moonlit memories
The feeling of the hot water hitting her skin unwinds her back, and Layla moans from the sensation. In the last few months, she has found little time to distress between getting to know Steven more, learning who her husband really is, meeting with Jake to most of the time eat in quiet silence, and roaming the streets of Cairo to fight crime.
Though, she does know how Steven likes his tea (they tried different ones until he was tickled with Assam loose leaf, cuddled up to her as they watched the telly), she's helped Marc open up and process more of his trauma (a family friend that was a rabbi was actually a Nazi and murdered Jewish people before Marc discovered him red handed, only for the Nazi to disappear without a trace after running away), and she knows what kind of music Jake prefers to listen to when he's driving his cab (oddly enough, softer things like Hozier and Lord Huron, as she discovered as he let her nap in the front seat on his taxi runs).
There's a knock on the door, quick rapping, and she thinks back and forth of who it might be: Steven trying to be polite or Marc not wanting Steven to see as that would be an awkward boundary to go past between her and Steven? "Come in!"
"Hey, uh," Steven asks as he cracks the door. "We've got dinner ready when you are."
"Dinner?" She turns the water off and leans around to grab the towel, pulling it behind the shower curtain. "You guys didn't have to."
"Yeah, well, Steven bullied me into it, so you better enjoy it," Marc sniffs.
"For the record," Steven interjects. "Marc was wondering if he could do something to help you unwind, then I suggested dinner, and he said it sounded like a wonderful plan."
"Snitch," Marc grumbles before shutting the door.
Layla smiles to herself, enjoying the banter the two of them have back and forth; it's amusing to watch, and she knows that being privy to their unique relationship shows how much they trust her, the realization lighting her with joy.
She steps out of the shower, drying her hair with the towel. On the counter lies a set of black pajamas, light fabric perfect for Cairo nights. On the middle of the collar rests a scarab charm, shining a metallic red, and the pants are dotted with the same shiny red scarab design. Oh, her boys. They know her so well.
She comes out of the bathroom, inhaling the smell of spices from the kitchen and feeling a faint fuzzy burst of joy in her head. “Oh, that smells divine, what did you-"
Marc comes around the corner and spins her into his arms, handing her a bouquet of Egyptian roses. "Hello, my love," He purrs.
Layla laughs, letting him nuzzle against her neck. "You two are plotting against me."
"Yes, but it's fun," Steven admits, grinning as he leads her to her chair. "We're making up for lost time."
"You mean you're helping Marc make up for lost time," Layla corrects as she sits.
Steven waves his hand dismissively. "I mean, I was dormant, so it could be considered lost time, Layla, for all the parts Marc hid me away from you."
"I think I could be forgiven for that, all things considered," Marc snarks.
"You were just terrified I'd steal her away with my charm and good looks," Steven taunts.
Marc rubs his face, but it doesn't do anything to get rid of the amused smile he has. "Alright, we pulled a few strings together to make this dinner happen. First, I had a case of mead shipped in from California. Brought a couple of bottles here, stored the rest." He darts around the dining room, pouring her a glass before gesturing to the kitchen. "Okay, now, Steven made fresh naan, made like seven batches last week trying to get it right-"
"It was only like three," Steven interrupts, pouting at the mirror hanging next to their photos.
“Okay, three batches last week,” Marc corrects. “So here is the naan.”
Garlic and honey blend together in the dough, and she doesn’t even realize she’s devoured the piece until she’s reaching for another. “It’s delicious,” Layla remarks, muffled by the food in her mouth.
“See? It was worth the trouble,” She can hear Steven say from the kitchen, and he comes out, holding a dish full of…
Sayadieh.
Marc notices her change in reaction, notices the minute elements of recognition on her face. “I was going through your books, and I found this recipe. You talked so much about it, and I was hoping that it might be-”
“My father’s sayadieh.”
The tears are fat, rolling down her cheeks as she sniffs. Marc sets the dish down, abandoning all thought of dinner as he cups her chin. "I'm sorry, I should've asked."
"No, please don't be." Layla takes a deep breath, pulling the dish closer.
Steven takes the slotted turner, scooping a serving onto her plate. "Here, let us do that."
She stares at it, trying to compare it to her memories. Is it a deeper color than when she was younger? More aromatic? Her hand grabs the fork, and before she even thinks about it, she takes the bite.
Marc waits, his hand fidgeting from his impatience. "Is it…okay?" He asks after a few seconds.
"It's…"
Different.
It's the difference upon remembering an old yard that one grew up playing in and seeing that old yard as an adult. A baby blanket now in one's hands after twenty years. Revisiting an old movie that was comforting when one was younger. Nostalgia, including all the good and all the bad that comes with it.
"It tastes just like it," She whispers.
Marc presses his lips together, bowing his head. "I can make something else if this-"
Layla shovels it into her mouth, wiping away tears as she leans her head into her hand. "You can pry this food out of my dead fucking hands, Marc Spector."
"Well, you shouldn't press yourself if it's upsetti-"
"That goes for you too, Steven Grant," She hisses.
They both quiet, watching as she finishes her plate, simultaneously mindlessly and with a million things racing through her mind. Layla tosses her fork down, covering her face up as she calms. "The last time I had this was a week before his expedition. He swore he'd take a break, take some time away to spend with me. I gave him his scarf, told him that it would protect him." She laughs bitterly. "Fat lot of good that did. I haven't touched any sayadieh since."
"I'm sor-"
"Please don't," Layla says, cutting Marc off. "I wouldn't have eaten it if I didn't want to."
"That's not what I meant," Marc says lowly.
"You've already apologized, Marc." She grabs his hand, squeezing. "In a way, you brought him closer just now, if only for a moment."
Her voice is warbling, another tear dropping as she takes shaky breaths. "The scarab represents many a thing," Steven says, caressing her hand with his thumb. "Reincarnation, rebirth, immortality, the sun. I think you gave him the best send off. He got to the Field of Reeds, after all. Best place for him, innit?"
Marc lets out a long breath. "I don't think this is the time, Steven."
"No, he's right," Layla finds herself saying as she sniffles. "It's exactly where he'd want to be. And I mean, the scarab does symbolize the sun. Only proper that I got the Avatar of Khonshu out of it, right? The sun for the moon?"
Marc sighs, a sad smile creasing his lips. "That's not an equal trade."
"It is for me," She says, firm as she pulls them closer. "If he had to leave me, I'm glad that I got you in turn."
Marc presses his forehead against hers. "You…make the sun brighter, Layla."
"And you make the moon comforting," She replies. "Can we go have dinner on the couch, cuddled up, the three of us?"
Marc softly smiles, taken over by Steven's bright grin. "Yeah, you go get comfy, I'll bring the food over, and we can get right into the cuddles."
Layla can't help but to return the smile as she stands up, covering herself in blankets as she falls into the couch. They bring the food over, setting it out on the coffee table before sitting in the space Layla has made for them. "Thank you," She murmurs as she curls up in the crook of their arm.
"Don't thank me for that," Marc says, pressing a kiss to her hairline.
"You can thank me, though, I know that naan was delicious," Steven teases.
Layla giggles, smacking their thigh. "Jerk. Though, I suppose I should also thank one of you for the pajamas."
There's a silence between the three of them before Marc says with just a smidge of hesitancy, "Steven, that was you, right?"
"No, mate, not me," Steven admits.
Even if he's dormant, Layla can hear the smugness of Jake shining through.