𝘁𝗶𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿

You always repay your debts. You're honest by nature, and besides, you'll die if you don't repay this one. (You tack that thought somewhere far back in the recesses of your mind, fully intending to not think about it for now.) (The ominous feeling will reappear in roughly an hour, tickling low in your stomach, and you'll shove it back again, and you'll rinse and repeat.) And it is in the name of this debt, in the name of your honor, that you've become a full on stalker. 

This fact brings you no comfort. It, in fact, makes you feel worse. You think about your debt on the bus, and then about how creepy you're being as you worm your way through the museum for like, the millionth time, and again about your debt while you stare at the gilded statue that you swear recognizes you. (You've started tipping, just in case. You don't think he'll snitch, but street performers are serious about their money.) (As they should be.) (It still stings. Your dedicated stalking routine has left you out of a job and stretched your pockets unbelievably thin. Thank God the museum's admission is free.) 

The days blur together. It's only been a week, and yet you feel as though you've lived a month. How does Steven live the same day, every day, without going insane? 

(And he doesn't even know about Marc. Marc, who has definitely noticed you and not said a word.) (You're torn. You appreciate his tact—or lack thereof, you guess, given that he is completely ignoring you—but a word of advice could help. Khonshu's had him under his thumb for far longer. You know nothing in comparison.) (Maybe he feels bad.) (He shouldn't though. The price for your life is lofty, but a million billion trillion times better than your eternal torture.) 

You do fear he might have reached his tipping point these days though, because Steven has been acting weird today. Really weird. (You could really use Marc's advice.) 

For one, he seems scared. You've seen him stressed, and sad, and upset, but never scared. You're unsure of what he has to fear but he won't stop looking over his shoulder, and stealth is not your strongest suit. (Your idea of staying incognito is hiding underneath the cheapest baseball cap and oversized sunglasses money could buy.) You've schooled your expression to stay neutral behind your disguise every time he whips around, but you swear he is looking right at you and it is freaking you out. 

(You think, not for the first time and not for the last, that you should have returned to your prison when Marc had freed you.) (You had tasted fresh air and gotten greedy, and greed is the root of all evil and bad decisions. It was certainly the root of this bad decision.)  

Your toes mash into the back of someone's foot, and you lurch forward against their back. The physical contact is so foreign that you're more concerned by how grossly warm they feel under your outstretched hands than the fact that their frame looks awfully familiar. You push away, dusting yourself off frantically. "Sorry, sorry, I wasn't looking." 

"You!"

Oh shit. 

"Excuse me sir," you fumble out. Your pitiful attempt at escape is cut short by Steven, who has an awful lot of gumption for someone you'd pegged as timid and side-steps right in front of you. 

"What'd'you think you're doin'?" 

"I said I'm sorry—!"

"What're you followin' me around for? The hell's all this about?" 

Your mouth forms a perfect circle. It's a caricature of surprise, because while you are genuinely surprised to have been spotted, your acting is rusty and so you're only capable of these half-convincing caricatures. (You are really, truly out of your depth.) "I'm sorry, what?" 

"Is this s'posed to be a joke? You've been followin' me around all day!"

"Do I know you?" 

Your attempts to deflect are not deflecting his attention away from you. If anything he's growing warier with each word, eyes narrowing suspiciously. 

"Now you quit it! I don't want any trouble, but you're not to be followin' me any more, y'hear?"

"I think you've got me confused for someone. I'm here on vacation, and I just barely got here—!"

"Those aren't exactly a pair of forgettable sunnies, y'know? And I've been seein' 'em around all day, and I won't have it! I won't have you followin' me! Is it my wallet you're after? Is it? Because I haven't got much, not on me. There's plenty of other people with loads more than what I've got on me right now!"

You realize now, belatedly, that he's trying to negotiate. He thinks you want to hurt him, or rob him, which you'd think too if you were in his situation. You try to calm him—try to seem friendly—by pushing up the sunglasses to rest on your forehead and smiling in a gesture of goodwill. You ask him kindly, gently, "What are you talking about, Steven?" and he screams. 

You realize now that despite your agonizing preparation, you have gone about this all wrong. (Steven is a complex man.) (That's the wrong word. He's utterly simple.) (He's a tricky man to deal with, the kind that requires a sort of delicate handling that is not your forte.) "I didn't mean to startle you—!"

He swings his umbrella wildly. You duck just in time, just before it can knock right into your cheek. "I'm being serious! You stay away!"

You hold your hands up, still crouched down low. You're trying to not look threatening but it's not working and much as you would love to help Khonshu and repay your debt you most certainly did not sign up to take a beating. "Please stop hitting me!"

"How d'you know my name?! Stop following me!"

"I am not!" you cry out, waving your hands in a futile attempt to block the umbrella still aimed at your poor head. (This has nothing to do with Steven, and everything to do with your own poor judgement.) (Why'd you say his name? Of course that'd freak him out. It would freak you out!) The glint of his name tag catches your eye, and you grasp onto the sight of it like a lifeline. "I saw your name tag! I saw your name tag, that's all!"

His breathing doesn't slow from its frantic pant, but at least he stops trying to hit you. You wrap your arms around your head, still wary of his makeshift weapon. "What?" His eyes drop down to his chest, which puffs out to show off the offending piece of screen-printed metal. "Oh. Oh." 

"Yeah," you huff out. "Exactly." 

"Oh. Oh my days, you scared the crap outta me." 

"Sure. I scared you." 

His grip is still clutched tightly around his umbrella but he finally, finally lowers it away from you. You slowly unfold your arms, though you remain crouched to avoid scaring him again. "I'm sorry, I—I didn't hit you did I? It doesn't look like I did." 

"You didn't," you affirm. "Are we good now?" 

"Are we good?" He echoes the question again, and then finally breaks from his trance to stammer out his answer. "Yeah, yeah, s'all good as long as you aren't followin' me. No problem s'long as you stay away is all. Please do." He walks away facing you, as though worried you'll follow unless he keeps a close eye. (You will follow, of course, but just not now. Steven doesn't have any place else to stay, and you've made the walk to his flat more often than the trek to the inn you're staying at. There's no need to follow him now.) 

You kick your toes into the road and wince when the road bites back. 

This was very bad. 

Amidst your bad luck, you are granted a little bit of good.

Steven is on time to work for the first time since you've begun following him, and that is a rare opportunity that you cannot afford to miss. (Literally.) (You are running out of money, and you doubt either Khonshu or Marc will be willing to open their wallets to you when you are already so indebted to them in the first place.) You leave the sunglasses and cap at home and dress in the least threatening way you can imagine. It takes an entire hour to decide on an outfit even though you've been planning it since your ill-fated run in. 

And still, you bounce your leg up-and-down-and-up-and-down the entire bus ride to the museum, taken two hours after Steven'd headed off to work. It keeps bouncing because you're sure he'll recognize you, and even though you've also been planning what to say you're not sure you'll be able to say it right if he screams at you in a museum, of all places. 

So you practice your excuses, again and again, intertwined with that same ominous feeling that just won't leave. They're not very good excuses, but Steven strikes you as the type of honest person that never quite realizes how rare their degree of honesty is. 

You roam the museum, turning the now-familiar corners of the ancient Egyptian exhibit with ease. The artifacts are no less amazing than when you'd first seen them (sure the British were thieves, you could acknowledge that, but they had preserved their stolen goods so well that you could almost overlook that), but they now serve more as an uncomfortable reminder of how cyclical your life has been since you'd begun following Steven.

You'd caught sight of him when you'd first walked in, though you were careful to avoid him spotting you from behind the gift shop's register. You'd heaved such a heavy sigh of relief that a passerby had commented, "Bless you now," and given you a rather nasty look that you figured meant she did not appreciate you sneezing anywhere other than into a tissue. You'd been so relieved that you'd apologized, even though you definitely hadn't sounded like you'd sneezed. 

It’s starting to get dark out, and you don't want to approach him too late because then he'd really freak out. (It's late enough that the gift shop is empty, though the museum is still far from it. That's what you'd been waiting for: a chance to talk to him, uninterrupted.)

(And also if he accuses you of murder or robbing or stalking—only one of which would be accurate, though all would be equally insulting—in front of a crowd you'd shrivel up and die from embarrassment.)  

"Excuse me?" 

Steven looks up attentively from whatever he'd been fiddling with and jumps. (At least he didn't scream this time, you remind your tensed body.) (It does not un-tense your muscles.) "I knew it! I knew you'd been followin' me, you evil l'il—!"

"I have not been!" you shoot back hotly, injecting as much offense as you possibly can into your tone. 

"Oh really, yeah? And what're the odds of you comin' into my gift shop, huh? D'you think I'm stupid?" 

(You hadn't calculated those odds because you hadn't expected him to spot you in the first place, but you recognize yourself that they are very low.)

"Are you seriously asking me what the odds are of a tourist coming into the British Museum?" You stare straight at him, and if you could cock your eyebrow up you would. You can't though, so you keep staring no matter how uncomfortably long you've held the eye contact, until he crumbles. 

"It's still not right, is all. I swear if you're following me—!"

"I am not," you interrupt. "If you must know," you drag out, "I'm here for the extensive Egyptian exhibit, because I need help." 

He still looks at you suspiciously, but his demeanor shifts from threatened to curious. (You're being honest at least, though your choice words have definitely been picked to pique his specific interest.) "Egypt, y'say?" 

"I do say," you repeat, "though I'm not so sure I feel comfortable here anymore. D'you happen to have any umbrellas hidden behind the counter?" 

This is what finally crumbles the last of Steven's visible resolve into nervous chuckles. "Sorry, sorry about that. I've had uh...I've had a crazy week, believe or not yeah? Not sleepin' properly 'nd all. Been going a bit mad, if I'm being honest." 

"I believe you." 

"Yeah, you do, don't you?" 

"I do." You put on your own nervous show, tripping over a word or two before finally stumbling into the script you'd been diligently practicing. "You know, I really wasn't sure whether or not to come in. I mean, the exhibits were great, really, but I wasn't so sure to come into the gift shop. Especially since, you know," you pause, gesturing between the two of you with a waggle of your index finger, "since I figured you'd scream bloody hell when you saw me. But I had to come in. I mean, there has to be something in this gift shop about Egyptian curses, and the placards didn't exactly have what I needed." 

"Curses?" He mulls over the word. "Yeah, yeah I'm sure we've got something. Probably won't be terribly accurate though."

"Oh," you gasp out, and now you are an equally half-convincing caricature of despair. "What do you mean?" 

"I mean, the gift shop's not too worried about historical revisionism and all. I keep trying to warm 'em, but it goes in one ear and out the other." He makes a gesture with his finger, like the gift shop is going mad too, and you nod sharply. 

"No, you don't say! Oh no. I was really hoping to find something." 

"Well maybe I can help," Steven offers. "Y'know, since I was properly awful to you earlier. I am terribly sorry about that." 

"That's nice," you agree, "but I couldn't possibly accept."

"Well why not? I'm no tour guide or anythin', but I know a thing or two about ancient Egypt. Well, more than two things. Quite a lot actually. I think you'd find me quite helpful if you gave me a chance." 

(Finally, you think, something is going according to plan. If this hadn't worked you'd been ready to surrender yourself to Khonshu. You'd have let Marc imprison you again, without a fight because you would've deserved it.) (This had been your last resort.) (Thank goodness sweet, kind Steven was so predictable.) 

You hem and haw, each sound practiced to death in the bus and at the inn, before finally peeking up at him through your downcast eyes. "I dunno. It sounds crazy." 

"I'm well acquainted with crazy," he jokes. (At least, you think he's joking.) (This is, you're pretty sure, the third time in just as many minutes that he's called himself crazy which is not promising.) 

"I'm afraid," you begin, voice breaking, "I'm afraid something terrible has happened." 

"What? What is it? You alright?" 

"I think I've been cursed."