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There was the feeling of cold steel and the roughness of rubber in his hands. The air around him felt both cool and sticky. The taste of bourbon and whiskey sat heavily on his tongue. He could hear something in the distance… a party maybe? It was hard to tell; it felt so far away, like a dream— or perhaps even a memory.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
It was over. Harrow was defeated. Ammit was sealed within him and Khonshu... Khonshu was finally gone. After so long feeling both trapped in his service and grateful to have a purpose, Marc was finally free. But free to do what?
He had been going from one fight to another since he was sixteen and had taken up boxing. His father had of course disapproved of Marc’s ‘violent’ hobby, which had royally pissed Marc off. He had needed boxing as an outlet for everything he was going through— for the abuse his father had turned a blind eye to. They’d ended up arguing and, sick of how he was being treated, he had left home to join the Marines. He’d done three tours before being less than honorably discharged and labelled as unfit for duty.
Needing money, he had gone back to boxing, staging illegal fights in order to win big until the CIA had approached him. Marc had worked for them until meeting DuCamp and after a bad mission he’d taken up ‘Frenchie’s’ offer to become a mercenary. Some of the jobs they’d done had been simple protection jobs for people who weren’t exactly good people, but other times, he had been hired to take someone out. His hands had been soaked in blood long before Khonshu had gotten his claws into him, and being his fist of vengeance had only cemented what Marc was.
He didn’t know how to live a normal life— to not be waiting for the next mission or fight. Steven did. But that was part of why he was around, to be the normal to Marc’s abnormal. To be the good to his bad.
Sweat dripped from his forehead. One, two, three.
Unfocused eyes looked down to the gun in his hand. It fit so perfectly in his grip. Marc was made for this; he was made to hurt, to kill. It was all he was good at; that was the reason Khonshu had chosen him because he only existed to cause suffering to others. And now, now he was adrift— no longer with a mission to complete or a purpose to fulfill.
Everything was quiet. Too quiet. He reached for Steven but couldn’t find him. He was probably asleep, which was just as well. Marc didn’t want him around for this. He had to be so tired after everything that had happened. So was Marc. So very tired...
Breathe in. Breathe out.
A numbness had washed over him ever since the battle had ended. Though if he stopped to think about it and was honest with himself, that numbness had been there for a lot longer than that. It had been there, ignored but gnawing away at him for years, taking little bites out of him and chipping away until he was left with nothing but a hollow and empty shell.
When Harrow had shot them and he’d fallen into the water, knowing that Khonshu being gone meant he could no longer be healed— he was… glad. Sure; he had been worried about Layla, and knew it meant Ammit would be released, but he couldn’t deny the sense of relief knowing he didn’t have to fight any more. He could finally rest. Unfortunately life— or perhaps even fate, wasn’t so kind.
The afterlife (or as Taweret had pointed out, an afterlife) had presented its own set of challenges for him. He’d had to confront and relive memories he had spent decades running away from. He’d not had time to process any of it, or the weird Dr. Harrow stuff, because fighting the real Harrow and Ammit had taken all of his focus. But now that it was all over and the dust had settled— now that it was quiet and the world seemed to have come to a standstill— Marc found himself unable to think of nothing else.
Tears stung at the corners of his eyes; all that pain, all he had suffered through as a child replaying in his mind. How lost he had felt, how hopeless. Khonshu’s temple wasn’t the first time he had wanted to or tried to end his life, but each time either Steven had jumped to the front, confused by what was happening, or Marc had been too much of a coward to follow through. But now Steven was asleep; there was nothing standing in his way this time.
His father’s sermons came to mind—
" And surely your blood of your lives, will I require. "
He was the son of a Rabbi, a man who had hated violence and condemned him for seeking it out. A man who had turned a blind eye, and begged him to stay even whilst knowing what it would cost him. Marc had battled for years with his faith as a result of what had happened in that house, he found it hard to believe in Adonai when the world was so broken and there was so much injustice that G-d seemed to ignore. It was no wonder he had accepted another god who had actually spoken to him, offering him a way to get justice to those that needed it most, even if that god had abused him and made his life hell.
He knew what he was about to do was wrong, that taking this next step would be a violation of Jewish law. Life was for preserving, his body belonged to G-d, and this… this would be pandamount to theft and a rejection of Adonai’s authority. He wouldn’t be allowed to be buried in the cemetery where his brother had been put to rest, no clothes would be torn, or shoes removed. He’d be lucky if he even got a shiva. Marc wasn’t doing this as a martyr; he was doing this because he couldn’t handle the pain anymore.
Marc could almost hear his father now, arguing that he wasn’t of sound mind. Bringing up all the times he had been at Putnam as a child and pointing out that a man like him, with the demons he had, could never be expected to make the wisest of decisions. Better to have a son who was insane, than a son who was a coward.
His breaths became sharp and quick as he placed the gun under his chin, and he felt a surge of panic start to grip him. Damnit. He could do this. He wanted to do this. Just one squeeze of his finger was all it would take.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Close your eyes. It will all be over soon.
"Marc, what the hell?!"
With a sharp inhale, Marc opened his eyes to see Layla standing in the doorway, looking uncharacteristically pale.
“Baby. Habibi, please, don't do this." Her voice shook, and she took slow steps towards him, like she was approaching a cornered animal. Marc couldn't speak, he was frozen in place, like a deer in headlights. Although he wanted to keep her from getting close, because he knew she'd try to take the gun from him, he was powerless to stop her.
“Baby just breathe, it's okay, you're okay."
What did she mean? He was breathing, wasn't he? But as Layla slowly knelt in front of him, Marc realised that he wasn't breathing. As he tried to exhale, he felt his lungs burn from the force of his breath. He tried to breathe in, to give his lungs some relief, but he couldn't seem to breathe normally. How did someone breathe normally? Why couldn't he just breathe like a normal person? What was wrong with him? Each of his breaths was sharp, like a knife twisting into his gut. He was becoming lightheaded, it was all too much—there were black spots in his vision, but he couldn't let go. He couldn't seem to make his body obey him. Why couldn't he just breathe ?
"Marc."
He must have zoned out, because suddenly his face was in Layla's hands, her thumbs stroking his tear-stained cheeks. "Baby, can you hear me?" Marc was shaking, but he managed to give her a nod. He felt something cold brush against his throat, reminding him that the gun was still there. "Okay...okay." Thumbs brushed against his cheek again, helping to ground him in the present. "Can you give me the gun?"
Marc paused for a second before shaking his head. He could see Layla was scared, but she would realise that it was better this way. She would be better off this way once he was gone and not around to keep hurting her. She deserved better than him, she deserved better than a husband who lied to her, who ran away from her, who had gotten her father killed. "Please Marc. I can't lose you. Not again. D-don't do this to me."
His shoulders hunched forwards as he fought back the sobs that threatened to destroy him.
"Steven? Please, you have to help me." Layla begged, trying to reach his alter, clearly under the illusion that the easy switching they had done when fighting Harrow meant Steven would still be around to swoop in and save the day, to save him.
Marc laughed bitterly in response. Steven couldn't help, not with this, not this time. Even if Steven was co-con with him, Marc wouldn't let Steven stop him. It was better this way. "Not here." He choked out between panicked breaths. "It's just me."
"Okay." Layla's hand had moved from his cheek to the hand that held the gun, and he had no idea when that had happened. He couldn't seem to follow the timeline of events. He felt so disconnected from everything around him. His hand tensed in response to hers, but she didn't try to pull his hand or force the gun out of his hand. It was just there, a steady presence and a reminder that he wasn't alone. "Marc, sweetie. Please, just give me the gun."
"I can't!" He sobbed, curling into himself as sobs began to rack his body. The hand holding the gun dropped to his lap, like his strings had been cut. "I can't. I can't. I can't." He repeated it over and over like a mantra, sobbing and hyperventilating between each round, sounding more broken each time. He was falling apart at the seams, completely unraveling, decades of unprocessed and repressed emotion breaking free of the dam he had built to keep it away, and crushing him with the force of it. "I-I ca—"
"Shhh baby, it's okay. It's okay—"
"Stop saying that!" he wailed. "It's not okay. It's never been okay. It will never be okay!" He had been holding everything together for so long, but he couldn't do it anymore. "J-just go ."
"No. I'm not leaving you, not like this, not ever."
"You should. You should hate me. Your father it… it was all my fault."
Layla was silent, and Marc knew it was because she agreed. It was his fault, always his fault. He might not have pulled the trigger, but he had still been the reason Abdallah El-Faouly had been killed. He was a killer; his hands were stained red from countless innocent lives, and the lives Khonshu deemed guilty; and no matter what he did, he couldn't wash it off.
Rocking back and forth, Marc found it even harder to breathe. Layla was talking, but he couldn't hear the words. His heart was pounding hard against his chest like it was trying to tear out of his ribcage. His vision was blurring, and it felt like there was a band wrapped around his head, squeezing it as it was pulled tighter and tighter. The pressure was building… he started to feel a righteous anger bleeding through, and curses being spoken in Spanish. Marc didn’t take the time to wonder about that. He couldn’t. He couldn't breathe; he needed this to be over. Raising the gun once more, he closed his eyes, hoping Layla would forgive him for what he was about to do—
"¡Para, no lo hagas!"
There was a sensation of whiplash as Steven was thrown into the front and suddenly found himself in control of the body. He felt disoriented and confused; the last thing he could remember was Khonshu releasing them, and then he’d fallen asleep. He had no idea what was going on now, or where he was. But as his senses began to come back to him bit by bit, he first became aware of someone screaming hysterically. Next, came a foul taste in his mouth, and his head felt fuzzy from more than just the dissociation that he sometimes felt. He groaned, knowing it meant that Marc had to have been drinking, and pretty heavily too if the pounding in his head was anything to go by. Was it too much to ask for Marc to at least brush his teeth after drinking? Or even to stay in control of the body until he’d sobered up?
Steven blinked a few times, he could feel… water? No… tears in his eyes, and he felt the weight of something cold and heavy in his hands. As his vision started to clear, he saw Layla in front of him, looking absolutely petrified. Despite feeling somewhat disconnected from the body, Steven felt a deep desire to comfort her and go to any length to chase away whatever was scaring her. Reaching towards her, Steven blanked when he saw a gun in his hand, realisation coming to him as it clicked that the heavy feeling in his hand belonged to the gun. "Bloody hell!" Steven went to drop the gun on the floor, wanting nothing to do with such a dangerous weapon but Layla grabbed his hand before he could. "What the bloody hell is going on? Why are you stopping me?"
"The safety needs to go on first," Layla explained, hands slowly moving over the gun to demonstrate how to put the safety on. "Don't want any accidents now, do we?" Her eyes were glistening and her cheeks were wet. Steven hated to think it, but she looked rough. Like she had been through the wringer. Had something happened between her and Marc? Had they been arguing? No, it couldn't be that.
Even if they had been arguing, that still didn't explain why there was a gun in his hand. The last thing Steven remembered was sealing Ammit inside of Harrow. He tried to search for any semblance of a memory of what had happened between then and now, but it was completely blank. He'd been so tired after the fight; he'd just wanted to have a rest, but now he was regretting it. Something had happened; he could tell it was bad from the way Layla was looking at him. God, she was even shaking! Had Marc threatened her? No… he couldn't imagine Marc ever doing that. Maybe the other mysterious alter? Could they be the cause of all this?
"Steven, can you give me the gun?"
"Oh. Sure, of course." Steven went to release his hold of the gun, but found his fingers wouldn't budge, just like in the Alps. "Em, think me hand has cramped up." He frowned as he recalled when this had happened before when Harrow had asked him to hand over the scarab. Steven tried to reach out to Marc, in the hopes he could convince Marc to loosen his grip, but it was like there was something blocking him. It felt like there was a battle raging inside of him; everytime his hand started to relax, it contracted again. Frowning, Steven took stock of his racing heart, the tears on his cheek, the way his body felt like it was poised to flee, just like when they had been kids. "Layla...what happened? What's going on?"
"Marc…" She sighed, squeezing Steven's hand. "Can he still hear me?" Steven reached out again. He could feel Marc was there, but it was faint. It was like Marc was trying to push him away, to put a wall back up between them, but he was there. It scared Steven. He had lived what he assumed was his whole life never knowing Marc was there, but he had gotten used to his presence over the last few days. To suddenly feel disconnected from Marc was uncomfortable. It was frightening.
Nodding, Steven looked to Layla, his stomach twisting with guilt. Marc had said he would disappear once everything was over, and now he was pushing Steven away, refusing to make any kind of connection with him.
"Marc," Layla whispered, cupping his face. "Marc, please let Steven give me the gun."
"Why does he even have a gun, Layla?"
"I don’t know. I just came in and saw him with it." Layla leant back, kneeling on the floor and looking like the weight of the world was about to crush her underneath it. "I-I don’t really understand how any of this—" She waved a hand towards Steven, "—works. I don’t know if you’re able to know what he’s thinking or-or if… I did some reading on the plane ride over here after you guys left me in London. I wanted to understand, but I’ve barely scratched the surface." Tears began running down her cheeks again. "I want to understand. I want to be there for you, for us to get back to our lives together, but I can’t if you kill yourself, Marc."
Steven flinched as if he’d been struck. What did she mean, kill himself? Was that…was that what Marc had been trying to do? Why would he do that after all they’d been through in the Duat? They had worked so hard, had to face up to so many truths, fight sand zombies just so they could get to Osiris’ gate and get back from the afterlife. Why would Marc just throw all of that away? Marc couldn’t be suicidal. He was strong, steady, unshakeable. He was a survivor. What possible reason did he—
Oh . Realisation hit Steven like a punch in the gut. How could he have been so stupid? How had he missed all the signs? Ever since Steven had learned about him, Marc had been saying that he would disappear, that Steven would never hear from him again. In the Duat, he had seen just how bad things had been for Marc, had seen him try to kill himself before Khonshu had stepped in… Marc had even said he’d hoped someone would finish him off. How could Steven have been so blind? How could he have failed Marc so badly?
Steven had learned part of why he existed, why he was created was to help Marc—to protect him, and shoulder some of the stress and emotions Marc wasn’t able to handle. He’d been angry when he had accused Marc of using him like a stress ball, but it didn’t make it any less true. Marc seemed to check out when things became too much for him, and bit by bit Steven had stolen bits of Marc’s life and claimed them as his own. He felt awful about it, and yet at the same time he felt a strong ownership of it. They were his memories, his experiences. It wasn’t his fault that he’d been in control. He shouldn’t have to feel bad for getting to live a life Marc wished he could have… so why did he? Why did he feel like Marc’s downward spiral was his fault?
Maybe if Marc’d had more happy memories, he wouldn’t feel so sad. Maybe if Steven had been stronger, if he’d done more to protect Marc from their mother’s rage, Marc wouldn’t feel so hopeless. So many of Marc’s memories were dark and dismal—it was frightening just how little good memories Marc had. If Steven existed to protect Marc, then why hadn’t he been the one to suffer their mother’s cruelty? Why hadn’t he known about any of this till Marc had been forced to reveal it to him? Had Steven really helped Marc? Was he actually there for Marc? Or had he just ripped all the good experiences out of Marc’s hands so he could have them for himself?
Steven knew what he had seen barely scratched the surface of what Marc had been through, and as much as he wanted to know, to be able to help shoulder that burden he knew realistically that Marc might still keep some secrets for him. But Steven had thought, had hoped that going forward they would be able to work on getting better. How could they do that if Marc checked out?
He wanted to be angry—he was angry, but now wasn’t the time to be angry. That could come later, once he knew Marc was safe and would be able to cope with it. "He was trying to kill himself?" He already knew that’s what happened; he didn’t know why he said it… maybe he just needed confirmation. Layla nodded her head.
"Okay." Marc was supposed to be the strong one, so what did that mean if he was the one falling apart?
"Steven? I don’t understand. Why would Marc do this?" Her face was stained with tears that still ran down her cheeks. He wished he could take those tears away. He wished he could have stepped in earlier so Layla wouldn’t have to see Marc like this.
"Marc… he’s been through a lot, Layla. A lot more than you or I could possibly imagine. He’s in pain, he’s in so much pain." It felt wrong to be talking about Marc like he wasn’t there, like he wasn’t hiding just beneath the surface.
Layla worried at her lip. "Harrow said as much. He said it was astonishing that one man could live with so much pain." Steven nodded, unsure what else he could add. "I was so focused on what he was saying about my father, I didn’t think… oh god, Steven. I didn’t think." Once more she was wracked by sobs, her whole body shaking. "Did I do this to him Steven? Did I drive him into wanting to end his life?"
"Oh, love, no. Of course you didn’t." He wished he could hug her, but he didn’t want to risk the gun going off. "Harrow was a tosser. He knew exactly what to say to get under your skin."
"And I was stupid enough to let him." Layla seethed. "I blamed Marc and he died, you both died, with him thinking I hated and blamed him for my father’s death. He told me he didn’t do it, but I didn’t care… I just saw red. The details didn’t matter to me."
"He told me what happened. It was one of the memories that got shared when we were in the Duat." They hadn’t really had a chance yet to discuss with Layla what had happened down there, and whilst Steven really wanted her to know, it wasn’t just his story to tell. Pretty much all the memories that had been shared were Marc’s, and he didn’t feel it was his place to share that in turn with Layla. "If it’s any consolation, he really did try to save your father. If it weren’t for Khonshu, our story would have ended that night as well."
Layla wiped her eyes, nodding. "It does help. I’ve wanted answers for such a long time, I thought if I had them it would take the pain and grief away, but it hasn’t." With his free hand Steven reached out and took her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. "Thanks."
"You’re welcome." He could feel the grip on the gun start to loosen. "Layla, I know being honest is sort of my thing, but the stuff Marc went through should really come from him."
"I understand." Layla sighed. "But what if he never tells me? How can I help him if he just keeps shutting me out, or pushing me away?" It was a valid point, and Steven wished he had the answers for her. He wished he could make things easier for the both of them, like he’d done when he had told Layla about why Marc had left.
Marc had been grateful that he’d done what he couldn’t, but Steven didn’t know if he would be grateful this time, or if part of the reason he’d retreated and thrown Steven into the body was because he needed him to do that again. Glancing at the nearest reflective surface, Steven hoped Marc might be there to point him in the right direction, but all he saw was his own face looking back at him. Marc was being stubbornly silent, leaving Steven to blindly stumble through this whole mess of a situation alone.
"You just need to give him time love," he finally answered, after what felt like minutes of silence. "The stuff he had to face back there, it was really painful for him, an’ it’s probably all still a bit too fresh for him, yeah?" Steven smiled at her sympathetically. "Give him time an’ I’m sure he’ll tell you once he’s ready."
"He said it was his fault." She said it so quietly that Steven barely heard her, "He said…" Layla’s brow furrowed. "Harrow… he implied Marc was to blame for my father’s murder, and then when we were fighting him; when you guys were pinned down, I remember him saying something… It was hard to hear over the gunfire but there was a name—" Steven’s heart began to race, a pit forming in his stomach. His hands were becoming clammy, and he knew before she even said it what she was about to say. "—he said…"
"R-randall." Marc’s voice broke through, choking on the word. "H-his name was Randall."
"Marc?"
"He- he drowned, and it was all my fault. It was all my fault." Marc curled into himself and he started to rock back and forth in his spot; his eyes staring blankly at a spot above Layla’s shoulder.
"I’m sure it—"
"—It was. It was. I should have saved him. I shouldn’t have taken him to that cave."
"Mar—"
"—And she was so mad, she was always so mad. I deserved it, I killed him-"
"Baby—" Layla reached out to him but he pulled back from her touch—rejecting whatever comfort she mistakenly thought he deserved.
"It’s all I ever do, it’s all I ever do."
"Please jus—"
"I killed him, I killed your father. I killed all those people." He dug his hand into his palm, leaving small crescent indents in their wake. He kept digging and digging, wanting that pain and knowing he deserved it.
"Marc I need you to—"
"Ammit, she took all those souls, and it’s my fault. I should have gotten the scarab sooner."
"Habibi stop." She reached out once again and took his head into her hands, trying to make eye contact. But he couldn’t, he just couldn’t. It was too much. He couldn’t handle it.
"I should have stopped Harrow from ever getting to her ushabti, she should never have been allowed to escape and it’s my fault, it’s my fault, it’s my fault !" His voice was getting louder and louder.
"It’s not—"
"—I wasn’t quick enough, I wasn’t strong enough and I—I just hid, I ran." His hands moved from his ears to his lap, his free hand slapping into his thigh.
"No don’t sa—" Layla grabbed his hand, trying to stop him from hitting himself. He could feel pressure on his hand as it was squeezed.
"—I ran. From you—from my life—from my mot-" He could barely get any breath in. "I kept letting Khonshu down. If I had just listened ."
"Khonshu shouldn—"
"—If I had fought harder, done more, then all those people… they wouldn’t have died."
"That’s not y—"
"—All those families that have been torn apart….all because of Ammit. All because I didn’t stop Harrow getting to her."
He was spiralling, short and sharp breaths making his chest hurt and his head spin. Steven was near the front; he could feel him pushing at the forefront of his mind, trying to regain control. Marc began to feel hazy and unfocused—there was a dull throbbing behind his eyes, but before Steven could take the reigns, Marc forced him back with a grunt. He deserved to feel this pain, to feel sick for what he’d done, or rather what he hadn’t done.
"If we don't get back, and Harrow succeeds, and all those people die… that’s on your head."
Steven had been right; it was on him. All those bodies he’d seen on the floor, all gone, unable to return because of him. All those prejudged souls, people who would never get a chance to change, to be better, to live a full life, to be judged properly had been robbed, because of him .
"—arc, habibi." His vision had blurred, but he could just make out Layla’s lips moving, her voice sounding far away. "—ease listen to me. I need you to breathe with me—can you do that for me?"
There were hands on his knees, gently stroking up and down, trying to ground him. The hand holding the gun shook. Sweat from overexerting himself dripped from his forehead down to his nose. He was disgusting. He was broken. He flinched away from her touch, drawing further into himself. She shouldn’t be touching him. Not after what he’d done. Not when his hands were stained with blood.
"Marc what the hell was that?"
"I don’t know. I blacked out."
He remembered seeing her fear after he’d come back into the body. She had been afraid of him. He knew she had, even if she denied it. There was someone else inside his head, someone dangerous. And that made him dangerous. He couldn’t be trusted. It really was better if he died. He didn’t want to hurt anybody else.
"I can’t. It’s all my fault." He slammed his fists into his head. "All my fault. I killed him."
Steven was wrong, he didn’t know, he was just being kind, he didn’t understand. How could he? He’d only seen a small fraction of his life. He didn’t have enough information to make an informed analysis of who Marc was. Marc had a room full of bodies, and RoRo wasn’t even the only one. He was a killer, just like his mother had beaten into him. "I killed him!"
"That’s not true mate. You couldn’t have known what was going to happen. You were a kid, it was an accident."
"No, no it wasn’t."
"You let him drown."
His mother’s grief striken voice echoed from the grave. It felt so real, like she was there in the room with them. Marc’s heart began to pick up it’s pace. He wanted to run. He wanted to hide, to escape her fury and the lash of the belt she wielded in her hand. Logically, he knew she wasn’t actually in the room, but in his current mental state, he was struggling to distinguish past from present.
"Harrow was wrong, it’s not your fault. You can’t blame yourself."
" — young Randall's life would've been saved, your family would've been happy"
"I told you back in the Duat. You didn’t deserve what our mother did to you.
She shouldn’t have blamed you. Randall dying wasn’t your fault."
"I destroyed us, I killed him, I killed her, it’s all I do."
"I should have known you’d do something like this."
He could feel pressure building in his head again, like the worst headache he’d ever experienced. It was like someone had hit it with a sledgehammer, drilled into it afterwards and just for good measure, was taking an ice pick to his eyes. Everything was too much: the headache, the lights, Steven and Layla’s voices—
"That’s not true — "
"You were supposed to keep him safe."
"—Habibi please you need to breath."
"You disgusting human."
"You’re not to blame."
"You’re not a killer Marc, you didn’t want any of this."
"Why do you make me have to do this?"
"You need to give Layla the gun."
"Please just give me the gun. Let me help you."
"Dale la pistola."
"Don’t let Harrow win, don’t let that sod get the better of you."
"I should have known you’d do something like this."
"We’ll put everything behind us, we’ll get you help, whatever you want just please-"
"Please mate, listen to — "
"—isten to me."
"JUST SHUT UP. SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUT UP!" Marc screamed, hitting his head over and over again, trying to drown Layla and Steven and the other voices out. He kept hitting himself, hoping if he hit hard enough, he would be able to crack his head open and let all the thoughts and the guilt spill out of it. He hit himself, because pain was what he was used to. It’s what he deserved and if Layla wasn’t going to hit him for all his wrongdoings and mistakes, he would have to do the job for her-
PWRAP!
Marc recoiled in shock and horror when he heard the gun go off. He hadn’t meant to. He had forgotten it was still in his hand. Everything had just been too much and he’d been too focused on making it all stop that he hadn’t even thought—
Layla. Was Layla okay? Had he hurt her? Fuck , he’d never forgive himself if she had gotten hurt because of him. He should have known something like this would happen, it’s why he tried to push her away, because he wasn’t safe to be around. He dragged others down with him until they drowned under the tidal wave of crap his life brought. He should have died in that cave; the world would have been better if he had—all those lives he had ruined would have been okay if he’d never existed. Marc should have tried harder to keep Layla away. He should never have dragged her into all of this.
"Marc, hey! Look at me!" There were hands on his cheeks, shaking him and forcing him to look up from the floor. He recognised those calloused hands, he recognised that voice.
"L-layla? You’re okay?"
"Yeah, baby, I’m okay." Her voice shook. She wasn’t okay. She looked absolutely petrified, like she was about to be sick. He’d done that to her. She only looked like that because of him. "Are you okay?"
"I’m sorry." He dropped the gun onto the floor, fingers suddenly losing the ability to grip as his whole body went numb. "I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to- It was an accident." He thought the safety had gone on… when had he taken if off again?
"I know, habibi, I know." She moved closer to him, and he tried to pull away, but the hands on his cheeks held him tighter, refusing to let him retreat. "You’re okay, I’ve got you. I’ve got you." Arms wrapped around him, pulling him into a hug and just like that, the dam broke and like a puppet with strings being cut, he fell into her arms.
"I’m so sorry, Layla." Burying himself into her neck, he sobbed and sobbed. He desperately wanted to retreat and let Steven take over again, but he pushed back; quietly assuring Marc that he could do this, and that he needed to do this. Logically, Marc knew Steven was right. He couldn’t keep relying on Steven to handle these emotions; it wasn’t fair for him to do that. But it didn’t change the fact that everything felt too big for him. This wasn’t his area of expertise and he had no idea how to navigate something like this without retreating.
For longer than he could remember, whatever Steven hadn’t taken on board when he’d fronted, or what he’d held at bay till Marc was in a better headspace to deal with, had just been bottled up. Over time, as Marc had erected barriers between him and Steven, and found ways to keep him from taking over, those emotions he found impossible to deal with had added to that bottle.
Every time he was confronted with something, or a memory was triggered that he couldn’t deal with, it got pushed into that same bottle. Sometimes, a bit of it would leak out, bringing Steven out again, or putting Marc into a fugue state. It was never enough. It was a patch work at best, and he had felt the cracks beginning to show.
He should have known this day was coming, when the pressure would eventually cause that bottle to shatter, and everything he’d held back would come spilling forth. Stupidly, he had hoped he might be dead when that happens, or so deep into the headspace that it either could be avoided, and if not, then it wouldn’t have to hurt anyone else. But he was wrong. He was hurting other people, he was hurting Layla and Steven, all because he couldn’t hold himself together anymore.
"Shh it’s okay, just let it out. You're safe. I’ve got you."
With the floodgates now open, Marc began to sob uncontrollably, barely able to get a breath in before the next sob poured out of him. It felt never ending, like he would be stuck in this state for eternity. There was just so much pain and it felt like it was being ripped out of him. He wanted to run away from it, because that had always been his coping mechanism. It had worked for him but he knew it wouldn’t anymore. He could barely feel or hear Steven over his own wracked cries, but he could sense Steven telling him that he needed this, that it would be cathartic, even if it didn’t feel like it in the moment.
He hated how right Steven was.
Marc cried till the tears ran out. At some point, he’d ended up on the floor, head in Layla’s lap as he’d crumbled into himself. Layla was stroking his hair, soothing him, saying words that he couldn’t quite make out, but her voice was gentle and a touch melodic. He thought perhaps she might be singing to him, but he was so lost in his grief and so exhausted from screaming and crying that he couldn’t be certain that his mind wasn’t just making it up.
"I’m sorry Layla."
"Shh, you’ve nothing to be sorry about."
"Your fath—"
"—I forgive you."
"What?" He looked up from her lap in disbelief, his movements sluggish from exhaustion; both physical and emotional. She had been so angry before, her eyes so full of hatred of him. How could she possibly forgive him? Was she only saying this because she was afraid of what he would do? Was this just out of pity for him?
"I forgive you Habibi. I was angry, but I understand now. You did your best." She took his head back into her hands and with her thumbs, wiped the excess tears away. " I forgive you ." Leaning in, she gave him a chaste kiss, their foreheads touching afterwards. "I love you Marc, and I forgive you . It wasn’t your fault. I don’t care how many times I have to say it. I will keep on telling you till you accept it and believe it yourself, and then I will say it again to remind you."
"I-I’m sor—" Marc mumbled, keeping their foreheads pressed together, reluctant to lose her touch, desperate for any kind of physical contact with her.
"—No. No more apologising." He closed his eyes as she stroked his hair again, breathing in her scent, basking in this moment before it would inevitably slip away. Maybe not now, maybe not tomorrow, but one day soon she’d come to her senses and walk away. Until then, he would have to cherish the moments he did have with her.
"I love you Layla." The words felt heavy on his tongue, like he didn’t deserve to say them. It broke his heart. He knew he’d never be good enough for her; he had far too many ghosts haunting him, and he didn’t want her to end up haunted too.
But he was selfish. He knew he should let her go, to sign those divorce papers and set her free. It would be the kinder option rather than condemning her to a life with him. But it’s what he wanted, what he needed, and damn his soul, he would hold onto her as long as he could.
"I love you too Marc, nuur 'inayyi, but I need you to promise me one thing."
"Anything, hayati."
"If you ever feel the need to do something like this again, talk to me . I can’t… I can’t go through this again Marc. I can’t lose you, either of you. Please, don’t make me go through that. Don’t make me walk in to find you gone— my heart wouldn’t be able to handle it."
He choked out another sob, overwhelmed by her love, how she wanted him to live, and how he had hurt her by trying to deny her that.
"Ya-Rouhi…" And he meant it, with every fibre of his being.
Layla smiled softly, before her expression became serious once more.
"I need you to talk to someone. You need help Marc. I can do my part, I’ll listen if you need to talk, I’ll sit with you all night when you want to reach for the gun or something else. I will drop whatever I’m doing to be at your side when you need me, but you also have to do your part. It doesn’t have to be much. But please; when we get back to London, I want you to find someone you can talk to that knows more about this stuff. I can’t… I can’t watch you get lost to this darkness. It’s dragging you under and I’m scared albii, I’m scared where it will take you."
It was a huge ask. Layla didn’t know how much she was asking of him. His experience so far with doctors wasn’t positive. He didn’t want to go back to a time where all they did was fill him with so many pills that he couldn’t think or move. He didn’t want to be locked up again; treated like he was broken, (even if he was), or unfit to live in society. Services might have made leaps and bounds since his time in psychiatric care as a child, but he still didn’t trust it. He didn’t trust that they wouldn’t try to make him get rid of Steven like they’d done before.
But Layla needed this, and as much as he hated it, he knew he needed it too. Something needed to change, he couldn’t go on like he had before. It wasn’t fair to Steven; and for all the lack of self worth Marc possessed, he knew it wasn’t fair on him either. He needed to try, even if it was only a little. He and Steven had both admitted they needed help, so he had a duty to see that through, no matter how much it frightened him.
Physically, mentally, and emotionally exhausted, he couldn’t respond verbally, so he just nodded. His body felt weightless and heavy at the same time, and he could feel himself being pulled back into the darkness. Time seemed to stand still as he stared vacantly over Layla’s shoulder.
Blink .
He’s standing, legs unsteady. There’s a hand guiding him, leading him somewhere. He isn’t sure where. He should focus, but he’s just so tired.
Blink.
He now finds himself in the bed. The sheets feel like silk. He runs his hands along it, trying to ground himself in the present, but it’s hard. He feels like staying in this in-between state forever.
Blink.
Tears are flowing once again. He’s sobbing quietly, head turned into the pillow to muffle the sounds. When will it end? He doesn’t want to keep feeling this way.
Blink.
Layla’s arms are wrapped around him from behind. His heart rate spikes. He feels trapped. Safe. A voice reminds him, and he relaxes. She isn’t going to hurt him.
Blink.
His body feels so heavy. It’s so hard to move and he isn’t sure that he wants to. He can still taste the bourbon on his tongue but it feels stale now.
Blink .
Her head is nestled under his chin. She’s resting on his chest, soothing him, whispering words of assurance to him.
Blink.
The tears are drying up. The darkness is calling him.
Blink.
It’s dark out, night has fallen. He’s not sure when that had happened. Time is so funny like that. It feels like it’s standing still, but running away from him at the same time. It’s like every time he—
Blink.
Time has moved on once again. Layla’s falling asleep—Marc’s not far behind.
Blink.
The woman is asleep, and Marc is safe. No one suspects a thing. Neither of them are even aware that he has slipped into the front.
Blink.
"¡No te preocupes. Él está bajo mi cuicdado. ¡Todo esterá bien!