Archive of Our Own

Back when they were kids, one of the ways Marc knew Steven had come to visit was that his bedroom would be tidier afterwards.  On the days when his mom was in one of her dangerous moods - silent, seething - Marc would go upstairs to his room and clear a space on the bed to sit on it and stare at the inside of his closed bedroom door, hoping that today would be one of the days she didn’t follow him up here.  On the bad days, she did.  On the good days, the next thing Marc heard would be his father’s voice calling him to come down for dinner, and then he would look around and find himself sitting on top of a neatly made bed, his toys organized into their  boxes, board games and books stacked on the shelves, and he would know that Steven had been.  

Marc had become less messy as he’d got older.  Any last vestiges of untidiness had been knocked out of him in the army, where he’d learned to make a bed with geometric precision and to put his gear away even if he was falling down with exhaustion.  Around the same time, weirdly, Steven had started to get messier - although it was less noticeable, because he hadn’t been around as much during Marc’s army years.  Looking back, Marc thinks it was about then that he had started to get better at actively managing Steven, consciously deciding when and where he got to come out.  

Then, after the army, when he’d had money for the first time – turned out being a mercenary paid well, if you didn’t mind literally having blood on your hands – Marc had decided to give Steven a real life.  His own life, after all,  was an irredeemably guilty, violent wreck, but Marc figured Steven still had a chance at being happy, even if he didn’t.  Marc had the right kind of contacts now, too, and before long Steven Grant had a fake British passport and a fake birth certificate, and an address at a flat in London owned by the entirely fictional Mrs Elizabeth Grant.  

And then Marc had become bound to Khonshu, which was not by any stretch of the imagination normal, but it was fine, he wasn’t living a normal life anyway.  Then Steven wanted a job and a pet fish, which was normal, but it was up to Marc to make sure his missions for Khonshu didn’t get in the way of Steven showing up for work on time and being there to feed his fish.  And then Marc met Layla, and suddenly he was trying to make an actual relationship fit into his piecemeal and disjointed existence.   

So Marc had organized his life, much as Steven had organized their bedroom back when they were kids, with everything in its own box, separate and not touching.  Steven here, Khonshu there, Layla somewhere else.   

The astonishing thing, Marc is only just realizing, is not that he kept it going for as long as he did, but that he kept it going at all.

And now, in the space of a few short days, every box has burst open and spilled out its contents into a chaotic mess of people, relationships and emotions and Marc has no idea how to make sense of it all.  

“Marc,” Layla says, in an insistent tone that suggests this is not the first time she’s tried to get his attention.  “Come on.  We need to figure out what to do next.”

That would be a pretty good idea, Marc thinks.  Harrow/Ammit is still lying on the ground in front of him, mumbling incoherently.  Sooner or later either the goddess’s acolytes or the local authorities - or both - are going to turn up looking for answers.  Khonshu is – gone, just like he promised.  Does that mean Marc is free now?  Is it really going to be that simple?   

What is he going to do next?  

Just then, he feels the mental push at the back of his head that means Steven wants to speak.  Marc’s first instinct is still to push back and stop him from taking control of their body and it takes a conscious effort to let go and allow Steven to come up to the surface.  “I don’t know about you,” Steven says, “but I really think we should consider getting out of here.”

It’s enough to shake Marc into action.  He takes over again and says, “Right. Let’s go.”

“What about him?” Layla asks, nodding down at Harrow.

“Leave him.  He’s someone else’s problem now.”  

Layla tilts her head upwards and calls, “Taweret!  We could use some help.”

Immediately, her whole body convulses once, and then her limbs jerk, as if pulled by invisible strings.  “Of course!” Taweret announces.  She tips Layla’s head to one side and smiles at Marc - although the effect on Layla’s face is more like a grimace of pain.  “Oh! Hello you two!  I’m so pleased you made it back in one piece.  Actually in one piece, apparently.”  Taweret looks concerned.  “Are you supposed to have only one body on this plane of existence or has something gone very wrong?”

Steven takes over to answer, “Bit of both, to be honest.”

“That must be inconvenient,” Taweret observes.

“Sometimes, yeah,” Steven agrees.  “Thanks for helping us get back from the Duat.”

Taweret spreads Layla’s arms wide.  “It was my pleasure.”

Layla’s back is arched stiffly and her breathing, when Taweret isn’t speaking, is coming in short, sharp gasps.  Marc recalls his own deeply unpleasant experience of channeling Khonshu and gives Steven a sharp mental nudge intended to communicate something along the lines of, Get on with it or let me do it.  Steven gets the message.

“No pressure,” Steven says, “but maybe you could tell us the best way out of here?”

“Oh! Yes! Silly old me,” Taweret spins Layla’s body around and throws one of her arms up into the air.  “This way, everyone! If my memory isn’t playing tricks, there used to be a tunnel somewhere over here.”

Taweret’s memory proves reliable: there is a passage, hidden behind one of the large stone statues which line the walls of the tomb.  Taweret uses Layla’s hands to make a complicated series of movements around the plinth it sits on and suddenly a section of the wall swings open, revealing a dark space beyond. 

“Follow this right to the end,” Taweret says.  “It should bring you out somewhere in the old city.  At least, it did three thousand years ago.  Byeeee!” she trills, and releases Layla, who sways for a second before collapsing on to her knees like a puppet whose strings have been cut.

Instinctively, Marc pushes forward and takes over from Steven, reaching out a hand to help Layla back on to her feet. “You okay?”

“I think that’s the least enjoyable thing I’ve ever done.”  Layla rubs her temple with her free hand and shakes her head as if to clear it. “Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine,” Marc tells her.  

“Liar,” Layla says without any heat.  She gives him an appraising look.  “Steven, how are you guys? I mean, really?”

And before Marc can stop him, Steven takes over and says, “Well, we died and went to the afterlife and I found out that Marc made me up and I fought sand zombies and nearly won but then I died again, sort of, but then Marc left heaven to come and get me and we’ve got a lot of stuff to unpack and then we came back to life and I don’t know about Marc but I am this close to freaking out a bit. Also I could kill for a cup of tea right now.”

“Tea sounds good,” Layla agrees.

As they set off down the tunnel, Marc realizes that his life is not, after all, going to be any less complicated now that Khonshu’s gone.  

*** 

Steven lets Marc handle their passage through the tunnel, which is claustrophobically narrow and would be completely dark if not for the light from their torch.  Steven’s done more than enough creeping around tombs in the last couple of days and, anyway, being stealthy in the dark is more Marc’s skill set than his.

Being awake but not in control of their body still isn’t exactly fun, but at least now he’s starting to get used to what it feels like.  Or doesn’t feel like. He can hear whatever Marc hears, and see whatever Marc happens to be looking at – right now, the back of Layla’s head - but it’s as if the rest of his senses have been switched off. He can’t tell if he’s hot, cold, hungry, thirsty, tired or anything else for that matter.  Even when Harrow had shot them, Steven hadn’t felt pain, but rather a kind of muted awareness that it had happened.  

He feels untethered, insubstantial and unnervingly unreal. It’s like being in a sensory deprivation tank inside his own head.  He remembers what Marc told him the first time he’d been in this position - just breathe through it - and reflects what stunningly useless advice that had been to give someone who wasn’t, at that precise moment, in control of his own breathing. 

And then the world skips, like the needle jumping on a record, and suddenly Steven finds himself in a garden.

No - it’s not a garden.  He is sitting at a small wooden table in a courtyard which is filled with plants in brightly coloured ceramic pots.  The courtyard is small and triangular in shape, bounded on all three sides by the walls of high buildings and therefore shady even in the heat of a Cairo day.  A set of stone steps lead down into it from a doorway set into one wall, which is the only way in or out Steven can see.  He can hear the muffled noise of traffic and voices coming from somewhere beyond the adjoining buildings, but the courtyard itself is a small oasis of tranquility and calm.  

He can’t remember how he got here.  He must have fallen asleep while they were in the tunnel, he figures - although asleep is not quite the right word for a state in which his body had continued to walk around under someone else’s control.  Just a few weeks ago, that idea would have horrified him.  Now it feels reassuring to know that while he was absent, Marc had been in charge.

He nudges his consciousness forward and asks, “Where are we?”

He expects Marc to reply, but it’s Layla who answers him as she walks down the steps into the courtyard from the house, carrying a cup in each hand.  “This is my place,” she tells him, giving him a look that Steven can’t interpret.  “Well, it’s mine now - it used to be my dad’s house.  After he died, I couldn’t bear to be here, so I boarded it up and traveled around for a few years.   Then I met Marc and, well, you know the rest.”  In fact Steven doesn’t know the rest - very little of it, anyway - but he decides this is probably not the moment to ask.  He has an ever-lengthening list of things to quiz Marc about regarding their shared history.  Layla puts down one of the cups in front of him.  “Here’s that cup of tea you wanted.”

“You are a lifesaver,” Steven says sincerely.  It’s Egyptian tea, of course, rather than the mug of English Breakfast he’d been craving.  This tea is black and a little sweet, and served with fresh mint leaves.  It’s light and refreshing, perfect for a hot climate.  “This is good.  You should try this,” he says to Marc.

“I’ve had koshary before,” Marc replies, resurfacing.  “This is pleasant, but we need a plan.”

Firmly, Steven says, “I have a plan, and it involves sitting here and drinking tea for a bit.  We saved the world, we can take the morning off.”

Marc makes him put down his cup.  “There are still a lot of Harrow’s followers here.  Some of them will want revenge.” 

Layla is watching them intently.  “This is… different. When you were fighting Harrow last night, you were swapping in and out the whole time.  And now you’re talking to each other like this.  You sound…”

“Crazy,” Marc supplies.

She shakes her head.  “No, that’s not what I meant.  It’s better.  Two days ago you didn’t even want to let Steven out when we needed him.”

“A lot of things have changed since then,” Marc says.  When he doesn’t elaborate, Steven figures he should try to explain.

“We had a bit of chat,” he says.  “We’ve made some ground rules.  No more fighting over the body, for a start.  From now on, it’s all about sharing and taking turns.”

“That makes us sound like preschoolers,” Marc complains.

Layla throws her head back and laughs, a full throated noise that Steven thinks might be the most gorgeous sound he’s ever heard.  “I’m sorry, but - if you could hear yourselves.  You’re funny when you’re arguing with each other.”  Her laughter subsides.  “Well, however you did it, this is a big improvement.”

“It only took dying and getting resurrected,” Steven says, and immediately regrets it, because the smile evaporates from Layla’s face.  “Oh, God, I’m sorry, what did I - “  

She waves a hand dismissively.  “It’s fine.  It’s just – I saw it happen.  Up close.  I was trying not to think about it.  But I’m fine.”

She’s clearly not fine at all.  Steven reaches out across the table to take her hand, but it’s Marc who pushes forward and completes the action.  Steven is left looking through Marc’s eyes at his hand placed over Layla’s, aware that he is touching her but unable to feel it.  He pushes against Marc’s control but comes up against a solid wall of resistance.  Apparently right now they are neither sharing nor taking turns. 

“I’m sorry,” Marc says.  “It was my fault.  I didn’t want you to be involved in any of this.”

“And if I hadn’t been there,” Layla says with an edge in her voice, “If you had died and I’d never even known what happened to you - would that have been better?”

“Yes, if it meant you were safe,” Marc says.

“Since when have I cared about being safe?” Layla demands, snatching her hand out from under Marc’s.  “I am tired of only getting to see the little bits of you that you let me see.  Did you think I would freak out if I knew about Steven?”  

“Yes,” Marc says bluntly.  “I mean, look at us.  I’m not – we’re not – this is not normal.”

“I never wanted normal,” Layla says, her voice quiet.  “But you’ve never asked me what I want, you just decided for me.  And we’re not doing that any more.  So either you figure out how to let me in, or we just…”  She trails off, then gets up from her seat.  “I’m going to go out and get something for breakfast.  You know where everything is.”

She walks away and Steven watches her go through Marc’s eyes: across the courtyard, up the steps, into the house and out of sight without looking back.

Steven pushes against Marc’s control and gets knocked back again.  Marc sits at the table for several minutes after Layla has gone, completely still.  Then he abruptly lifts one of the empty cups and throws it against a wall, shattering it and sending shards of crockery flying.  

He gets up and goes into the house.  The door at the top of the courtyard steps leads straight into a narrow but neatly organized kitchen with a tall chrome-fronted fridge and a small table just big enough for two people pushed up against one wall.  Beyond the kitchen, most of the rest of the ground floor of the house is a single living space, where a long, low couch sits on top of a richly patterned rug and the wall opposite the window is dominated by a large burnished and engraved metal disc - it’s as reflective as a mirror, but looks as if it’s intended to be a piece of decorative art.  The other walls are also covered with other, smaller pieces of art - paintings and photographs and framed scraps of papyrus.  Steven thinks that it must have taken decades to bring together this kind of collection.  

At the edge of Marc’s vision Steven can see an open doorway leading from the living area into what looks like a book-lined study.  He would love to go and investigate it, but Marc is still in charge of their body and he can’t.  

Instead Marc climbs the stairs to the house’s top floor and makes straight for the door at the end of the upper hallway, which turns out to lead into a bathroom.  He strips off his shirt and opens the bathroom cabinet to start pulling out a razor and shaving soap, and for the briefest moment Steven wonders who Layla’s male housemate is.  

Then he puts it all together.

When Marc looks into the bathroom mirror to spread shaving soap on his face, Steven is there, waiting for him.  “You lived here with Layla when you were married,” he says.  “You know your way round.  This is your stuff.”

Marc draws the razor across his lathered cheek and doesn’t answer.

“I thought we agreed you were going to stop doing this thing where you ignore me,” Steven says.

Marc still doesn’t answer.

“You know something?” Steven asks.  “I used to have this daydream about getting married.  I could picture it so clearly.  The ceremony would be in this pretty little church in a village in the Cotswolds, with honeysuckle growing round the door.  I’d walk up the aisle and she’d be waiting there at the front of the church, this vision in white, and the whole place would be chock full of all our friends and family.  And Mum would be there and she’d be so happy that she’d be crying into her hanky.  My imaginary mum at my imaginary wedding,” he finishes, unable to suppress the note of bitterness in the words. 

Marc puts down the razor, resting it on the edge of the sink.  “What do you want me to say, Steven?”

“You could start with sorry,” Steven tells him, “because you had this.  You had a wife and a home.  I could have been part of this, if you’d let me.  Instead I was sitting in a cold flat in London watching repeats of Friends.”

Marc says, “It wasn’t the way you think it was.  I was only ever here for a few days or a weekend every couple of months.”

“Then you’re even more of an idiot than I thought,” Steven tells him.  “Why did you even get married?”

“Fuck, I don’t know,” Marc says.  “Because everything I touched got ruined and she was the one good thing in my life and I wanted to keep her.  It was selfish and stupid and I knew it couldn’t work but I decided to try anyway.”

“You wanted to keep her for yourself.”  Steven doesn’t intend that to come out sounding as resentful as it does.

“It wasn’t like that,” Marc says.  “You and I were separate.  That was the point.  You’ve seen my life - it’s a sinkhole, Steven.  It’s a fucking trap. I wasn’t keeping you away from Layla, I was keeping you safe.”

“You were keeping me in a box,” Steven says. “I was lonely.  Do you know I used to talk to one of the human statues in Covent Garden?  Just to talk to someone.” 

Marc says quietly, “Yeah.  I knew that.”  He breathes out.  “You love her.” 

“We love her,” Steven corrects him.  

“Yes,” Marc agrees.  “We do.”

“Okay, then,” Steven says, “so here’s a suggestion: why don’t we try to not mess this up?“

Marc gives a brief, hollow laugh.  “That’d be a first.”  He picks up the razor again.  “Look, whatever it feels like, whatever it seems like, all I was trying to do was look after you.  That’s the truth.”

Then Marc pulls back, and Steven’s perspective abruptly shifts.  Now he is standing at the sink, holding the razor and looking at Marc in the mirror.  

“From now on we look after each other,” Steven says.  “Now go away for a bit so I can shave.”

***

There’s a street market close to Layla’s house and she heads there to buy breakfast.  The market has been here for as long as she can remember - one of her earliest memories is toddling there with her father and helping to put bananas and melons in bags to bring home.

The market seems to be running as normal today, which is pretty good considering the weird events of the night before.  Then again, Layla thinks, people are often a lot more adaptable than you expect them to be.  

Marc, for example, is clearly operating a long way outside the normal definition of good mental health.  Somehow, though, Layla can’t make herself think of him as unwell.  He’s still the same Marc she fell in love with almost the moment she met him - and he was guarded and frustrating then, too.  And Steven is - well, Steven is everything Marc isn’t, presented in a Marc-shaped package.  He is open and trusting and honest to a fault.  She likes him.  More than likes him, if she is being totally honest with herself.

She wonders if she should feel more guilty about the fact that she is falling in love with the other person living in her husband’s body.  Or maybe all she’s doing is enabling the severe mental illness which he’s been successfully hiding from her for as long as she’s known him.  

But right now Layla is having a conversation with an invisible hippo goddess, so perhaps she’s not in the best position to judge.

“I’d just like you to consider making this a permanent arrangement,” Taweret says.  “We could have such fun together.”  She clasps her hands – which are gray and leathery but have human-like fingers and thumbs - and the collection of bright gold and silver bracelets on her wrists jangles.  “I haven’t had an avatar for so many human lifetimes.”

Taweret is standing in the middle of one of the market’s main thoroughfares, but no one seems to notice her.  People walk around her, or step back to make room for her.  Layla doesn’t know whether the goddess is actually here but invisible, or whether Layla is hallucinating her.  

“Marc’s arrangement with Khonshu didn’t exactly look enviable,” Layla says, pretending to examine some figs on the fruit stall in front of her and hoping no one nearby notices her talking to thin air.  

“Khonshu is not a nice god.”  Taweret wags a finger for emphasis.  “We’re not all like that.  The avatar-god relationship can be a blessing to both.”

Layla selects some figs and pays the stallholder for them.  “So I get superpowers and a hippo telling me what to do.  What do you get?”

Tawaret shrugs, causing her necklaces to bounce.  Her ears flick away a fly.  “The chance to effect change in the human world once more,” she says.  “We all had our purposes.  We have not all forgotten them.  I do not agree with Khonshu’s methods, but I understand his desire to act.”

“What was your purpose?”

“The protection of women and children,” Taweret says.  Somewhat archly, she adds, “But of course, if this world has become entirely free from violence and cruelty towards those under my charge, then I suppose I’m not needed anymore.”

Layla looks at her.

“Didn’t think so,” Taweret says pointedly.

“I’ll think about it,” Layla says after a moment.  “No promises.”

“Very well, but you must decide.  There are rules, you know, and I’ve already bent most of them as far as I dare.  Unless you are willing to swear the oath and be my avatar, I cannot let you use my armor again.”  Taweret’s nostrils flare in agitation.  “I’m sorry, but there it is.”

Then, with one final ear flick, the goddess is gone.

Layla gets the rest of what she needs for breakfast and starts to head back.  She’s still angry at Marc for shutting her out, but she’s been angry at Marc for shutting her out for a long time, so that’s no real change from the baseline.  At any rate she’s calmer now, and Taweret’s given her something else to think about besides the unexpectedly polyamorous nature of her marriage.

Back at the house, she goes straight to the kitchen and starts unpacking her bags onto the table.  “It’s me.  Come and get breakfast.” 

After a few moments she hears the sound of a man’s footsteps descending the stairs.  The voice which replies to her from the front room of the house is Steven’s.  “Marc wants to say sorry.”

Layla snorts under her breath.  “Then Marc can come in here and say sorry himself.”

She finishes scooping hummus into a bowl and turns around to grab another spoon.  Marc is standing in the door to the kitchen.  Funny, she can tell it’s Marc even before he speaks - he and Steven hold themselves differently.  He’s wearing a loose pair of pants and a T-shirt and his hair is still tousled and damp from the shower.  She wishes he wouldn’t insist on looking so attractive when she’s trying to stay mad at him.  “Sorry,” he says.  

She raises an eyebrow.  “Steven told you off, didn’t he.”

There it is - his whole body shifts into a less tense, more diffident attitude.  It’s subtle and virtually instantaneous.  “I did, as a matter of fact.”  Then Marc is back.  He takes a step forward into the kitchen, looking as uncertain as she’s ever seen him.  “I don’t want to fuck this up,” he says.  

“That’s a good start,” Layla says shortly.  “Okay.  Come and eat.”

She makes tea while Marc sets aish baladi flatbread out onto plates and washes the fruit.  It feels superficially like the all-too-few mornings she and Marc spent together in this house in the past.  But those memories, while still happy, now have an edge of superficiality in Layla’s mind, because she can’t revisit them without a new awareness of how little of himself Marc had been allowing her to see back then.  

Once the food has been laid out and the tea made, they sit down at the small table.  “This looks lovely, thank you,” Steven says, all proper English manners.  “Is that pita bread?”

She hands him one of the aish baladi.  “The Egyptian version, yes.” She points at the other dishes on the table: “This is foul - it’s made from fava beans - and these are taameya, which are like big falafel.” It feels weird explaining things to him that she knows Marc knows; there’s a lot she wants to ask both of them about how being Marc-and-Steven actually works on an everyday level.  

“It’s all vegan,” Steven says, sounding pleased.

“You’re vegan?” Layla asks, thinking of how the only thing Marc ever orders in restaurants is steak.

“I thought I was.”  Steven is helping himself a handful of fresh figs.  “I suppose I’m going to have to rethink that now.”

He takes a drink of tea and then Marc shifts in.  “I’m not going to live on broccoli just to please you.”

Layla laughs at that, although she suspects this is partly a show they’re putting on for her.  The humor feels a little bit forced; Layla realizes that no one here, including herself, is completely at ease. 

“What was the wedding like?” Steven asks suddenly.  

For a second Layla wonders what wedding he’s talking about.  Then she realizes he means hers and Marc’s.  “It wasn’t a big deal.  We had a civil ceremony at one of the local marriage courts.  The whole thing only took twenty minutes.”

“Got any photos?”

“No,” Layla says, then remembers she does have one - the selfie she had taken of the two of them on the steps of the building, straight after the ceremony.  “Wait, actually, yes.”  She gets her phone from where she left it on the kitchen bench and flicks through her photo history until she finds the one she’s looking for.  It’s just her face and Marc’s filling most of the frame.  They’re both smiling.  She’d deleted most of her other photos of him in a fit of rage on the day the divorce papers had arrived and now she regrets it.  She’s glad this one survived the purge; even in her righteous fury, she hadn’t been able to bring herself to delete the only photo she ever took of Marc in which he looked truly happy. 

She hands her phone to Steven, who stares at the photo for several seconds.  Then he hands it back to her.  “That’s nice,” he says.  Then, wistfully, “I wish I’d been there.”

Layla’s curiosity gets the better of her. “But you were there,” she says, frowning.  “In the background, I mean.  Weren’t you?”

He shakes his head.  “No.”

Now she’s confused.  “Isn’t that how this works for you?  Every time you swap around, you both seem to know what the other guy’s been doing.  I thought you were, you know, aware even when you’re not running things.”

It’s Marc who answers.  “That’s kind of a recent thing.  There used to be a lot more separation between us.  Higher walls.”

Layla cuts herself another slice of melon.  “What changed?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Marc says. His face is shuttered, and it’s a look Layla knows only too well.  It’s Marc’s patented I’m-not-talking-about-this look.  

Carefully and deliberately, Layla says, “I think it does matter.”

“Layla –”

“Okay, listen,” she interrupts.  “Do you really want to know how not to fuck this up, Marc?  Because it’s actually really simple.  Stop doing this.  Stop shutting me out.  Talk to me.”  She takes a breath to steady herself.  “What changed?  Is it the same thing that made you disappear and send me divorce papers?”  When he doesn’t reply, she says, “Fine, then, I’ll ask Steven.  Steven –”

Marc stands up so fast that his chair clatters back across the tiled kitchen floor and almost tips over.  He turns away from her and walks through the door and into the main ground floor living area of the house.   Layla gets up from the table and follows him.

“I want to talk to Steven,” she insists.  “You’re locking him out, aren’t you.  Stop it.  Marc –”

“Will you both fucking shut up!” Marc shouts.  

In the living room, he stops in front of the huge burnished golden disc which hangs on the longest wall.  It had been her father’s favourite piece; Layla remembers him once explaining to her the symbolism of its ornate patterns.  Marc is staring at it now, but somehow she doubts he’s appreciating the workmanship.

“No!” he snaps at his reflection.  

There is a moment’s silence.  Then he explodes, “Because if it was that easy, I would’ve fucking done it already!”

Another pause, and when Marc speaks again, his voice is less angry but more raw, almost pleading.  “I thought it’d be different now.  Remembering - it was so hard - it should be different after that.”

And at last, resigned: “Yeah.  I know.”

Marc takes a step back and sits down on the room’s main piece of furniture, a long, low couch covered in a highly decorated fabric which has faded after years in the sun.  “I know,” he says again.

“Marc,” Layla says.  

“I’m sorry,” he says to her.  Then he gives a bitter little laugh.  “I keep having to say that, don’t I?”

“It’s okay,” she tells him.

Very quietly, Marc says, “Steven thinks I should tell you.”  He leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees, and covers his face with his hands.  

“Tell me what?” Layla prompts gently.

There is a very long silence.  Then he lowers his hands and Layla feels a deep sense of relief when she sees it’s Steven.  That has to be a good sign.  

“About me,” he says.  “What happened to us. Where I came from.”

“Back in the tomb,” Layla says slowly, “you said something about Marc… making you up.”

Steven gives a small, sad shrug.  “Turns out our birth certificate has his name on it.”  He hesitates.  “I am real, though.  You know I’m real, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Layla says immediately.  It’s impossible to spend more than five minutes talking to Steven and not understand that he is in every sense a real person.  “You can tell me.”

The body hunches over again.  Marc closes his eyes.  “I can’t.”

Then the eyes open, and now it’s Steven.  “Then let me tell her.”

Layla takes his hand and strokes her thumb gently across his knuckles.  “No more secrets, remember.”

His hand balls into a fist under her palm.  This time Marc doesn’t close his eyes when he takes over from Steven, but he looks down at the rug under their feet rather than Layla.  When he finally speaks, it’s barely more than a faint exhalation of breath.  “Okay. Tell her.”

His shoulders fall and he lifts his head to meet her eyes and it’s Steven.  

“Marc had a brother,” he begins.

Layla had always figured Marc had a shitty childhood - he was never as good at hiding the signs of trauma as he thought he was.  But as Steven talks - calmly, quietly - she starts to understand the true extent of what he endured, and what he did to survive.  A hundred things that didn’t make sense about Marc to her before now all fall into place, a jigsaw puzzle meshing together into a picture of long-denied pain. 

She understands now, too, the role that Steven plays.  He holds the parts of Marc which might otherwise have been destroyed by their mother’s cruelty.  He is the brother Marc can look after and keep safe, always.  And now that Marc isn’t hiding Steven any more, Steven is also helping Marc, by bringing out into the open the things Marc can’t tackle on his own.  

When he’s finished, the first thing Layla says is, “Does he know it wasn’t his fault?”

Steven says, “I think he knows but he doesn’t know.”

“Can I talk to him again now?”

Steven closes his eyes for a moment then shakes his head.  “He’s not, um –  it’s hard to explain.  He’s not pushing.  I can’t make him come out if he doesn’t want to.”

They sit next to each other on the couch for a while in silence, and then Layla moves closer to Steven.  After a few minutes, Layla feels Steven taking her hand, lacing his fingers between hers.  She glances down.  

“Oh, ah - I’m sorry,” he says, flustered.  He makes to let go of her hand, but Layla tightens her grip.  

“It’s fine,” she tells him.  Then, privately amused: “You don’t have to ask permission to hold my hand.”

Steven looks unhappy.  “Well, you’re not married to me, are you.  Marc was a bit cross about that kiss.”

“Marc might have to learn to get used to it.” Layla turns her head, lifts her chin and kisses him.  He is tentative and a little shy.  She lifts her hands and, placing them on either side of his face, tilts his head to a better angle.  

She has her eyes closed, but she can feel the moment when Marc resurfaces.  The kiss becomes harder, more assertive - Steven is sweet, but Marc is demanding.  She pushes back against him - she knows he likes that - and then lets his tongue find hers.  

“Don’t be angry with Steven,” she says when they finish.  

“I’m not,” Marc says.  “Not anymore.”

“What he told me –” 

Marc’s face clouds and he shakes his head.  “Don’t ask me about it, okay?  Steven can talk about it because it didn’t happen to him.  I can’t –” he stops, takes a breath, and looks to be visibly steadying himself.  “I just can’t.”

“It’s all right,” Layla reassures him.  She hesitates, and when she speaks, she chooses her words carefully.  “I don’t really understand what it’s like to be you.  But if you promise to keep trying to tell me, I promise to keep listening.”

“Deal,” Marc agrees, and then she feels his body relax again as Steven shifts back in: “Promise.”

Layla smiles at them mischievously.  “So,” she says, “since Steven missed the wedding, how about we recreate the honeymoon?”

***

“How is this going to… work?” Steven asks.  He sounds anxious.

They are sitting on the end of the bed in the bedroom, waiting for Layla to finish in the bathroom and join them.  Marc is still feeling - he’s not even sure how he’s feeling.  He had taken shelter behind Steven’s consciousness and listened from a distance while Steven told Layla everything that Marc knows he absolutely could not.  Somehow being cut off from his body, insulated and protected by Steven’s presence, had allowed him to get through it.  Now that Marc is back in control of their body, he feels mentally bruised, like he’s just gone the psychic equivalent of ten rounds in the ring.  But underneath it, there is a streak of exhilaration, because now Layla knows.  She knows and it’s okay.  

Now they just have to work out how to have sex with three people and two bodies.  He has to admit privately that Steven’s question is a good one.  

“I don’t know, but it’ll be fun figuring it out,” Marc says, trying to project a confidence he isn’t entirely feeling.  “Relax.  It’s just sex.”

“Easy for you to say.  You and Layla know what you’re doing.”

“So do you.”

Steven doesn’t answer.  It takes Marc a second to catch up. Then he gets there.

He’s never given much thought to Steven’s sex life, beyond assuming that Steven had a sex life of some sort.  For his own part, Marc has slept with a lot of women (and a non-zero number of men) but almost always as one night stands and very short, very casual flings.  Sex was fine, but intimacy was too risky for him and he had always made sure to get out before it had a chance to take root.  Then Layla had come along and blown all his careful rules clean out of the water.  

But Steven - it’s obvious, now that Marc thinks about it.  Steven’s fantasies are about white weddings in English country churches.  Steven didn’t want casual sex, he wanted someone to fall in love with, but the small box which Marc had packed Steven and his life into hadn’t been large enough to accommodate that, and so Steven had been lonely.  Lonely and very alone.

“Never?” he asks.

“Once,” Steven says.  “Lucy from the ticket desk at the museum.  She asked me home with her after the staff Christmas party.  We were both drunk.  It wasn’t good.”

“You’ll be fine,” Marc says, again with a lot more confidence than he’s feeling. 

“Maybe I’ll just keep out of the way while you two, you know,” Steven says.  

“Don’t be stupid.  You don’t want to do that.”

“Well, then, clever-clogs,” Steven says, annoyed, “back to my original question - how are we going to do this?”

Layla’s voice answers him: “We’re going to do it together, that’s how.  We’re going to figure this out together.” 

Marc looks round and sees Layla standing in the doorway to the bedroom.  She’s stripped down to bra and panties and has just reached up to unclip her hair, which tumbles in waves of curls over her shoulders.  She sounds determined, and Marc relaxes a fraction because he has seen some of the things that the sheer force of Layla’s determination can accomplish, and if Layla wants to make this work they might just stand a chance.

There’s a large, full-length mirror hanging on the wall at the end of the room, obviously positioned to make best use of the light from the large window opposite.  It’s out of the line of sight of the bed, though, which makes sense - most people don’t want to stare at their reflection while they’re trying to go to sleep.  Marc walks over to it and lifts it down off the wall.

Layla frowns.  “Where are you putting that?”

“Over here,” Marc says, propping the mirror up against the wall opposite the bed. 

She raises an eyebrow and smiles.  “Kinky.”

“It’s not for you, it’s for us.”  He shrugs.  “Mirrors help.”

He strips down to his shorts and sits on the edge of the bed.  The reflection in the mirror is Steven, twisting his hands together nervously. Layla comes to sit on the mattress next to him.  She places the palms of her hands on his chest and glides them up and down and across his bare skin.  It feels amazing, and for a second Marc regrets not taking Steven up on his offer to sit this one out.  He is struck suddenly by the fear that he won’t be able to give up control when he has to, that he’ll end up shutting Steven out because it’s too hard to tear himself away in the moment.

Then Layla says, “I want Steven now.”

That’s what he needs to hear.  Now he doesn’t have to make the decision himself.  He falls back, creates a space for Steven to go into.  

“Hey,” Layla breathes.  “What do you want to do first?” 

“You’re very, very beautiful,” Steven replies.  “I’d like to – can I just – can I touch you?”

She smiles at him, then reaches her hands up behind her back and unclips her bra.  “Wherever you want.”

Steven brushes his fingers along the side of her face, then her shoulders and the tops of her arms, before moving his hands down uncertainly to cup her breasts.  It’s torturous for Marc to be able to see but not feel her skin.  Marc knows what Layla likes, but Steven doesn’t, and he is clumsy with inexperience.  Marc has to work hard to keep himself from trying to push in - Steven could stop him taking over, but it would just be a distraction Steven doesn’t need right now.  

Apologetically, Steven says, “I don’t really know what I’m doing.”

Marc takes that as permission to give instructions.  “Move your hands down.  Stroke her. There.  Light - as light as you can.  Again.”

Steven obeys, and Layla closes her eyes and makes a small sound of pleasure.  Steven closes his eyes too and groans and then, abruptly, hands back control to Marc.  Marc shifts into his body and immediately gets a blast of sensory input - his arms are around Layla and their bodies are pressing together, skin to skin.  

He realizes at once why Steven gave him the body back: he is very hard and way too close to coming given that all they’ve done so far is some very light petting.

He reaches down and squeezes his cock, then takes a few deep breaths and walks himself back from the edge.  “For chrissakes, Steven, we’re not sixteen.”  

“Sorry,” Steven says from the mirror.  “This is - it’s a lot.”

Marc kisses Layla on the lips, then draws back to say, “Maybe best if I take over for the next part.”

Layla laughs.  “Okay,” she says, “let’s show him how we do this.”

Before he met Layla, Marc had thought that he wasn’t missing out on anything by limiting himself to one-and-done encounters - an orgasm was an orgasm, just the necessary scratching of a physical itch.  But the second time he’d slept with Layla had been better than the first, and the third time was better again, and eventually he started to understand how much better it was knowing the contours of another person’s body as well as your own, anticipating their needs and allowing them to anticipate yours in turn.

He rolls her panties down her legs and shrugs off his own shorts.  Layla likes to be on top, so he rolls on to his back so she can straddle him.  She slides herself down onto his cock and rocks just a little.  “Mmmm,” she says.  “Missed this.”

Even if Steven hadn’t let their body get excited a bit too fast, Marc reckons he’s not going to last long.  

He has an idea.  He’s not sure if it will work.  To Layla, he says, “Call Steven.  When I say.”  And then, to the reflection in the mirror: “You - be ready.”

They’ve hit the rhythm now, and with every thrust Marc is approaching the cliff edge of orgasm.  The need to come is almost painful.  He can’t leave it too late, he can’t let go, he can’t - 

“Say my name,” he says to Layla.  “Say it.”

She lowers her head towards him, brushes her lips against the sweat beading on his forehead, and she says his name, over and over, voice low and needy: Marc, I missed you.  Marc, I want you.  Marc.  Marc.  Marc.

“Say his.”

“Steven,” she whispers.  

Now, he thinks.  It takes every shred of self-discipline he possesses, but somehow Marc succeeds in pulling back his consciousness.  At the same time he feels the mental push of Steven taking over and, with huge effort, allows him into their body.  

He knows it’s worked because he can’t feel the orgasm when it hits.  He can hear Steven’s gasps and see Steven’s hips shudder and his hands clutch Layla’s waist as she tips her head back, but he can’t feel any of it.  

On the bed, Steven is wide-eyed and breathless.  “Fuck.”

Layla laughs again.  “I didn’t think you ever swore.”

“Only on special occasions.”  Steven turns his head to look at Marc’s reflection in the mirror.  “That was…”

“Better than your hand and pornhub,” Marc supplies. 

“Mmmm,” Steven says. 

“Don’t think I’m doing that every time,” Marc tells him.  “But I figured I owed you that.”

“You want back in?”

“No, it’s fine,” Marc tells him.  “Anyway, you’re not done.”  

Steven looks puzzled.  Layla clears her throat.  “If you two are finished chatting, it’s my turn.”

“Uh, okay,” Steven says.  “I’m not sure –”

She shifts her position on top of him, then takes hold of one of his hands and guides it between her legs.  “With your fingers.  Like this.  C’mon.”

After just a few strokes she puts her head back and groans and shudders.  It’s a hot day, and through Steven’s eyes Marc can see individual beads of sweat trickling down between her breasts.  Her hair is sticking to her skin.  From this position, aware but without the insistent needs of a physical body pressing on his mind, Marc finds he can enjoy the sight of Layla coming without any distractions.  

Steven is right: she is very, very beautiful.  

When she’s finished, she rolls to one side and lies next to him in the bed, one arm across his chest.  “I think we can call that a success,” she murmurs.  “Steven, I want to talk to Marc for a second.”

“Okay.”  Steven plants a gentle kiss on her forehead and then retreats, allowing Marc back into a body which is a great deal more relaxed than the last time he was in charge of it.  

“Hey,” he says softly.  

Layla’s eyes are half-closed.  Sleepily, she says, “You still want to get divorced?”

Marc laughs, he can’t help it.  “No.  God, no.  No.”  He pushes her curls out of her eyes.  “You are the best thing that ever happened to me.” 

“Don’t either of you ever forget it,” she says, and falls asleep. 

***

Marc wakes up in the middle of reading a book.  More accurately, he wakes up to find Steven reading a book.  Steven is sitting in a low chair in the study on the ground floor of the house.  The walls are lined with shelves, some of them practically bowed under the weight of heavy academic volumes.  This was where Layla’s father did a lot of his research and writing; the room has something of the atmosphere of a museum.

The book is something dense and academic about the development of religion in Egypt’s Early Dynastic Period.  Marc has no idea how Steven reads this kind of thing without frying his brain, but he can’t deny that Steven’s working knowledge of ancient Egypt has had practical applications lately, so it’s probably best not to disturb him.

Eventually Steven puts the book to one side, gets up and walks into the kitchen.  He goes to open the fridge and sees Marc’s reflection in its shiny chrome door, at which point Marc shifts back in to take control of their body.  The first thing he does is check the time - it’s late afternoon, almost evening.  He’s been asleep for hours.  

Next he opens the fridge and helps himself to a soda, takes a drink, and it’s only then, fully present in his body, that he notices the telltale signs: the vague soreness in the muscles of his thighs, the slight ache of his jaw.  When the fridge door swings shut again, he looks at Steven reflected in it and says, amused, “Again, huh?  You’re making up for lost time.”

Steven shifts and looks embarrassed.  “Layla wanted to, um, show me some things.”

Marc rubs his aching jaw.  “Apparently.”

“That’s – all right?” Steven asks, slightly hesitant.

By way of reply, Marc raises the soda can in a toast.  “Welcome to being married.  How are you enjoying it so far?”

“It’s brilliant,” Steven says fervently.

A shadow passes across the kitchen window.  The window opens onto the courtyard - the only access to it is from the house.  There shouldn’t be anyone out there.

Very quietly, Marc asks, “Where’s Layla?”

“Upstairs taking a shower,” Steven says.  

Marc starts to mentally reach for the suit before remembering abruptly that it’s gone.  No Khonshu, no suit.  

“What are you thinking?” Steven asks.

“I’m thinking Harrow was running a big organization and whatever’s left of it is not happy with us,” Marc says in a low voice.  “Keep well back.  I will handle this.”

Layla can more than handle herself in a fight, but if they go in on the upper floor - if she doesn’t hear them coming over the noise of the shower - if they trap her in the bathroom with no way out - 

He looks around the kitchen for a weapon, and sees the knife Layla had used to cut up fruit at breakfast.  He lifts it without taking his gaze off the door out to the courtyard.  

The door is made from what looks light balsa wood.  He turns sideways a little, lowers his shoulder, braces himself.  

Steven, figuring out what he’s about to do, says, “I don’t know if that’s really a good idea -”

Too late.  Marc accelerates across the kitchen, hits the door with his shoulder and - thank fuck - it comes off its hinges rather than stopping him in his tracks.  He bursts through it and leaps down the steps to the courtyard, ending in a roll which brings him back on to his feet.  It’s the kind of move which is second nature to him when he’s in the suit, but as a normal, baseline human being it’s as much due to luck as skill that he finishes upright and ready to fight.   He hopes he hasn’t just used up his entire allocation of luck.

Now he can see what he’s up against.

There are three men standing in front of him and - shit - another three coming down the courtyard’s wall on ropes.  They all look competent and well-armed.  

He hears the crash of breaking glass somewhere above him and looks up to see a streak of gold falling through the air.  It takes a second to register that the shape is Layla, resplendently armored as Taweret’s avatar.   She’s not exactly flying, but her descent looks controlled, and she lands on her feet beside him with no visible effort, a sword in each hand and the armor’s sharp-tipped wings spread.  

“Go,” she orders him: “Now.”

The last of the cultists reaches the bottom of the courtyard wall and jumps down from his rope.  They are surrounded and the courtyard is not large. Marc shifts his position slightly so he is covering off Layla’s blind spot.  “Are you kidding?  There’s six of them.  You need me.”  

“If you die again, you won’t come back this time,” Layla says.  “Steven, make him get out of here.”

Marc feels the growing mental pressure of another personality coming to the surface.  He pushes back hard, furious at Steven for siding with Layla.  “Do not fucking try this, Steven, I can’t let you in and if you distract me while I’m trying to fight you will get us killed –”

Wait.

It’s not Steven.  It’s someone else.  Someone cold and angry and - 

*

*

*

Marc blinks.  He is sitting at the kitchen table.  There is a cup of tea in front of him.

He jerks back, rocking the table and knocking the tea flying.  

Someone catches hold of his arm.  “Easy, now.  It’s okay.  Marc, is that you?  Are you back?”

Layla.  It’s Layla.  

He can hear his breath rasping; he’s hyperventilating.  

“Steven, can you calm him down?”

He can feel the mental nudge of Steven trying to move forward.  Instinctively he pushes back hard; he can’t help it.  He looks around the kitchen frantically for a few seconds before remembering the reflective refrigerator door.  He twists around in the chair until he finds it.

“Here I am,” Steven says.  “I’m here, it’s okay, I’m here.  Let’s breathe, all right?  Let’s just breathe.”

Marc nods.  Breathes.  Layla is still holding his arm, and that’s helping to ground him as well.  

When he finally trusts himself to speak again, the first thing he says is, “There’s someone else.”

“I know,” Layla says.  “I saw him.  The courtyard’s a mess.”

Marc looks through the gap where the kitchen door used to be.  The house’s courtyard is dimly visible in the darkness outside - he notes distantly that it’s night now, meaning he’s been absent for a couple of hours - but he can still make out the outlines of bodies.

“Did he –” he breaks off.  “All of them?” 

“Yes.”

“I didn’t know,” he says raggedly.  “I promise, I wasn’t hiding this from you.”

“It’s okay,” Layla says.  She looks deeply unhappy but not angry or betrayed.  “I believe you.  Steven came back first.  We’ve been talking.”

Steven pushes forward again and this time Marc is sufficiently in control of himself to allow him to take over.  “We kind of did know, Marc,” he says quietly.  “When we were on the boat with Taweret, there was another sarcophagus, do you remember?”

Marc does remember.  He also remembers the fight just after they arrived in Cairo in which both he and Steven had blacked out simultaneously and came back surrounded by bodies.  

“The thing is,” Steven continues, “I think you and I are really good at not knowing things.  Not deliberately.  But there’s always been a lot of stuff that it’s been easier for us to just… not know.  It’s a habit now.  We don’t realize we’re doing it.”

Marc can’t really argue with that.  

“So now we do know,” Layla says, “we need a plan.”

Marc lifts his head and looks at her.  “We?”

“You, me, Steven.  We’re going to deal with this together.”

“This is too dangerous,” he says, shaking his head.  “I’m too dangerous.”

Layla shrugs.  “I’m a superhero now.”  

“You agreed to be Taweret’s avatar,” Marc says heavily, because clearly there haven’t been enough bad surprises already today.

“When I heard the noise I looked out the bathroom window and I saw you were about to get yourself killed, again,” Layla says.  “I yelled for Taweret and I took the oath right then.”  

“It’s a bad idea,” Marc tells her.  “Khonshu was –”

“Taweret is not Khonshu,” Layla says, cutting him off.  “Being an avatar was wrong for you but that doesn’t mean it’s wrong for me.  This is my decision, Marc.  I can do some good in the world this way.  I want to do some good in the world.”

“And what are you going to do about me?” Marc asks her.  “Are you going to watch me all the time?  Not let yourself trust me, not completely, not ever?  Because that’s what it will take, if whoever this is can just stroll into my brain and take over whenever he feels like it.  You can’t wear armor all the time.”

Layla is quiet, and he knows the point has hit home.  At last she says, “What do you think, Steven?”

Steven comes forward, but Marc can practically feel his reluctance to take over.  He really doesn’t want to speak.  “Marc’s right,” he says miserably.  “I’m sorry, Layla.  He’s right.  I know you said you don’t care if you’re safe or not but – we do.”

No one says anything for a long time after that.  Finally Layla breaks the silence. “So what now?”

Marc shuts his eyes for a second, feeling suddenly very tired.  His entire life has been a series of what-now decisions, each one leading him to a worse situation than the last.  In the past, he would have taken this new crisis and put it away in a box of its own so that he didn’t have to think about it or deal with it.  But that option is closed to him now, and if the last couple of weeks have proved anything, it’s that his old coping methods never solved anything anyway.

Then Steven speaks up.  “We’ll go back to London.  We’ll figure out how to talk to whoever this is.  I mean, he must be scared and confused, right?  I was.”

Marc pushes back in.  “That’s your whole plan?  Talk to him?”

“Yes,” Steven says.  “Worked for you and me, didn’t it?”

But then, Marc reflects, believing in people’s better nature is more or less Steven’s whole deal. 

“And I’ll stay here,” Layla says flatly.  

“Harrow is gone but his organization isn’t.  Someone needs to tidy things up.”  Marc makes himself smile.  “And, hey, you’re Cairo’s resident superhero now.”

He gets a similarly strained smile back from Layla.  “I’m going to need a superhero name.  ‘The Avatar of Taweret’ isn’t exactly snappy.”  

“The Amazing Woman,” Steven says. 

Layla gives a fragile laugh.  “The difference between you and Marc is that you can say that kind of thing without it sounding completely ridiculous.”  Then her expression clouds and she turns her head away from him for a second.  When she looks back her eyes are glistening.  “This is not fair.”

Marc takes her by the hand and they both get up from the kitchen table and stand together in the middle of the room, holding each other.  Marc breathes in Layla’s scent, then makes sure to swap with Steven so they can both have this sense-memory.  Then he shifts back in and says, “You’re right, it’s not fair.  If I weren’t like this  –”

Layla interrupts firmly, “You wouldn’t be you.”

He exhales.  “This feels like running away again.”

“Well it isn’t,” she corrects him. “This is different.  This time you’re going to deal with this head on, and you’re not going to disappear off the face of the planet, either, do you hear me?”  She slaps the flat of her hand lightly against his chest for emphasis.  “You are going to text me and we are going to talk every day and if it turns out you do need me there to help then I will get on the first plane to England and I will come to you.”  She pulls back slightly in order to give him a determined look: “Got it?”

She really is a force of nature, Marc thinks. “Got it.”

“Okay,” Layla says.  She puts both hands on his shoulders and draws him closer to her again, placing a kiss lightly on his lips.  “And you two have to look after each other.”

“We will,” Marc promises.  “That’s what we do.”

***

Compared to Cairo, London feels drab and gray.  It’s very late when they finally arrive back at the apartment.  Marc flicks the light on and starts to take off his jacket before reconsidering it.  The heating hasn’t been on in more than a week and the air is chill.  The place is still in as much of a mess as it was when they left, with Steven’s books and belongings strewn around on every available surface.  

“Why’d you get so untidy?” Marc complains. “You were a neat freak when we were kids.”

“I don’t know,” Steven says. “It was just hard to care very much about the mess when no one else ever saw it.”

“Well, I’m seeing it.  Tomorrow we start tidying up round here.”

Whenever Marc has been at the apartment in the past, it’s always been as an interloper, trying to pass through without leaving any evidence that might alert Steven to his existence.  Marc had always thought that he was the one keeping Steven hidden, putting him in a box and forcing him to stay in it.  Now Marc realizes that all along he was the one who was hiding, living a ghostly and insubstantial life, trying to pass through the world without letting himself be part of it.  

No matter what happens from now on, he decides, he’s done with that.  

While Marc is lost in thought, Steven takes over and lifts his phone from where it’s been sitting next to the fish tank for the last week.  There are ten missed calls, all from Donna, the manager of the museum gift shop.  Steven sighs.  “I suppose there’s no point going in to work tomorrow, except to pick up my P45.”

“Just tell her your unhinged alter ego kidnapped you and made you go to Egypt to fight a cult,” Marc tells him, tossing Steven’s phone on to the sofa, where it lands between an empty pizza box and an open copy of The Archaeology of the Nile Delta.  

“Yeeeeah,” Steven says slowly.  “Maybe not.”

“Don’t worry.  We’ll figure something out.”

Marc’s own phone pings in his jacket pocket.  As he takes over from Steven to look at it, it pings again as a second text message notification flashes up on the screen.  They’re both from Layla.  The first one reads: Have you arrived? Everything ok? 

The second message says: Madam Mighty - Y/N?

“That’s a terrible name,” Steven says with feeling.  Then, more hopefully, “Maybe Taweret will talk her out of it.”

“Taweret probably suggested it,” Marc says, and feels Steven’s chuckle rising up in his chest.  

Steven wants a cup of tea, but the open carton of almond milk in the fridge has gone off.  “We should’ve brought some of that koshary stuff back with us,” he remarks with regret, before yawning hugely.  

“Okay, we are exhausted.  Sleep,” Marc orders.

Steven doesn’t argue.  He gets progressively quieter as Marc changes for bed.  By the time Marc is brushing his teeth, there is no sign at all of Steven in his reflection.    

Marc gets into the bed and secures the ankle restraint, changing the code on its combination lock to six random numbers.  Of course, this won’t work if the other person in his head is looking out from behind his eyes right now, but Marc has no way of knowing if that’s the case or not.  As with a lot of things in his life, this is the best he can do in the circumstances.

Before he turns out the light, he sends a brief reply to Layla’s texts, just to let her know that they managed to get from Cairo to London without blacking out and murdering anyone on the way.  It’s the little victories that count.

He sets the phone down on the nightstand and is about to close his eyes when it chimes with a reply from Layla.  

Love you both.

Objectively, Marc knows, his life is still a mess.  The person he shares his body with just got fired from the only job they have between them, the woman they love is on the other side of the world, and there is the small matter of the anonymous violent psychopath occupying real estate in his brain.  But Steven and Layla have seen his mess and somehow the world has not ended.  Somehow it is all right.  Somehow he is all right.

Maybe tomorrow he’ll tidy the apartment.  But he goes to sleep feeling hopeful that even if he doesn’t, he might at long last be able to start learning how to live with the mess.