Chapter Text
It was supposed to be a normal breakfast.
After everything that happened between them, it all was supposed to be normal by now. Between taking a trip through the afterlife and putting a literal god back inside Harrow’s body, they deserved that much. Just a normal breakfast.
“Steven?”
They were sitting at the little, one spaced table, Steven the one sitting in front of the bowl. The chair he sat in creaked everytime he shifted. A random playlist he had thrown on droned in the background from his phone, some sort of pop ‘60’s that kept his mind grounded inside his flat.
It looked like a guy just eating his breakfast. But it wasn’t.
It wasn’t a normal breakfast.
Steven knew that, and he knew Marc knew that.
“Steven.”
He looked up from his half eaten cereal to the mirror across from him. The frame was a rusted silver, snatched cheap from some dodgy jewelry shop downtown. It worked though, and that's all they really cared about, just like the rest of the mirrors that were littered around the flat. Both new and old.
Steven’s reflection looked tired, eyebrows knitted and lips set in a straight line. It spoke gentle words that were not Steven’s. “Groceries. We gotta get groceries some time soon, buddy.”
The brit just hummed, poking at the organic corn flakes. They’d gone soggy and had become unappealing to eat a long while ago. He wasn’t sure why he was still sitting, he hadn’t taken a bite out of them in quite a bit.
“It’s seven thirty, if you wanna catch the bus then you should go,” Marc said.
Steven remained seated. Marc’s tired sigh reached his ears.
It was a sound that had been getting more frequent over the last two weeks, and more prominent as well. Marc had managed to get Steven his job back at the museum through a lot of convincing, pulling strings, and fake accents. Donna was just as insufferable about it, maybe more so now, but he couldn’t have been more grateful.
Steven was grateful. He truly was.
He knew that Marc had been running around trying to get them back into an acceptable living situation again. Steven told him he didn’t have to, but Marc was insistent that it was his responsibility. So, after a bit of reluctance, he didn’t bother with the amount of work papers or rent that was strewn across the counter inside the kitchen.
“Steven—”
He stood up before Marc side anything else, swiping his bowl and dropping it in the sink.
Steven grabbed the jacket that he hung on the back of the wooden chair and threw it on. The fabric was soft, worn in all the right places so that his form could fit into it perfectly. Marc never seemed to understand his fondness of it, but that was because he always held the body tighter, higher, more confident. It didn’t properly fit that way.
“Mirror?” Marc had jumped from the mirror at the table to the one just above the sink. The American nodded to the compact pocket mirror resting on the counter, discarded just last night.
Steven stuffed it in his breast pocket and walked over to the coffee table in the living room. He grabbed the strap of his messenger bag and slung it over his shoulder, securing it reassuringly. The phone was swiped into his hand as well, the soft drawl of Elton John stopping short as he turned off his playlist, leaving the space in eerie silence.
He casted a final glance over the flat, glossing over the bookshelves, his unmade bed, and the aquarium of Gus 2.0 and C-3PO’s tank.
It was Marc’s idea to name the second fish that, not Steven’s.
There were four locks on the door. Each were different models and different shades of metal, but what they all had in common was that the package they came in advertised high security. They were affordable, kept Steven safe, and that was all he really cared about.
As Steven closed the door to his flat and walked down the hallway to the lift, he already felt his mind begin to wander.
Or, well, it was never there in the first place.
Ever since the events that happened in Cairo —and no matter how hard he tried to— he couldn’t seem to fit some sense of normalcy back in his life. How did you even do that after fighting a crocodile lady and her crazy followers? Normal people didn’t go through that stuff.
And it wasn’t normal. Steven still can’t find himself shaking the idea of being watched. Khonshu wasn’t a part of their life anymore, but that also meant the god’s protection wasn’t either. They were on their own now.
He’s never had a thought that felt so relieving and terrifying at the same time.
______
Steven was back behind the register of the gift shop, on the outside looking in on the world he wanted to be in.
At least that part of his life had never changed.
The tour guides pulled their group’s attention from one artifact to the next. He caught sight of Dylan, an ecstatic smile slapped across her face as she answered a little girl’s question about an Egyptian palette they passed by, encased in glass. Her hands waved in front of her face and the girl shrieked excitedly, bouncing on her heels.
“Hey, Steven?”
His eyes drew away from Dylan back to the pocket mirror, which he had rested beside the register. It was open, and Marc was staring at him from the top piece of glass, slightly worried. It was a look that Steven couldn’t seem to shake from the American.
He hummed, grabbing another box from behind the register and shuffling through its contents as Marc spoke again. “What’d you think about heading out after work today?”
Steven was already shaking his head, and Marc jumped to continue.
“No, no, just listen for a second, alright? I was thinkin’ of going a little further downtown anyways, maybe there’s a restaurant we could eat at or something. I don’t know.”
Steven’s hand hovered over the heads of a few delicately carved pottery inscribed with Egyptian hieroglyphics. He knew what Marc was doing. He wanted Steven out of the flat, which by extension, meant himself as well.
He couldn’t exactly remember the last time he had gone out and simply enjoyed himself. It was obviously before their trip to Cario, back when he was Steven Grant of the Gift Shop and only just Steven Grant of the Gift Shop. Back before he had truly learned to ‘share’.
Marc’s voice was quieter, expecting. “So?”
Steven’s eyes trailed back up to the mirror, a slow ascend. There was a soft draft coming from the vent above his head that was blowing his curls in front of his eyes. It was why he always wore a jacket coming into work. He learnt his lesson after catching a cold twice in under two weeks.
He shrugged. Marc sighed again.
“Nothin’? You don’t wanna do anything? What about tomorrow?”
Steven was quite satisfied with holing up in his flat after work. He didn’t have to go out and pretend he was a normal civilian, he didn’t have to give a nod to passerbyers, he could just be himself. He could sleep, he could make a late dinner with the limited food in his fridge—
The box of pottery almost tumbled off the counter, but he caught it just in time.
Oh, bollocks.
Marc was going to make him go out to the store later. Steven’s been putting off getting groceries for quite a bit now, and he knew the American must’ve been tired of the plant-based food. No shit he’d want to go out and eat somewhere that at least had some substance.
“Stevie, those were supposed to go in inventory.”
Marc groaned his annoyance for Steven. “God, does she have to talk to you every morning?”
Steven jumped as Donna’s arm dropped onto the marble counter. He looked up at her past his strands of hair, watching her chew that aggravating piece of gum that she somehow always had in her mouth. Her eyes weren't staring at him however, instead at the bowls and cups littered around the register.
“You’re quiet today.” When Donna glanced up at his lack of response, he spotted her small frown. It almost made Steven crack his stupor. His boss never showed any concern for him before. “That’s rare.”
Steven just ran a hand down his face and began to put the pottery back inside the box. It was always these small, minuscule moments that happened during work that seemed to ruffle his mood the wrong direction for the rest of the day. He wasn’t sure what he’d let them bother him so much, especially since it’s only been recently.
Donna dropped her arm over the box’s flaps just as he was about to close them. “You know what? I’ll get someone else to deal with it, worry about your shift.”
Oh.
He blinked, watching her pick up the box from the counter and carry it out of the gift shop. An unsure noise from the pocket mirror pulled Steven’s eyes back to the top of the register. “You sure you’re okay?”
He was starting to get tired of Marc’s insistent worrying. The stress wasn’t any good for the body, and for all he knew, they’ll find silver strands on their scalp before they turn forty.
Yes, Steven wanted to scream at him, yes, I’m perfectly fine.
Instead, he clamped the mirror shut and tucked it back inside his breast pocket.
______
His mood, surprisingly, had improved after an hour of checking out a diversity of customers.
Steven would usually give them a smile and small talk as he scanned their purchases, all too eager to brighten his day. Now though, the best he could manage was a weak upturn on the side of his mouth. Sometimes the customers would try to speak with him, and all he would provide was a small nod.
There was a moment where he had a small opening to relax. It was just a family of four —parents and two boys— browsing the shelves in the far back of the gift shop, so Steven found it appropriate to pull the mirror out again. He opened the shell to reveal an unamused Marc.
“Is shoving me in your jacket gonna be a thing now?”
Steven set him back on the register and crossed his arms on top of the counter. His finger traced along the random pattern on the marble, following the intricate swirls of warm gray. He wondered how he hadn’t worn an indent on the edge yet.
Marc mirrored his movements, his hands tensely resting on his sleeves. It was similar to Steven and wasn’t at all at the same time. Marc looked better in the jacket. He was more defined, looked far more sure of himself, and was everything Steven wasn’t.
“What time is it?” Marc asked.
Steven casted a fleeting glance over to the stationary clock resting behind the counter. The hour hand was grasping at the ten, which was disorienting. He thought it would have at least been sometime close to noon. Time was trudging on slower than he thought.
Steven held the small clock to the pocket mirror, watching Marc’s shoulders drop. The American seemed to share the same sentiment apparently.
“Um,” Marc said smartly, “Okay. You just want me to shut up until your break then? Kinda seems like— y’know.”
Seems like what?
Steven quickly shook his head. Where’d he get that idea from? He only put the pocket mirror away just so he could get himself settled into the monotonous repetition of checking people out of the store. Marc was just helping him pull through it, if anything.
That was the one thing he didn’t miss from before. Everything was so quiet back then. Steven hated silence. He couldn’t function with it constantly breathing down the back of his neck. Marc filled that vacant hole in the back of his mind, engaging through his reflections without Steven having to say a single word.
The family had inched closer to the register now, causing Steven to discreetly move the mirror out of view and behind one of the display cases. He tried posing another halfhearted smile as they laid their purchases out on the counter.
And then allowed his grin to fall.
“Alright?” The father greeted him, but Steven wasn’t listening. He was staring down at the counter, his eyes on one of the several items they had picked out from the shelves.
It was an hourglass. They’ve had tens of them on the shelves in the back, and even more of them back in inventory. The caps were a cedar wood coated in polish, each with the words The Department of Ancient Egypt and Sudan along the edge. But that wasn’t what he was fully focused on.
It was the sand inside of it. For some reason, when the mother set it down, she had turned the glass on its head, letting the grains spill to the bottom. It was the newer version of one of the souvenirs that he usually glossed over inside storage, finding the older ones far more appealing to look at.
But Steven was bloody entranced by the trinket.
The sand was still pouring out of the top dome, and he was certain the father was saying something to him, but he couldn’t hear it. All Steven could see was the grains spilling from behind the glass and onto the counter, an amount that shouldn’t have been trapped in the two domes in the first place. It was too much. Too much—
“Steven?”
Steven!
Marc!
The sand was suffocating him, seeping into the wrinkles of his jacket and irritating the skin on his arms. His body was stiffening like a statue, hard and unresponsive. A cold chill raced down his spine and rooted itself to the dunes that had latched themselves to his knees.
“Steven!”
Wait! Taweret, stop the boat!
Steven was dying. He was a trapped soul. He should be dead.
How stupid of him.
The Duat was never going to let him out, Osiris’s kindness be damned.
Steven recalled the fearful eyes of the two boys before he succumbed to the insistent pull of the sands.
______
Marc narrowed his eyes at the business card that was pushed in front of him.
The HR officer clasped his hands together on the glass table, catching his suspicion. “Just for reference, you don’t have to take it up, but this has been a common occurrence for you in the past few months. Your coworkers are worried about you.”
“Donna’s just worried I’m driving away customers. She doesn’t care,” Marc muttered, soft but still intelligible. Exactly like Steven’s voice.
The officer gestured to the card. “Then maybe this could give you someone that can help with that.”
Marc tentatively reached to pick it up, his gaze flickering between the man and the printed words. A feeling of disgust churned in his stomach as he read the enscripture of someone’s name, and then the title of psychologist.
What. The fuck.
“I don’t need therapy, ” he snapped, slamming the business card back down on the table. “I don’t need help. I’m perfectly fine how I am.” He just barely caught the slip of his accent, covering it up by clearing his throat.
Marc leaned back in his chair and ran a hand down his face. He needed to calm down. A British accent was hard to hold up, let alone an angry one. He’s never heard a pissed off Brit before, so Marc wasn’t sure how he’d replicate it.
“Steven, as much as I’d love to agree with that, I simply can’t. This is merely an offering for you to take. . .one that I truly suggest you do, if I were you. There are even insurance options available that can cover sessions.”
They were being offered therapy. He couldn’t believe this. Marc genuinely couldn’t believe this.
When Marc had fronted —for the first time in the past week, mind you— he was slumped against the floor behind the register. He was in the middle of beating his hands against his temples, which he stopped as soon as he realized, and weariness trickled in as he recognized one of the tour guides —Dylan— in front of him.
A look of overwhelming confusion had been filtering through her face. They stared at each other for a moment, and then she grabbed the phone latched to the wall and dialed up the office. That had led to one thing after another, and then Marc had been transported to the Human Resource Department with a pounding headache.
Now here he sat in Steven’s HR’s office, being directed to fucking therapy.
Marc felt the weight of the pocket mirror in his breast pocket, and he had to fight the urge to pull it out. Steven wouldn’t say anything to him. He hasn’t been saying anything at all. Marc slowly leaned forward.
“What happens if I don’t take it?” he asked.
The HR officer sighed, “I don’t see why you wouldn’t—”
“What happens?” Marc repeated, firmer this time.
The officer was staring at him like he was a puzzle, the last piece in his hand but unsure of where to put it. Marc’s glare was probably not helping and very un-Steven-like, but he didn’t care. This stranger didn’t deserve the right to see inside their mind. No one did.
“Well,” the officer started, “you run the risk of losing your job again. You have protection under the U.K.’s discriminative law, but it may be hard to prove that your employer treated you badly because of your mental stability.” He raised a hand to stop Marc just as he was about to protest. “I know you said you’re fine, but you’ve been exhibiting signs that state otherwise for the last few months. I just want the best for you. Is that understandable?”
Marc was slowly shrinking back on himself, which he hated. He hated feeling vulnerable. “Yeah, I got it,” he gritted out.
He made the move to stand up, but the officer stopped him. “Take the card.”
“What?”
“Take the card, Steven.”
Marc looked from the officer’s adamant face down to the black card resting on the table. He really didn’t wanna take it. Marc and therapy didn’t mix well together, never did. His father struggled to keep him with just one counselor after he kept blowing it out with them.
The various therapists he had were quick to catch onto his D.I.D.
Well, all of them were, as a matter of fact.
He’d answer questions for a few sessions, but when they slowly became more intrusive, he’d shut off. They would soon realize they reached a point where he wouldn’t cooperate anymore and direct him to a new counselor, wishing him the best of luck, and then the cycle would continue.
Marc did it on purpose. They couldn’t fix what wasn’t broke.
And he wasn’t broken. Marc did his therapists a favor, in fact. He didn’t waste their time.
But then his thoughts drifted to Steven.
They always did. The once bubbly alter, now closed off and sharpened with the cold shoulder, was on the forefront of Marc’s mind all the time now. That transformation was his fault. He failed to keep Steven out of his affairs with Khonshu, and although they had separated from the god now, the memories were still there.
Memories didn’t just disappear, even the painful ones. Marc knew that better than anyone.
He sighed and grudgingly took the business card, stuffing it in his breast pocket, right behind the mirror. The officer provided him a half smile, something that was so reminiscent of Steven as of recent that it forced Marc to look away.
“Thank you,” the man said. “I’ll keep in touch with you?”
Marc nodded, half absent from the conversation already. “Yeah, sure.”
“Alright, take care then.”
“Mhm.”
Escaping the HR department and taking a breath of the city air had never made him feel so grateful. He stood there for a moment, a rock in the current as people swerved to avoid him out on the sidewalk. Marc hasn’t had the body in awhile, he was allowed to just enjoy this for a moment.
The option to take the bus transit crossed his mind only briefly, his legs already moving down the street before he even realized. Marc was good with that though, anything to enjoy the fresh breeze that blew through London before he got back into the apartment.
Since Khonshu left, Marc had been centered around one thing and one thing only: Steven.
It was like he was grasping onto the only thing that still gave his life a purpose. To protect, to defend, to keep Steven alive and well. He was doing good on the former, but he wasn’t sure of the grading requirements on the latter.
Getting Steven to talk again has been his biggest challenge yet. Coaxing him to talk didn't work, courtesy of breakfast that morning. Tricking him into speaking didn’t work, courtesy of asking what the time was. Marc certainly didn’t want to force it out of Steven either, that wasn’t going to do anyone good.
Marc felt trapped. His back was to the wall and his cards were laid out and flipped open in front of him. There were only so many tricks he had under his sleeve.
It—
It felt like RoRo all over again.
This time the situation was slower, more drawn out. Instead of having him being ripped from Marc’s grasp like his little brother, Steven was fading away. It was slow, steady, consistent. No matter what he tried to do, Marc couldn’t seem to keep the alter in his arms.
He didn’t know which was more painful.
It was only when he entered the apartment building that he realized he forgot to go grab groceries. Marc elected to take the stairs, all the while cursing himself as he trekked up the numerous steps to get to their apartment.
He wasn’t even sure what was in their kitchen that was still edible. He hoped that they had something other than vegan food left in the cupboards, at least.
Marc tugged off his jacket and rested it on the table’s chair, letting the sleeves drape down along the back. He casted a glance to the mirror above the kitchen sink, finding it unsettling to just see his own reflection staring back at him.
“Steven? You there?” he called out softly.
Nothing.
Marc sighed and walked over to the cupboards, occupying himself. “Forgot to grab the damn groceries, mind tellin’ me we got anything else other than your green stuff?”
Nothing. Again. Of all the mirrors that got recently installed in the flat to make conversing easier, not one of them spoke back to him.
Marc always thought of himself to not be a people person, hating speaking to people and trying to hold up conversations. He liked the silence, even loved it when it was during a downtime he could settle into.
He never liked Steven’s quiet. It was unnatural.
Fortunately, Marc didn’t have to look too hard in order to find the carton of eggs in the fridge that he had bought. He sighed, deciding it was best to just make himself a noon lunch of scrambled eggs.
As he turned the stove on, he noticed his reflection above the sink didn't match his movements. When Marc looked up, Steven’s tired eyes met his.
“Hey,” he greeted.
The Brit lifted his head in acknowledgement.
He stared at the alter for a moment before pulling out a smaller bowl from one of the cabinets. “So, we gonna talk about what happened today or no?”
Steven didn’t respond.
“You looked like you were havin’ a panic attack or something.” Marc cracked the first egg against the bowl and dipped it in. “I remember you talking about not wantin’ to be a tour guide anymore too. Was that why?”
Steven didn’t respond.
He was quiet for a few minutes, whisking the eggs as he tried to think. It was true though. Steven had said late one night that he didn’t want to pursue the position anymore. It had broken Marc’s heart in a way.
He didn’t even know what caused him to lose interest. Steven was so excited about some opportunity showing up about being a tour guide, and now it was like all his enthusiasm had vaporized.
Marc dropped the pan onto the heated stove with a lot more force than what was necessary. His frustration was already seeping through the cracks. “Are we even going to talk about yesterday? Or the day before that?”
Steven remained silent. Marc gave up.
______
He finished cooking his scrambled eggs and ate them quickly. It would’ve been easier if Steven wasn’t there, watching him as he ate on the couch through the TV’s blank screen. At some point, the stare became so unbearable that Marc flicked a channel on.
He didn’t know what it was. He didn’t even care.
After that, noon had reached its peak. Marc was still sitting on the couch with the dish dropped back inside the sink a long while ago. He was looking at the images flashing along the screen, but he wasn’t exactly seeing them.
For the past week or so, he had been lingering on the edges of Steven’s consciousness, close enough to be noticed, but far enough away to be respectful. They didn’t fight for the body, they didn’t force switches, they weren’t like that anymore. It was cohesive now.
Well, he had to force a switch that morning, but that was different.
It was Marc’s job to do that, to protect Steven. If that meant fronting in the midst of a panic attack —he wasn’t even sure if that’s what it was— then he sure as hell was going to do it.
Marc had been gently persuading Steven to get out of the house and go do something, but now that he had the body, all he wanted to do was sleep. He was tired.
But he also didn’t want to sleep. He couldn’t. Marc didn’t know what would happen once he submerged, what dream would play out on the back of his eyelids.
Was this how Steven felt when he didn’t know who Marc was? This fear that could only be satisfied through a repetitive audio recording that always managed to fail by the middle of the night?
“Just get in the bloody bed.”
Steven’s voice — Steven — scared the shit out of him.
Marc jolted, straightening himself from where he was unconsciously slumping forward. His head snapped to one of the other mirrors hanging on the wall. The other alter was there, eyeing him.
He had sputtered, “You’re— I— what? What’d you just say?”
“The bed, Marc,” Steven’s face softened. “Go to bed.”
This had to be the first time he heard Steven’s voice in a couple of days. After so long of Marc’s insistence, he spoke. Just like that. No Marc to engage it.
He turned to look at the unmade bed past the bubbling aquarium that separated the living room from the bedroom. For some reason, the mattress looked so daunting now that Steven had pointed it out. Yet, when he looked back at the mirror, the alter had that same look on his face that forced him to stand up from the couch.
“You crawl out of your cage just to tell me off?” Marc mumbled, stumbling his way over.
Steven was back to the deafening silence.
Marc didn’t bother with coaxing him out again this time, dropping onto the bed and grabbing at the blankets. He was entangled in the fleece, half under and half over them like some sort of baby bird in its nest. It’s been awhile since he last slept in a nice bed like this.
When was the last time he slept with the body?
He ran a hand down his face, thinking of the shitty travel flight from London to Cario. Most of his night was spent on the flight, and even that had resulted in fitful bouts of sleep and a horrible crick in the back of his neck. Marc had washed his discomfort down with that bottle of alcohol later.
The realization almost made him laugh.
Marc was tired, but he didn’t want to sleep.
He was afraid.
Steven has work tomorrow, dumbass, Marc told himself.
This was stupid.
“Maybe you should consider taking a day off or something,” he said.
Nothing.
Marc sighed, rolled over, and closed his eyes in defeat.