Chapter 3
It comes back in waves.
First, he was aware that he’s awake. Its nothing much, just a feeling. Like he’s floating, at first.
Then, He can feel. The ground is rough beneath his palms, and its cold; so very cold. He can feel something drip his shirt and onto the top of his hand, and he has just enough awareness to pray its not blood.
Next comes the sounds. Its quiet, eerily so. The bustle of the city is distant, so much so that he’s not entirely sure he’s not just imagining it. Someone’s crying close by, he hears their breath hitch and the sniffle that follows. He hears himself groan, feels it rumble in his throat.
“Marc?”
He hears the voice. Its familiar; she's familiar. But he still cant get himself to move. He's not full here yet, but he’s working on it.
“Marc, Help!”
And that voice is familiar, too. The feeling it brings is too; Panic.
If he wasn't awake before, he is now. A spear of pain lances through his chest, breathing spiking with it as everything that happened comes promptly back to him. He’s still under the water, he knows he is. It invades his lungs, drags him deeper and deeper until there's no longer any hope for him to escape. His shoulders and calves scrape against the ragged edges of the cave and god, he cant see Randall anymore.
His chest tightens as he tries to pull in more air through his constricted lungs. A hand places itself on his shoulder. He jerks away, pulling himself up to sit. Marc pulls his knees close to his chest, frantically shaking his head. His eyes are open, but he can't see. He’s not focused on what's in front of him. He cant hear Layla calling out for him, begging him to relax. His breath comes in short sputters, making his skin hot and eyes wide. Quickly his body decides he cant handle this, and he finds himself fading away.
Marc groans lowly, cut off by his lack of oxygen. His head snaps back as if forced, eyes rolling back into his head as his eyelids flutter.
—----
Steven’s not usually forced into the front. Marc hardly ever accepts help, but apparently something was different this time. As such, he’s immediately on guard, blinking swiftly as he looks around for the source of his sudden replacement. Even as groggy as he is, nothing really feels wrong. They’re in a shipping yard or something, and he can hear the ocean slapping the wall behind him. Taking another foggy sweep in front of him he finds Layla, sitting back on her knees in front of him.
She looks awful. Her eyes are puffy and her cheeks are wet from crying. There’s a small slice along her jawline that he can see is actively being closed by the wonderful healing factor they’d both been gifted. She sniffles when he looks at her, studying his features closely.
His brows knit together as he pieces it together; a bit slow to the uptake for now.
“Layla? Whas’ the matter?” He asks, voice a little slurred.
“Steven.” She replies with a short exhale. Despite the release, she still seems tense. She moves closer, taking his head in her hands. He tilts his head into her grasp, lavishing in the sudden warmth they bring. He didn't realize he was so cold before….why is he so cold?
“What happened?” He asks again.
“You…Marc..” She pauses, worrying her lower lip between her teeth as she considers a gentle way to word it. She sighs again.
“Marc got hurt…He uhm..he panicked when he woke up. That's probably why you’re fronted.” She looks guilty as she finishes, waiting for his reaction almost.
Unhelpfully, Steven just blinks at her. He’s usually a little foggy after sudden switches, but this is a whole other level. Its not a fog, more like a brick wall. After probably a few minutes of him blankly staring at his girlfriend, he finally pieces it together enough to form a response.
“..woke..up? Wait, hurt how?”
Layla’s brows draw closer together as her dark eyes sweep frantically over his face. “I shouldn't…just- just relax for a second, kay?”
Slowly Steven nods, resting his head against the shipping container he didn't realize he was propped against. He closes his eyes for a moment, taking slow breaths in an attempt to clear his head. As he does so, some things from the night start to come back through the fog.
He quickly notices he’s soaking wet, salt water rhythmically dripping off his plastered curls. He runs his fingertips through his hair, dragging them down the side of his face on the come down. He winces as he drags his finger over a large bruise on his jaw. How had he not noticed that?
He uses this tactic for the rest of his body, running his hands over every inch of skin he can reach. He cringes at his shoulder, pulling the loose neckline of his t-shirt down to look over the giant, dark bruise that spans over the majority of his shoulder. He finds a similar one on his thigh. At this point, he’s thoroughly confused. They look like bruises from gunshots (unfortunately he knocks what that looks like), but there’s no bullet holes. Guns mean the suit so…why is he not in it?
He finally turns back to Layla, who’s still stuck with the same kicked puppy expression he’d left her with. Steven leans forwards with a short groan, taking her hands off her lap and into his. “What happened, Love?”
Tears immediately spring back to her eyes as she explains. She explains the reason they were there- correctly assuming he’s still pretty disoriented-, what she’d heard from her husband and how they’d fallen into the water. She slows in her telling as she gets to the point where they’d died, trying her best to be gentle with her wording lest she send her lover into a full panic again.
Steven feels his heart skip a beat when she describes it. Drowning reminds him of Marc’s memories with their brother. Steven never had any feelings towards Randall, even after he watched their memories. He was formed after his death, so its hard to think of him as a brother. Despite this, he knows full well how important he was-important he is to Marc. And drowning is the perfect reminder of that.
“Oh.” Is all he manages to reply. Fully aware of how dumb he sounds. He’s not sure what Marc managed to tell Layla about the defining incident, but he is sure that it's not his story to share.
“Is Marc ok?” She blurts, clearly worried about her twice deceased husband.
Steven pauses, delving into his mind for any hint. Marc’s inherently nosy when it comes to their body, so he’s never far from the front. This is different. While Steven can clearly feel his presence, it's faded and dull.
“..He will be.” he can't bring himself to lie to her.
“Ok. I can deal with that.” Layla inches closer, now sure he won't panic on her again. She pulls him down, laying him across her lap as she crosses her legs. She cards her brass braced fingers through his hair, carefully working the curls apart with them. He starts to dissociate again, eyes fading into a fairly comfortable fuzz of the world around him. As easy as it would be to sleep here, he’s still not sure they’re safe.
Because of this, the secondary avatar starts to sit up, placing his palm into the gravel below him before Layla stops him. “We should get somewhere safe before-”
“Shhh. I’ve got it. Just rest.”
“But we-”
“Nope. You literally just died, Steven. I’ll take care of everything. Just. Rest.”
There's no room for argument in her words, so he just complies. Laying himself back down across her lap, it's not long before he’s blissfully unconscious again.
Layla waits maybe 20 minutes to make sure he wasn't going to wake up before she quietly slides her legs out from under him. She then stoops down, scooping her sleeping boyfriend up in a bridal carry and readjusting his head to rest against her shoulder. Marc would be absolutely mortified at this development, which makes her wish she could take a picture. The metallic feathers slip from their perch on her back, clicking in to form the wings along her arms. Now realizing it would be impossible to hold him like this, she sets him back down against the shipping crate and manages to shift him onto her back with great difficulty.
Awkwardly she shuffles over to the pile of corpses they’d left behind and rummages through their bags until she manages to find two mid-sized lengths of rope. With expert precision she knots the rope around them both. One goes under his arms, and the other under his knees. Confident she wont drop him off her back mid air, she turns to leave.
Khonshu lingers in essentially the same spot he’d been in when he’d revived her boys. Now though, he sits atop one of the containers, forearms braced loosely on his knees.
“Were you there the whole time?”
Per usual, the feathered bastard has little to say.
“You’re still the worst,” She sighs, continuing past him. Her wings flourish as she prepares to take off, glancing over her shoulder at the god one more time. “,But…thanks.”
The avatar takes off, barely weighed down by the dead weight against her back. She returns them to their apartment, getting Steven out of his soaked clothes and into something warmer without even waking him. She then carries him to bed, tucking herself in beside him.
In the dark, she just stares unbothered. Her gaze flits slowly over each section of his face as if she was trying to find something new. She finds herself gently lifting his wrist towards her, pressing her thumb against it to check his pulse. It's normal, steady and rhythmic. Finally able to relax, she presses a kiss against the limb before putting it back down.
Despite knowing they’re safe, she still refuses to sleep.
The avatar holds a vigilant watch over him, assuring he’s still just sleeping regularly.
Even days from now, she’s certain this isn't something she’ll be able to easily forget. As much as she hates it, maybe she does owe the Bird a favor..