known any better, he would’ve punched him like he had when he’d discovered the truth about their childhood. He’d got every right to be pissed at him, that Marc knew. It didn’t change the fact that the mercenary wanted to avoid the talking and get to the airport already, so he wouldn’t have to watch his alter breaking.

He sighed, then sat on the opposite side of the bed to the one taken by the third man - Jake. With one leg bent and lying on the mattress, he faced the living area of the apartment; that way he could wait for Steven to emerge from the kitchen while also keeping an eye on the man, ready to defend himself and his alter in case the stranger wanted to attack. Nothing like that ever happened, though, and he caught himself runkling the fabric of his pants’ pockets as his hands were itching to clench into fists the whole time Steven spent on making himself tea and dragging his legs back to the sleeping area, blowing the hot drink on the way there. Jake didn’t do anything dodgy, in fact, he probably didn’t even move an inch, both before Steven’s return and after, when they talked. 

And they talked for a long time, actually - the sun shifted in the sky, moving the shadows cast on the wooden floor a little bit toward them, fake Gus blew hundreds of tiny bubbles in his tank, and Jake managed to drink his tea. 

They talked and he listened, a silent observant he had been his whole life, a fly on a wall.

They talked. Mainly Marc was the one doing the talking, of course, but Steven - the attentive listener- threw in a question from time to time or something to encourage his counterpart to elaborate. 

They talked. About the great battle in Cairo. About Layla. About her talk with Marc. About their decision to give their marriage another shot now that Marc was free from Khonshu (that mention was the only thing Jake reacted to, Marc noticed from the corner of an eye the way his head lowered, chin pressed to his chest, jaw visibly tightened). About the time Marc had given himself to think it through. About how hard it was for him to leave Steven. He assured him then that he would visit him every two weeks, even if that meant he would have to rob a bank to afford the flights - Steven glared at him when he said it, made him promise he wouldn’t actually do it a minute later.

They also talked about Marc’s worries, as well as his need to try and find out whether they were meant to be together or not, now that there weren’t any obstacles in their way. 

Marc apologised to Steven for abandoning him. Said he wanted to stay with him, but he also wanted to know. Steven didn’t propose going with them to New York, neither did Marc. Deep down they knew exactly it wouldn’t work for them.

The moment they were done talking, Steven’s eyes were bloodshot and glossy. He was fiddling with the sleeves of his jumper, but there was a small smile dancing at the corners of his lips when he sniffled quietly prior to saying something that broke Marc’s heart into thousands of tiny pieces.

“Can you, umm-” he began, taking a break for a split second to bite the inside of his cheek awkwardly so his voice wouldn’t break, “can you hold me… please? F-for a little bit, before you go?”

Marc’s eyes were glistening with unshed tears, if not because of the conversation itself, then due to seeing his alter fake smile plastered on his face while he shuddered. He was sure he’d see that expression in his nightmares, making him hate himself even more than he already did. 

“C’mere…” he said, spreading his arms invitingly, then closed them protectively around Steven’s hunched posture, with his chin resting on the crown of his head.

Neither of them cried, no. 

Steven was holding onto the American, his arms wrapped around the other’s waist, his fingers digging into the skin under the two layers of white clothing, his ear pressed to his chest so he could listen to the steady heartbeat and feel the warmth of his touch.

And Marc was holding the British man tightly, swaying from side to side slowly. He had his arms wrapped around the other’s back, his fingers digging into the skin under a single layer of navy blue clothing, his lips pressed to the top of his head so he could kiss the promise of his return into his brain, so Steven wouldn’t ever question it. 

They stayed that way for an even longer time. Silent as if scared to break the bubble they created around them, longing to stay far from the outer world’s reach. Yearning for each other’s closeness. Desiring each other’s body heat pressed them. Needing everything the other one could offer them. Breathing in unison, as they had always done before.

Missing themselves already, even though they hadn’t got the chance to say goodbye yet. 

And then Marc took his duffle bag, hugged his alter one last time, asked: “You gonna be alright, buddy?” while holding his chin up with two fingers, and walked out the door when Steven nodded shily, replying with: “‘M still pissed off, so you better bring some nice souvenirs from New York.”

“Sure thing.” Marc threw over his shoulder, having Steven walk him to the elevator with his eyes.

Steven stayed there with the front door open for just a tad bit longer than necessary, mentally not ready to let go of the doorknob he was clutching at. Not ready to face his life without Marc in his head, with him. Not ready to be alone again.

So, when he finally closed the door and spun on his heels to see Jake sitting in a chair at the round table in the dining area of the apartment, his face softened as a lonely tear ran down his cheek to crush into the ground.

He took one glance at the man’s emotionless face, then immediately decided he looked like he needed tea, so he rushed to the kitchen. A few minutes later he placed a colourful mug filled with hot raspberry infusion in front of him. Jake looked at it dumbstruck prior to nodding at Steven, his eyes avoidant yet so pretty, Steven thought.

“Gracias,” he offered in exchange, causing Steven to nod at him as well, right before he raised an opened bottle of red wine with a long straw put in it to his mouth.

“If anyone needs me, I’ll be trying to drown myself in the shower for the next two hours,” he said, already walking to the bathroom. Jake’s gaze followed him to the paper door, returning to the front one immediately after he could no longer see Steven.

Lost but hoping Marc would walk in through them at any minute. Drained of energy but debating whether he should go after him and ensure his safe journey. Scared and agonisingly overexposed to the outer world.

He put his tea aside, placing his crossed arms there instead to then rest his chin on them. Eyes still focused on the door while the sound of water spraying down Steven’s body was filling his ears like a lullaby. 

He stayed there, though, not daring to close his eyes for longer than a quick blink. He watched until much later, when Steven finally got out of the bathroom and came up to him, without a single word taking his flat cap off his head and putting it across his face on the table. He then ran his fingers through the slicked-back curls once, Jake could read the hesitation in that gesture without even looking at him.

“Guess it’s just you and me now, mate. He’s not going back, so… don’t stay up too late, yeah?”

Steven’s voice broke in the middle of the sentence, shaky and husky despite clearing his throat. But he didn’t care, really. He told himself he was allowed to drink away his worries with wine in the middle of the day, so he did. He was allowed to get some well-deserved sleep, also in the middle of the day, so he intended to get some. He told himself he was allowed to feel a little sad, so he did.

And from the looks of it, he wasn’t the only shattered soul Marc left in the apartment.

Jake stayed in his place in a chair at the dining table, watching the front door.