Truthfully, Marc wants desperately to latch onto that. Maybe it's not a good thing, exactly, but it would make him feel less stupid to have missed an instinct rather than a whole person in his head. (Which isn't fair, obviously, given that Steven is much smarter than him, and their brain still managed to trick him for so long.)
Except, even as Marc tries to hold onto the idea it slips through his fingers. He slumps against the couch cushions again, like all his strings have been cut except for ones on the arm that Steven is still touching. Goosebumps have erupted there beneath his moving thumb, and Marc finds himself staring down at the point of contact. "He has his own clothes." Like Marc. "Cash. A gun." Also like Marc. If all they had to go on were the blackouts while the body was in danger, he could maybe believe... But. "And that thing was in one of his pockets. It looks like it came from a dig site, or something." Maybe a museum nearby. Maybe a salty old bird god, freshly rejected, had it stashed somewhere to be useful later.
Either way, for one insane moment he wonders if he was made up as well, if there's some other Marc inside the body successfully out-Marcing him, but he pushes the thought aside as soon as he has it. He still has to wonder, if Steven is all the good parts, and he's all the bad parts, what's even left over for some third man?
"I don't like this." There, he said it. (Like there was ever any doubt.)
"Oh." That was familiar, and there's a flicker of that on his face-- a lift of a brow, a quirk of the corner of his mouth-- but he stifles it quick enough. Now is... probably not the time to antagonize Marc about the familiarity of it. He leans in mimicry, perhaps a habit, or perhaps he too feels boneless. Allowing his shoulder to sink into the back of the couch, head tilting to the side and allowing his head to squish into the softness of it. His hand remains latched on, however, gently stroking against him like a comforting metronome.
He's not sure who he's comforting more now, but he also doesn't think it matters. It helps him, repetitive movements, touching Marc, little glimpses of comfort that help stifle the anxiety. "So roaming around, in one of us." Back to square one, and he realized he had been trying to come up with other reasons in order to make things more comfortable, but there are no other options that come to mind, and perhaps that's for the best. He doesn't need to give them both more excuses. The answer is there, they just have to accept it.
When Marc speaks again, his gaze lifts, and he gives a gentle nod. "Yeah." A soft murmur as he gives a squeeze, a small interruption to the slow brush of his thumb. "I don't think I fancy it either." A gun, that was enough to tell Steven that he and the fellow were probably not... similar. Though if he never made himself known, was he really like Marc, either? Content to live alone?
It's a lingering amount of time before his mouth pulls into a thin line and he lets out a slow, held breath. "You never set up a date for me, did you?"
Marc's eyes finally move back up from their arms to Steven's face, and his brow furrows. He spent a lot of time watching Steven go about his life, the comforting mundanity of it—books and work and the grocery store—but there are some things he misses, surely.
Obviously he hadn't missed the mostly empty box of chocolates from barely a handful of weeks ago. The misery radiating off Steven in waves. He remembers his own panic as well, stuck in his reflection in the fish tank, the bathroom mirror, completely unable to push Steven out of the front seat on his own—even after calling out to him, telling him to stop—once he'd realized what Steven had done. The phone he'd found. The number he'd called. It took Khonshu scaring the living daylights out of him for Marc to be able to take the body back, and absolutely everything had unraveled from there.
Marc is grateful, of course. He wouldn't go back if he could. Khonshu is gone and Steven doesn't hate or fear him, and it's more than he could have even imagined a year ago or five years ago, or more than that.
Still, that's the only date he can remember Steven actually going on. (Trying to go on.) He had mostly made a point not to think about it, since, for reasons he does not have the easiest time pinning down. No matter. "A date? What do you mean?" He can't mean that one, surely.
"With the-- from work?" He offers, as if that'll jog Marc's memory, but he's looking at him like he doesn't know and that makes the unsettled feeling in his stomach bloom to a sort of cold that takes over the whole of his chest. He tries to keep it from his face, but it's clear he's keeping something knotted up in his chest. After taking a deep breath and letting it out, he decides to start over, because he needs to make sure. Has to.
"Before all of this..." He gestured between the two of them as if that would be able to fully encompass the whole of what they had been through, "Near the beginning really, girl from work came up to me, right? Asked if we were still on for a date that I didn't remember making. Lil bit queer but it wasn't like I was going to say no." He flushes and scowls at himself, embarrassed to admit he was willing to go on some random date he didn't remember making. Perhaps it was desperation, or perhaps he just attributed it to all those lapses in memory he kept having. "I thought for a bit, that it'd been you."
Which seemed reasonable, before he really got to know Marc, or better yet met Layla. Taking the whole of that into account, and the fact it'd been at a steak house made it a little more clear that it probably hadn't been Marc at all. It made him wonder if he was even supposed to show up, even supposed to find out. Something about it made him uncomfortable, more than just the idea of his body roaming around at night fighting people but...
"I think he was going on dates in our body." The hand not clinging to Marc pressed into his own chest uncomfortably. "Who knows what else."
Marc can't quite keep the judgment off his face as he runs down a mental checklist of each of Steven's (former) coworkers. "Who would you even date at your job?" He had, admittedly, watched them all before from Steven's reflections, even grunted his way through bits and and pieces of Steven's shift when it was completely unavoidable, and as a direct result of that he decidedly has no idea what Steven would see in any of them. Most couldn't be bothered to call him by his name, and he wore a nametag every day.
Wait, but that's not important right now. Steven is clearly on his own verge of panic, clutching at his chest like it might open up on him and spill everything out. That look of fear is terribly familiar: Marc had seen it on his face so many times before, as he sat in bed and strapped himself down and wondered what the hell was wrong with him.
And he can see why, now, again, because for some reason the thought of a stranger meeting another stranger while inside their body for a date is almost more disturbing than what they know he's done. More so than a gun and a jacket and a key, a flurry of bloodshed in desperate moments, asking somebody out would make him someone with a personality, with preferences, with free time. Marc feels for a moment like he doesn't fit in his own skin. To small, or too large, or—
No, focus. "How did you—" Damn it, he thinks, get it together. He moves his arm finally, sliding it back so that their palms are touching now, something more mutual than Steven hanging onto his forearm. A combined effort, a mutual grip, feels like it might be more grounding. "How did you stop ignoring me? Or, what was happening?" Because clearly, he needs help in that department.
"Wh--" The question throws him off for a second because that was not, of all things, what he expected Marc to ask him about. In truth he didn't have a good answer, she'd been a tour guide but he didn't know her particularly well. A little snort escapes him, somewhat judgemental, as he stares. His own thumb still rubbing nervous little circles in the middle of his chest. "Well I clearly didn't set up the date Marc." A purse of his lips, but he looks caught between antagonistic and amused.
Though it doesn't linger long when the realization sets in and his hand tightens like he could be some kind of grounding force for them both. It was more than instinct. More than... nighttime walks. Someone had been in the body, working his job, pretending to be him-- maybe pretending to be them and neither had noticed. Though Steven had thought he was losing his mind, and had been in many respects, he had lost so much time it all blended together in a way that left him feeling crushed more than anything else.
His fingers spread when Marc's fold in, lacing together like two sides of a coat and he coils them in again instinctively. He can't remember the last time he held anyone's hand. If he thinks about it hard enough, he knows the answer is really never. Never any time that was real, or for him. A little breath escapes as he focuses on the warmth of the touch while the questions come again and he tries to find a good answer. Eventually, though, all he can say is far too matter-of-fact,
"You killed Gus." It doesn't sound angry, or harsh, just thoughtful. A little lift of his shoulders, shrugging helplessly. "I guess it-- he was something I knew to be real, something that grounded me each day." A little brush of his tongue over his lower lip, wetting the flesh as he shifted, gaze finally lifting back toward Marc again. "I realized without him I was... well, I was going to be painfully lonely and..." A little knit of his brows, trying to think back to what had happened, it all felt like a mess looking back. "Though, honestly, it's not like you or big bird made yourselves easy to ignore after a bit." A little grunt escaped him. "Finding myself with a broken jaw crawling through the grass is a bit of a wake-up call."
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disassociating) wrote2022-05-08 11:07 am
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Except, even as Marc tries to hold onto the idea it slips through his fingers. He slumps against the couch cushions again, like all his strings have been cut except for ones on the arm that Steven is still touching. Goosebumps have erupted there beneath his moving thumb, and Marc finds himself staring down at the point of contact. "He has his own clothes." Like Marc. "Cash. A gun." Also like Marc. If all they had to go on were the blackouts while the body was in danger, he could maybe believe... But. "And that thing was in one of his pockets. It looks like it came from a dig site, or something." Maybe a museum nearby. Maybe a salty old bird god, freshly rejected, had it stashed somewhere to be useful later.
Either way, for one insane moment he wonders if he was made up as well, if there's some other Marc inside the body successfully out-Marcing him, but he pushes the thought aside as soon as he has it. He still has to wonder, if Steven is all the good parts, and he's all the bad parts, what's even left over for some third man?
"I don't like this." There, he said it. (Like there was ever any doubt.)
no subject
He's not sure who he's comforting more now, but he also doesn't think it matters. It helps him, repetitive movements, touching Marc, little glimpses of comfort that help stifle the anxiety. "So roaming around, in one of us." Back to square one, and he realized he had been trying to come up with other reasons in order to make things more comfortable, but there are no other options that come to mind, and perhaps that's for the best. He doesn't need to give them both more excuses. The answer is there, they just have to accept it.
When Marc speaks again, his gaze lifts, and he gives a gentle nod. "Yeah." A soft murmur as he gives a squeeze, a small interruption to the slow brush of his thumb. "I don't think I fancy it either." A gun, that was enough to tell Steven that he and the fellow were probably not... similar. Though if he never made himself known, was he really like Marc, either? Content to live alone?
It's a lingering amount of time before his mouth pulls into a thin line and he lets out a slow, held breath. "You never set up a date for me, did you?"
no subject
Obviously he hadn't missed the mostly empty box of chocolates from barely a handful of weeks ago. The misery radiating off Steven in waves. He remembers his own panic as well, stuck in his reflection in the fish tank, the bathroom mirror, completely unable to push Steven out of the front seat on his own—even after calling out to him, telling him to stop—once he'd realized what Steven had done. The phone he'd found. The number he'd called. It took Khonshu scaring the living daylights out of him for Marc to be able to take the body back, and absolutely everything had unraveled from there.
Marc is grateful, of course. He wouldn't go back if he could. Khonshu is gone and Steven doesn't hate or fear him, and it's more than he could have even imagined a year ago or five years ago, or more than that.
Still, that's the only date he can remember Steven actually going on. (Trying to go on.) He had mostly made a point not to think about it, since, for reasons he does not have the easiest time pinning down. No matter. "A date? What do you mean?" He can't mean that one, surely.
no subject
"Before all of this..." He gestured between the two of them as if that would be able to fully encompass the whole of what they had been through, "Near the beginning really, girl from work came up to me, right? Asked if we were still on for a date that I didn't remember making. Lil bit queer but it wasn't like I was going to say no." He flushes and scowls at himself, embarrassed to admit he was willing to go on some random date he didn't remember making. Perhaps it was desperation, or perhaps he just attributed it to all those lapses in memory he kept having. "I thought for a bit, that it'd been you."
Which seemed reasonable, before he really got to know Marc, or better yet met Layla. Taking the whole of that into account, and the fact it'd been at a steak house made it a little more clear that it probably hadn't been Marc at all. It made him wonder if he was even supposed to show up, even supposed to find out. Something about it made him uncomfortable, more than just the idea of his body roaming around at night fighting people but...
"I think he was going on dates in our body." The hand not clinging to Marc pressed into his own chest uncomfortably. "Who knows what else."
no subject
Marc can't quite keep the judgment off his face as he runs down a mental checklist of each of Steven's (former) coworkers. "Who would you even date at your job?" He had, admittedly, watched them all before from Steven's reflections, even grunted his way through bits and and pieces of Steven's shift when it was completely unavoidable, and as a direct result of that he decidedly has no idea what Steven would see in any of them. Most couldn't be bothered to call him by his name, and he wore a nametag every day.
Wait, but that's not important right now. Steven is clearly on his own verge of panic, clutching at his chest like it might open up on him and spill everything out. That look of fear is terribly familiar: Marc had seen it on his face so many times before, as he sat in bed and strapped himself down and wondered what the hell was wrong with him.
And he can see why, now, again, because for some reason the thought of a stranger meeting another stranger while inside their body for a date is almost more disturbing than what they know he's done. More so than a gun and a jacket and a key, a flurry of bloodshed in desperate moments, asking somebody out would make him someone with a personality, with preferences, with free time. Marc feels for a moment like he doesn't fit in his own skin. To small, or too large, or—
No, focus. "How did you—" Damn it, he thinks, get it together. He moves his arm finally, sliding it back so that their palms are touching now, something more mutual than Steven hanging onto his forearm. A combined effort, a mutual grip, feels like it might be more grounding. "How did you stop ignoring me? Or, what was happening?" Because clearly, he needs help in that department.
no subject
Though it doesn't linger long when the realization sets in and his hand tightens like he could be some kind of grounding force for them both. It was more than instinct. More than... nighttime walks. Someone had been in the body, working his job, pretending to be him-- maybe pretending to be them and neither had noticed. Though Steven had thought he was losing his mind, and had been in many respects, he had lost so much time it all blended together in a way that left him feeling crushed more than anything else.
His fingers spread when Marc's fold in, lacing together like two sides of a coat and he coils them in again instinctively. He can't remember the last time he held anyone's hand. If he thinks about it hard enough, he knows the answer is really never. Never any time that was real, or for him. A little breath escapes as he focuses on the warmth of the touch while the questions come again and he tries to find a good answer. Eventually, though, all he can say is far too matter-of-fact,
"You killed Gus." It doesn't sound angry, or harsh, just thoughtful. A little lift of his shoulders, shrugging helplessly. "I guess it-- he was something I knew to be real, something that grounded me each day." A little brush of his tongue over his lower lip, wetting the flesh as he shifted, gaze finally lifting back toward Marc again. "I realized without him I was... well, I was going to be painfully lonely and..." A little knit of his brows, trying to think back to what had happened, it all felt like a mess looking back. "Though, honestly, it's not like you or big bird made yourselves easy to ignore after a bit." A little grunt escaped him. "Finding myself with a broken jaw crawling through the grass is a bit of a wake-up call."