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trickster-jpeg · 3 months

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I Haven't Slept In Days, But Who's Counting.

This is a sequel to another oneshot, so it'll make more sense context-wise if you read that first -> Here

Summary: Steven's tries to carry on hiding his nightmares from Marc and Jake, but after a particularly rough night Marc finds out and tells Jake. The pair confront him and have to comfort him after he breaks down.

Warnings: Nothing major. Brief descriptions of child abuse when Steven talks about one of the nightmares.

Word Count: 8524 It's On AO3 -> Here

A/N: 'Ricitos' is a petname that means 'curly hair', and 'Manitos' means something akin to 'little brother'.

“Steven- I just really think you should tell them. They would want to know, they would want to help you. If anyone can understand what you’re going through, it’s them.”

A few days had passed since ‘the incident’ as Steven was choosing to call it and, despite the continuing insomnia, things were going as well as they could be. Layla had offered to stay a few more days to keep him company, but he knew that there were things she needed to do and being on nightmare watch wasn’t one of them, so he declined. She’d been amazing the past few days, more amazing than she usually was, and as per usual she was like a rock for him to lean on for support which he was extremely grateful for. Regardless of how stupid he thought it might’ve been, she’d listened to whatever he had to say, and when he’d wanted to stay quiet she’d sit with him through that as well. The pair had gone out to spend their last few full days together just wandering around, visiting little cafes and book shops, taking walks for the fresh air. Just spending a moment to simply exist without the threat of the world collapsing around them, real or imagined.

Marc had been out at times as well, just to do his own thing and spend his own time with Layla. It was tricky for the pair at times, given their history, especially at the start once everything had been put on the table. When they'd had a moment to talk about the disorder honestly. But the pair were working or rebuilding things better than they had been, and made new room for Jake and Steven to be included as well if they wanted. Jake still wasn’t fully used to fronting the same way the others were, or for the same lengths of time, so he didn’t appear much. Especially when there wasn’t really anything to do. But after some encouragement from the three, he’d found a new motivation to spend time out and trying to relax after he’d started to realise he wasn’t being subjected to his typical nightmares. Steven had made Layla promise not to tell his headmates.

Which led him back to his predicament.

Telling the other two about his nightmares. It’s not that he didn’t want to, it was just… Maybe that’s exactly what it was in all honesty. How was he supposed to bring it up anyway? “Marc! Jake! Just the people I've been trying to subtly avoid, but you’ve probably noticed that by now. It’s aces that your nightmares have suddenly started to dip in frequency, genuinely so glad that you’re able to have a peaceful nights rest, but that’s actually because they’ve just passed over to me! Surprise!” He’d rather be shot in a pyramid and stuffed into a bloody sarcophagus. Again. But he knew it was only a matter of time before they found out somehow. Which is why he wanted to be the one to tell them.

They’d been trying to work on their communication. Trying to lower the daily amnesia barriers, get more fluid with switching and have more control over it, being able to sit down and talk as a trio. Steven had been doing more research on DID whenever he had the chance. Found it really quite interesting if he was honest, despite not being the biggest psychology buff, but he also had a tendency to fixate and overload himself with the information and that tended to trigger some doubt in him about the whole thing. Something he read was completely normal for people like him- them- but it was still frustrating to have to stagger his questions just so he could safely process basic information.

One thing in particular caught his eye during the deep dives though. Innerworlds. He read about how they were this visualisation thing, like the mind palace in Sherlock. That they could help to provide a space for communication, like properly interacting with each other in a way that wasn’t just staring into a mirror and hoping someone responded with the reflection. It had taken a while to work on actually putting the concept into practice, to actually try and visualise it in a way that didn’t make them feel like they were just daydreaming, but they’d done it. Slowly but surely, they’d started to make it work. Their innerworld was nothing fancy, at least not for now. In a way, they found it somewhat easier to simply have a replica of their flat as a hub of safety, or a meeting place to be used when needed. And Steven had reluctantly deduced that this was one of the times it was necessary to use it as a meeting place.

It would take him a while to gather up the nerve to start the conversation. Overthinking was a special talent of Steven’s and he could spend years trying to plan every single possibility. To sit down and focus, the build up to opening up to the people he always told shouldn’t feel ashamed to talk about their troubles. It really was easier said than done when none of them had really been properly taught how they were supposed to do that, but Steven tried to think of it as a learning experience. He could lead by example. Maybe. Hopefully.

However, like many things in their life, the choice was ultimately made for Steven and left him a complete lack of control over the circumstances that led up to the others finding out.

It had been a week since Layla had left their flat. A week of being alone in the empty darkness of his room. A week of looping audiobooks and fidgeting with rubik's cubes and leaning over books under a lamp only to pass out on the desk after succumbing to sleep’s cruel lullaby. He’d been coping as well as he could. Sometimes staying on the phone with Layla until he felt safe enough to sleep again. Or at least until he pretended to because he didn’t want to keep her up anymore than he’d already been doing. Eventually it had to come to a close. It always did. And this time it really was Steven’s fault.

As a rule, Steven tended to avoid drinking. Never really saw much of an appeal apart from some of the ones that tasted nice. He didn’t like the loss of control. Something about it just made him extremely uncomfortable, not that he understood why until he’d found out about their mum’s drinking habits. But he knew Marc drank, albeit sometimes unhealthily, and so eventually he concluded that they’d have the same type of tolerance given the fact that it was the same body. He was still getting used to it, finding it easier to just continue avoiding the substance without any qualms, but occasionally he’d partake.

This was one of those nights. He knew it wasn’t exactly the healthiest of ideas to start drinking with the intent of using it to get him to sleep, but it would just be a one time thing. Honestly. He just wanted to see if it would do anything. If it would help ease him into the action without hours of anxiety spirals to keep him awake. So, he picked up the bottle of hard liquor that he knew Marc had stashed in the back of one of the cupboards in the kitchen and took a large mouthful of it.

His immediate reaction was repulsion, the instant impulse to try and spit out the liquid that felt like it was numbing his tongue, but he powered through it and swallowed hard. The burning sensation that scraped down his throat was strong enough to cause his eyes to water almost immediately afterwards and he jolted forward to grab a half empty glass of water that had been left out on the kitchen top. He felt the alcohol settle heavily in his stomach, an empty feeling that made him realise he had forgotten to eat anything that wasn’t a small snack or two throughout the day.

Overall, it was an unpleasant experience that he would rather not repeat or continue doing. But the distraction of the alcohol scratching at his throat would probably be enough to draw his focus away from the anxiety his nightmares caused, which is why he made the great decision to take another few large mouthfuls from the bottle before setting it down and flopping into bed. Enough to make a small, yet notable difference in the contents of the bottle. He grimaced and coughed as the liquid burned down his throat again, pulling a slightly disgusted face as he realised he could smell it quite intensely on his breath.

After about ten to fifteen minutes of lying in bed, waiting for the pain to dull down slightly, he started to feel somewhat dizzy. Like a mild vertigo, almost like dissociating in a way. In an attempt to settle the feeling slightly, he closed his eyes and tried to slow his breathing, counting the beats between each inhale and exhale like sheep. His mind started to drift as he focused on the waviness of it all, the floating sensation creeping into his brain as he felt himself lean deeper into the mattress. Gradually, he stopped being aware of his behaviour, his thoughts, the waking world. Apparently a mixture of sleep deprivation, alcohol, and lack of food made a great recipe for sleep.

From Marc’s detailed experiences of drinking and sleeping, alcohol made dreams more vivid. It also made them way more memorable when he woke up from them. And usually, it was more likely to be nightmares than dreams when alcohol had a part to play in the events leading up to sleep. Sometimes it would be more trauma-centric nightmares, but usually 3.5 out of 5 times it was some random bullshit nightmare that most of the general population gets. Something mundane like accidentally yanking his teeth out and swallowing them or something. The point was, it was fairly easy to tell when a dream was influenced by alcohol or if it was just a typical, regular dream. Which is why he was so disoriented when he woke up with sweat soaking their bedsheets and his chest heaving painfully as he tried to draw in the breaths he didn’t even know he was lacking.

He tasted the liquor he’d bought himself, coating his mouth and mixing with the flood of saliva as he jolted to grab the bin they kept beside their bed to heave into, watching as the majority of his stomach contents turned out to be the alcohol. A sight not quite shocking to him, borderline familiar with the amount of times it happened to him in the past, but still confusing. Confusing because he could’ve sworn he hadn’t had anything to drink. That he hadn’t fronted for pretty much the entire day so unless he’d had a full blackout of his own memories, he hadn’t touched the bottle. And he knew that Jake hadn’t been the one to drink it either, simply because he knew that the man hated his choice of liquor and wouldn’t voluntarily drink it unless he was forced to, and even then he’d have tried to buy some before falling back on Marc’s stash. Which just left one other person to blame. Steven.

Why the hell would Steven be drinking? He hates drinking. Or at least hates drinking this stuff.

As Marc continued to retch into the bin, a worry started to overshadow the initial confusion he was feeling. It didn’t make any sense. The man never went out of his way to buy or drink, and when he did he always went for the softest stuff. The stuff that barely tasted like alcohol, just fruit or sugar. He’d made it clear time and time again that he’d hated the feeling of it, hated the taste, hated the aftermath. Hated everything about it. Which is why Marc just couldn’t understand why Steven would feel the need to drink so much of this stuff. Surely the Brit would’ve tried to speak to Marc or Jake if there was something going on, right?

Suddenly feeling unsure about his headmate’s transparency, he started to try and remember any signs in the past few weeks that something was wrong with Steven. Briefly, he got glimpses of the man falling back into his old habits of trying to avoid sleep. Of not eating as much as he usually would, or leaving the house as often as he did. Of watching their phone and waiting silently for it to stop ringing and for the familiar contact of Layla to disappear from the screen. Then he thought about last week. Something recent came to mind. Something hazy. They were sitting on the floor. Reading something- No. Being read to. Marc didn’t understand the words but he knew the voice speaking them. Felt the panic dying down as Steven realised who it was as well.

He needed to call Layla.

Without looking, he reached over to the side table to grab at the phone he knew would be there with one hand as he placed the bin in the other hand now that he was confident there was nothing left for him to throw up. The bright light from the screen blinded him for a moment as he scrambled to turn down the brightness, cursing the Brit quietly for his adamance at having the setting so high all the time. After a moment of letting his eyes readjust to the sight of it, he opened his contacts and hit the dial button over his wife’s name. A moment of regret and remorse flickered in his chest as he looked up at the time on the top of his screen reading ‘02:38’. Maybe he should’ve waited until the morning to figure this out rather than disturbing her sleep and waking her up at this time for such a petty reason-

“Hello? Steven? Marc?... Jake?”

A wave of familiarity washed over him as he heard her tiredly croak out a response over the line, clearly having just been woken up by the phone. He hesitated for a moment before realising he should probably start speaking.

“Hey, it’s me- Marc-”

“I may have just woken up but I can still tell that it’s your voice, Marc. You don’t have to tell me. We’ve been married for about ten years.”

He pauses awkwardly, mentally kicking himself for his stupid attempt at trying to help her as though she hadn’t spent a decade waking up to hearing his voice. Clearing his throat, still raw from the alcohol going in and then out of his system, he swallows before continuing.

“I know it's late, didn’t realise until i’d already hit the call button. I wouldn’t have phoned if it wasn’t important, or at least I’m pretty sure it’s important-”

“Marc, I love you and I'm listening but I'm still incredibly tired. Could you maybe skip to the reason you’re calling me at… two in the morning?”

He stays silent for a moment or two, apologetic that he woke Layla up at this hour, but also more apprehensive to speak the words out loud. As if the reality of the situation, of the things he’s thinking, will settle in and manifest. That it’ll be real once he says it. Taking another deep breath, his throat feeling slightly strangled as he forces the words out of his mouth.

“Steven was drinking. I don’t know why, I just know that I woke up in a pile of sweat, having one of the worst panic attacks I've had in a while, promptly followed up by me puking my insides out and seeing he’s barely eaten anything all day. And a nightmare that I know was about our childhood that I can’t even remember to top it all off. I just- I thought if he’s spoken to anyone about any of this… it would be you.”

The line was silent for a while, the only clue that Layla was still there and that it hadn’t hung up or frozen was her muttered swears that the microphone just barely managed to pick up. He heard a brief shuffling, almost as though she was moving around to sit up in bed or something. Another few moments of silence passed before she spoke hesitantly, her tone reluctant but much more awake than it had been. Much more alert.

“I promised I wouldn’t say anything… He said he’d- Never mind. I don’t really know how to say this, it’s not my thing to say but if he’s getting to this point instead of talking I-”

The confusion and worry in Marc’s mind only stood to grow even more at the vague words. What was Steven not telling them? What could be so bad that he’s made Layla promise not to say anything? All members of the system had the understanding that there was a level of confidentiality between some of their personal conversations with Layla. If they wanted or needed to tell her something, or just didn’t want the other two to know about it, then they wouldn’t ask her. A mutual respect that they wouldn’t pry into things or try to force their partner to talk about things that didn’t concern them unless it was important enough for them all to know. And to Marc, this seemed like it was something pretty fucking important for them to know about.

“What? What do you mean ‘not your thing to say’? ‘Getting to this point’? Layla, what's wrong with Steven? I mean he knows he can talk to us about things, he’s always going on about being open and honest and how things are better when we all work together to try and solve them so what could be so bad that he’s hiding things from us-”

“He’s been having nightmares, Marc. About your childhood. About your trauma. He’s been having nightmares and flashbacks.”

As Layla cuts his ramblings off and tells him the truth, he’s stunned into silent shock. It's almost like the words just don’t process in his mind. At least not for the first minute or so after he’d heard them. Like his brain just refused to acknowledge them as the truth, or even just as a possibility at all. He almost asked her to repeat what she’d said, to give her the opportunity to say something else. Almost hoping that what she’d said was a mistake, or that he’d just misheard her. Until they actually started to settle in his head.

Steven had been having nightmares. Their Steven. He’d been having nightmares. He’d been having their nightmares. Marc and Jake had finally been freed from them, celebrating and joking between themselves that they’d been given a ‘mini restbite’. And Steven had been forced to deal with them instead. The Steven that would take their place and stay up for hours after they’d jolted awake to reassure them they were alright. The Steven that would talk outloud and describe every single item and object in their flat, as well as the layout of the floors, if it meant that they could believe they were safe and in their own home, not stuck in that house with their mother. The Steven that once decided to make a crappy little blanket fort at three in the morning for Jake because the man had been borderline inconsolable after he had screamed himself awake as a result of a particularly brutal nightmare. And now the same man was trying to brave his way through it all on his own, and had been doing so for months, all while Marc and Jake had been none the wiser..

“You need to talk to him about it, Marc. All three of you. He thinks that- He doesn’t want you to see him as a burden. Thinks that if he proves he can handle this on his own then he can prove he’s ‘contributing’ to the system, taking responsibility. That you’ll stop trying to keep things from him or I guess treating him like a child.”

Marc sits in a stunned silence as he listens to Layla speak, thoughts spinning like a tornado in his head. That couldn’t- That couldn’t be right. Steven doesn’t really think that. Doesn’t really believe that. Right? He couldn’t. But it was true in some way, they did keep things from him. They did treat him like a kid. Even if that was never their intention, they did it all the same. Falling into old habits of trying to keep his innocent naivety protected, keep him protected. And it’d backfired and made the man feel like he had to prove something to them. That he had to suffer in silence to be treated the same.

The stark realisation made Marc’s stomach lurch with nausea as he swallowed back the urge to gag, trying to suppress the growing pit in his stomach that had opened up like a sinkhole. His immediate reaction was that of self hatred, of anger, of a need to punish himself for not realising sooner or for making his headmate feel like that. But he knew that was no good, and it was probably the exact reaction that Steven had being trying to avoid by not telling him.

He sat in silence for a moment longer, not being able to think of the words he could use to formulate a response. Layla knew him well enough to understand that, even over the phone. He nodded slightly to himself as he continued to process her words, a small hum escaping his lips. Mumbling a tired but appreciative thanks to his wife, he makes the promise to fill her in on the aftermath before hanging up the phone with a mumbled ‘love you, thank you’. As per usual, she was right. They did need to talk. Sooner rather than later. Now.

Usually he wasn’t the one to initiate the contact in the innerworld, meditation like things having never really worked for him, but drastic times called for drastic measures and what better time to put this into practice than now. He took a few deep breaths, trying to distract himself from his own thoughts and feelings on the situation. Steven needed stability, reassurance that he could talk. Having a major freak out and blaming himself would only make the Brit want to comfort Marc and focus on him rather than the real issue centred around him. He just had to fill Jake in on the situation before. He knew the man would appreciate the forewarning, plus it would give them a better chance at being able to help Steven in a way that didn’t make him feel cornered.

Leaning back in bed, he slowly took some deep breaths and closed his eyes, just like Steven had told him to do when explaining it all, and tried to reach out to Jake. The man hated the use of mirrors most of the time, hating how jarring it was to be perceived, but Marc also just couldn’t be asked to get up out of bed and walk to a reflective surface. It only took a moment or two for Jake to surface, the man always on the wings somewhere in case he needed to jump in at a moment’s notice. He blinked his eyes open as he adjusted to the shift in his surroundings, stood next to the sofa in their innerworld flat instead of laying with closed eyes in bed. Beside him, Jake sat on the chair polishing his boots with a calmed expression, glancing up at Marc once he noted the man’s presence. Awkwardly, Marc just stood there for a moment, looking around the room as he tried to figure out what small talk he should try and make before leading into the main issue.

How the fuck was he supposed to start this conversation?

“So… How’s the weather been lookin-”

“Just spit it out, Manito, I don’t bite.”

Instantly, Marc clenched his jaw and drummed his fingers on his legs ever so slightly in an attempt to combat the self-consciousness as he became aware of how he was just standing in the middle of the room. His eyes flickered back and forth between the other man, his boots, and the fish tank bubbling away in the background as Gus and Gus swam calmly as he tried to figure out how to formulate his sentences. They really needed to get better names for the fish. He bit his lip as he stood there in silence, chewing at the slightly cracked skin and trying to bite it off. As he tasted iron, he opened his mouth to respond.

“Steven’s been having the nightmares. Our nightmares. Having our flashbacks too. For months. He was drinking my stash before he went to sleep tonight. Layla’s seen him wake up screaming bloody murder after thinking he was still stuck in a dream.”

Jake’s hands stilled as he wiped the remnants of the boot polish over the material, his reaction perfectly frozen in a way that Marc assumed meant his thoughts had started to spiral immediately like his had when he’d found out. It also meant he was also trying to figure out what to do next. Just like Marc had. After a few moments, the cab driver gently placed the cloth down and started to nod quietly, processing the information he’d just been given. It was clear he was still trying to wrap his head around it, and so Marc spared him from having to try and speak, electing to continue his words.

“Apparently he said he’d talk to us, but I think we need to start the conversation first. She- Layla said that he’s trying to show his contribution to the system or something. That we’ve been treating him like a kid by trying to keep him safe from things. That we’ve been leaving him out. Making him feel like a- like a burden.”

Jake continued to nod, somewhat more forceful as Marc continued to talk. His eyes widened ever so slightly as his body language grew into a more spread out and tense defensive stance, his eyes scanning over the table back and forth as he did. Reaching up to remove his cap, he ran gloved hands through his hair and out of his face roughly, sitting back and looking up at Marc as he held the accessory in his hand like a lifeline. His jaw clenched a few times, his back cracking as he straightened his spine slightly. After a few more moments of silence, Jake took a deep breath and swallowed, staring off at the empty desk that sat tucked next to the stacks of books. A beat or two passed before he stood up, looking to the other side of the room as though staring at someone. As Marc followed his gaze, he had to mask his shock as suddenly sat in the uncomfortable desk chair was the main focus of their conversation: Steven.

The Brit was hunched over a book, reading as though nothing was happening until the confusion hit him and he looked up with a disorientated expression. Spinning around on his chair, his eyes immediately landed on the two men who were looking… worse for wear. That being said, Steven probably wasn’t looking so great either. He looked down at his clothes and realised he was wearing the black sweatshirt and joggers he had been wearing when they were stuck in the asylum. His hands were mostly covered by the sleeves being pulled up over them and as he reached up to brush his curled fringe out of his face. The dark strands felt greasy and knotted in his fingers, and he was suddenly very aware of how awful his face felt. He felt the weight beneath his eyes, dark circles sitting beneath them. His cheeks feeling somewhat sunken, and the rest of his face feeling oily. He felt like shit. He was literally projecting how he felt and he couldn’t get it to stop.

Suddenly, he started to feel extremely vulnerable as he looked at the other two men, his legs bouncing nervously. He felt like a bug under a microscope, like he was about to be pinned to a canvas frame. The more he looked at them, the more he realised he’d been brought here on purpose, the way the Americans were glancing at one another and back at him as if they knew something. Like they were trying to silently argue about something. Something to do with him. Why was he here? It’s not like they had anything important to Steven, they never included him with that kind of thing so why-

In an instant, his heart stopped dead, his spine straightening and body tensing as he frantically looked at the pair as if he’d just been struck by lightning. He felt himself rocking back and forward in the chair ever so slightly, counting slowly as he tried to focus on his breathing. Was it even possible to have a panic attack on the innerworld? It felt like he was about to find out. He blinked desperately, hoping that with enough force he could try to escape this situation and take over the body to get out.

They knew. Somehow his headmates had found out about him. About his situation. How? Or- Maybe they didn’t. Maybe he was just overreacting. Maybe if he tried to play it off and fake ignorance then he could get out of it. Maybe they only realised he was withdrawn and they were none the wiser about his-

“We know about the nightmares, Steven. Layla told us.”

For a brief moment, he felt a pang of betrayal in his chest towards her. He’d made her promise she wouldn’t tell them so why on earth would she-

“I woke up throwing up all the liquor you’d drank on an empty stomach, bedsheet drenched in sweat, on the tail end of the worst panic attack I've felt in months. Of course I was going to call the only person who would have any inkling as to what the fuck was going on with you. What were you thinking? Why would you-”

Marc was cut off by Jake lightly stamping on his foot in a clear signal for him to stop talking and calm down, clearly having realised how the man’s worry was definitely coming off as confrontational instead of reassuring. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, as if trying to reset his attitude, before looking back at Steven with a stern but slightly apologetic gaze. Clearing his throat stiffly, he walked over to Steven and sat a few feet away from him on the floor to give him space. Jake followed suit behind him and sat on a small table to the side of him, just barely above Steven’s natural sitting eye level. The three men sat in quiet for a few more moments, before Marc spoke up once more and broke the silence.

“We’re… sorry. I’m sorry. We thought we were doing right by you and clearly it did the opposite. You never should’ve been made to feel like you couldn’t talk to us and- Yeah. I’m sorry, Steven. Genuinely.”

Silently, Jake nodded along with the man as he watched Steven’s eyes shift around looking at the floor. A minute of silence passed as the Brit let the words sink in. They were apologising… To him. A part of him wanted to backpedal, immediately try to reassure the two men that it was no harm done and that he knew it wasn’t deliberate. But another part of him was just tired. Tired for the months of struggling silently, albeit because of his own choice to try and hide it, but he still felt like he wasn’t worth the fuss that would be caused if he spoke up. And they were apologising for it. Eventually, after another minute or two, he looked up at the pair with red rimmed eyes slowly filling with tears. His voice shook slightly as he spoke, there was no point trying to hide it anymore because they saw him in the same way he felt. They knew the way he felt because they’d felt it as well at some point.

“How do you do it? How do you both cope with it so well?”

There was a brief moment of shock that crossed their faces at Steven’s question. Marc’s expression leaning towards reluctant realisation at how the man saw the pair at the words, and Jake’s steering more towards a neutral acceptance of his perception. Neither of them looked as though they agreed with the wording of Steven’s inquiry. Marc spoke up once more to answer the man nonetheless, Jake taking over once he stops.

“We can’t cope with it, Steven. We just grit our teeth and push through it. You want to know how we can do it? You. You’re the reason we can survive it.”

“He’s right, ricitos. We don’t know how to look after ourselves in the way that lets us live. Without you we’re just barely existing. You look after us. Love us. Support us. You’re everything to us, and we’re sorry that we’ve made you feel like you’re not.”

As they both watched Steven react to their words, they could’ve sworn they felt their hearts break in that single moment. At the realisation on how the men viewed him, Steven’s disbelief started to melt into something almost sobering. His brows lowered, rising slightly on the inner parts showing the clear frown lines on his forehead. He gently caught the bottom of his lip between his teeth for a moment as the corners of his mouth tilted downwards into a stunted frown. His eyelids drooped slightly as the redness lining the rims were contrasted against the purple bags beneath his eyes, shimmering slightly under the dim light as tears started to delicately stream down his face. They watched as his lip quivered ever so slightly as his eyes downcast to his hands that were clasping one another, wringing together as he let the words wash over him. As he sniffled quietly, he bit his lips together into an even clearer frown, the lines that usually showed from him smiling too much framed them painfully. In a shaky voice, he eventually spoke up.

“I just thought that the alcohol might make it easier to fall asleep. That it would… I don’t know. Distract me from my anxiety or something. Didn’t realise I had forgotten to eat until I’d already started drinking. It was absolutely minging, just for your information. Don’t know how you can drink that stuff. I won’t- I’m not going to do it again though. And thank you. For apologising. I appreciate it a lot.”

They sit in silence for a few more moments before Marc speaks up, somewhat nervously. Afraid of something. Insecure about himself, about the possibility of messing up this fragile interaction by saying the wrong thing.

“You could’ve asked us to stick around. Just to keep you company getting to sleep- You still can. It might be kind of a shitty downfall of this disorder, but in some cases never really being alone might be a bit of a blessing in disguise. I wouldn’t mind in the slightest. Neither would Jake.”

He looks up and over his shoulder from his seat on the floor to see Jake giving the gentlest smile he’s ever seen from the man in a reassuring manner to both Steven and Marc, nodding slowly in agreement to the man’s words. Steven focuses on the gloved man while thankfully flashing a weak smile towards him, replicating it as he looks down to Marc. He wipes his dripping nose on his oversized sleeve before grimacing slightly in brief disgust at his own action before responding.

“I just didn’t want you to worry about me. I… I thought it might make you treat me like a child even more. I didn't want to be babied- Even if you never meant it like that it just- It just really started to piss me off, if i’m being honest. I just want to be treated the same as you treat each other.” He pauses to take a steady inhale before flashing a friendly smile to the pair, almost endearing in his own way. “I’m an adult, lads. A grown man, same as you. I don’t care if you keep me out of… ‘darker’ conversations. If it’s something I shouldn’t know yet, that it would be bad for me to know about just now, I wouldn’t mind. But it feels like it’s all of the- all of the trauma. All of the time. Sure, I didn’t know about it until recently, but that doesn’t mean I’m still clueless. I mean, hell, how can we even be sure that there are pieces of it that I know about but you both don’t. Did you ever think about it like that? What if I’d been the one to trigger something in the both of you because I just assumed it was common knowledge that you both knew? It’s not a one way street, you know.”

There was a slight shift in the air as Steven concluded his words, the Americans glancing at each other in apprehension as they realised that their headmate could be right. They really didn’t know what Steven knew and what he didn’t because they’d tried to keep him out of the conversation. Which meant that there was a genuine possibility that he might know something they weren’t aware of. Something he might’ve experienced on his own in their childhood and just repressed it so none of them knew about it. It was a quiet fear that they’d never known they shared, or even had, until that very moment. Trying not to dwell on it too much, at least not for now, they turned back to the Brit with matching sombre yet genuinely understanding expressions, having begun to listen and acknowledge the crying man’s points.

“What was- You don’t have to answer this- You might not even remember it but- That night with Layla. When you had the nightmare… What was it about? Layla didn’t tell me anything about it, just that it was the worst she’d seen in a while. That she actually thought it was me or Jake for a second before you started speaking.”

The Brit looked towards Marc in surprise at the revelation, the past betrayal he’d briefly felt against Layla being completely washed away at the realisation she’d really only told her husband the bare framework. Just enough to fill him in on the situation and get the ball rolling. It was a feeling quickly squashed by the dread that appeared at the thought of talking about the nightmare. A new found fear that he might be telling them something they didn’t know about. He could suddenly understand why they had been reluctant to include him in these types of conversations. Why both men were still so guarded, even to each other, when it came to the trauma they shared and spoke about if they spoke about it at all.

But he’d always been the one to say they should talk about it. He’d literally just made an entire little speech about how they should include him when talking about this stuff. If anything, this would be an olive branch. To consolidate that Steven shouldn’t be excluded, not that he needed to give a reason to prove his point. He didn’t have to share if he really didn’t want to. The three of them understood that things like this shouldn’t be pushed. Shouldn’t be forced. Enough of their shared lives had been forced and taken out of their control so, as a baseline of respect, they always gave that choice to say no and back out at any time. Which is why Steven felt safe enough to make the choice to tell them.

“It was about mum. I’m assuming they usually are.” He pauses to read the pair’s expression, feeling slightly discouraged as they huffed sad laughs in agreement but also like there was a new found solidarity with even just a small half joke like that. “We were in the car. I don’t remember a lot of it to be fair, It was quite a bit ago. She started shouting things at me, starting screaming. Started to speed up. Started to swerve the car in the road. Started to scream about crashing and getting rid of us both, let go of the wheel and I just remember the fear and the panic and just the realisation that I was about to die. I thought I was going to die right there. Thought that was it. That if the crash didn’t kill me it was going to be my heart exploding right out of my chest because I couldn’t breathe and I was crying too much.” His expression turned to a devastating revulsion as more tears streamed down his face, a brief sob getting trapped in his throat before he continued to talk. “I don’t remember most of it but the one thing I can remember thinking the clearest was how worried I was that she would get in trouble for her driving. I was convinced I was about to die, and I was still worrying about her and what would happen to her if someone saw her driving like that- She tried to kill me- Kill us- And I was thinking about her fucking reputation- What the fuck is wrong with me- Why did I- I couldn’t- I don’t know- How could I-”

By the time Steven started to reach the end of his recount of the nightmare, he was clearly working himself up into a frantic state. The pair watched worriedly as their headmate started to breathe heavier and heavier, spiralling into the start of a panic attack. In an attempt to prevent it before it got any worse, they moved closer to him. Marc started quietly mumbling hushed reassurances, knowing exactly how painful it was to still love the person that had put them through more than any child should have to bear. On the other hand, Jake decided to pass Steven’s plushie to him and drape a blanket over the man’s shoulders to add a comforting bit of pressure in the hopes of grounding him. He didn’t share the connection to Wendy that the other two men did. Saw her as nothing more than the woman that made their lives a living hell. In his eyes she was even less connected to him than a stranger. Maybe when they were younger he might’ve felt something different, but he grew out of that as soon as he could. While Marc tried to reassure the Brit with a unique understanding that they were both extremely familiar with, he moved over to the space that had been designated as their living room and started to move around doing his own thing. As he did so, he picked up on their close but distant conversation.

“There’s nothing wrong with you, Steven. There will never be anything bad about the fact that you are so capable of loving people.”

“The things she- It’s not- It’s sick that I still-”

“She’s our mom. All of the bad outweighs the good by tenfold, but that doesn’t mean that we can just forget about all of the good. It would be easier if it was all bad. Then we wouldn’t have to deal with this. But you are not at fault for being human and still loving the good things about her. The good things that we experienced.”

“It hurts so much- Why did she have to-”

“I don’t know, Steven. I don’t know.”

Jake quickly glanced over as he heard their interaction tamper down in volume to see them holding each other, clinging to one another like a lifeline. He was never one for physical contact, not really. That's what happens when you’re brought into a life that so sorely lacks it. Its hard to miss what you’ve never really had, and that’s why even when given the option in the past he’d never really accepted it. The few times he had had been damn near crushing when it was over. Any other physical contact was never good news, and it was never a choice. But as he looked at the two men, he almost felt a longing to be included. To walk over there and hug the pair. He couldn’t tell if it was fully for their benefit, or if there was an almost selfish ulterior motive for himself as well though. He looked down to the pillows in his hands and started to speed up the process of finishing his idea, placing them in the spot he deemed to be the best and shift one of the blankets to the side.

A few more minutes passed before Steven had started to calm down, a wave of exhaustion washing over him as his tears slowed to a stop. Marc’s arms stayed wrapped firmly around him, sniffling slightly as the Brit realised his counterpart had at some point also started crying alongside him. He squeezed the man tighter for a moment, a brief reassurance to him that Steven was there for him as well. That they weren’t going to suffer with this alone. It was then that he also realised the distinct lack of their third headmate, the man having seemingly disappeared from their close proximity. With a fleeting moment of panic, his head jerked up to cast a look around the visible areas of the flat to find him. Marc pulled back with a confused face before arriving on the same train of thought and joining his short search, their shared worries quickly subsiding as they saw the man looking over at them with an amused but warm smile and motioning for them to go over to him.

Groaning slightly at the strain in his joints, Marc used Steven as a bit of leverage to pull himself upwards from his uncomfortable kneeling position on the floor. He wrapped an arm around the man’s torso lightly without a word, pulling him close as they moved to walk over towards Jake. He softly tried to secure the blanket around the Brit’s shoulders as they made their way towards him to stop it from falling onto the floor. The man had put his plain, dark flat cap back on and was trying to hide the half proud, half nervous look on his face as he stared over to the sofa and back at the two men to watch their reaction closely.

Somehow, in the time that Marc had managed to calm down Steven and simultaneously have his own emotional breakdown after seeing so much of his own inner struggles in Steven, Jake had managed to rearrange the furniture and construct a makeshift fort from blankets and pillows. It was clearly rushed, but still surprisingly well built with a sturdy structure. He’d even used the duvet and pillows from their bed. Small battery powered tea lights were dotted around the outsides, as well as a few on the inside, that somehow gave it a warmer feeling. It was a perfect haven that faced the television that hummed with life, the images on the screen gently shifting with a low volume to accompany them. Connected to the television via an old DVD player they'd recently found was one of Steven’s comfort films: Matilda. The pair faltered in their step at the sight of it all. At the safety that just radiated from the space that Jake had created for them all.

The man in question’s face contorted slightly into a rarely displayed uncertainty, a worry that the other men didn’t like it. It wasn’t often that Jake really doubted himself. There was never really time for that, never a room for error when the majority of his past life experiences had been born out of a final surge of pure instinct to survive. So when he couldn’t read the pair’s expressions, only seeing the tears and exhaustion from moments earlier, as well as the shock on their faces at the sight, he started to shift nervously from one foot to the other. He wasn’t good at physical affection, wasn’t the best at words of reassurance, especially when the subject matter was an incredibly personal and unique feeling that he wasn’t quite aligned with. He’d always heard the expression ‘actions speak louder than words’ and in that moment he was desperately hoping that his actions said the things he wanted to tell the other men. So when he saw the smiles that broke out onto their faces, he couldn’t help but earnestly mirroring it back at them.

Without any words being exchanged, they all moved to situate themselves in the centre of the fort, Steven in the middle being flanked comfortably by his headmates. Jake reached to turn the volume up just ever so slightly, so they wouldn’t be stuck just reading the captions alone. They all shuffled comfortably under the blankets, the Brit almost fully covered while the Americans stuck at least one or two limbs out from beneath the material to avoid feeling too overheated or trapped. The film continued to play as the three situated themselves in a close pile, Marc holding and leaning into Steven while Steven threw an arm over his and leaned into Jake’s side. Expectantly, he looked up at the cab driver before smiling, clearly pleased with himself as Jake threw an arm around him that reached over to Marc as well. It took a few moments for Jake to relax but eventually the tension bled from him as he leaned into Steven’s side as well. He traded a quick glance over the Brit’s head towards Marc and saw the man looking equally content with the situation and how it had played out.

As the film progressed, the three of them gradually started to feel themselves drift off into varying levels of sleep. Steven had been the first to nod off, barely making it more than fifteen minutes before the comfort of the two men either side of him combined with the exhaustion of bearing his soul caught up with him and lulled him into unconsciousness. Marc, having also not escaped the weariness that came as a side effect of heavy crying and emotional fatigue, drifted asleep about five minutes after Steven had. Jake on the other hand had kept awake until the credits to the film started playing, splitting his attention between the plot of the movie and watching over the two men sleeping beside him. Slowly, he reached to grab the remote, desperately trying to avoid waking up the other men as he clicked onto the menu screen and clicked the play button to restart it. He could understand why Steven liked the film.

#moon knight #moon knight system #moon knight fanfic #steven grant #marc spector #jake lockley #layla el faouly #my fic #writing #ao3 #hurt/comfort

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trickster-jpeg · 3 months

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All The Light’s Going Dark And My Hope’s Destroyed.

Summary: Young Jake notices there’s a mouse living in the house and decides to look after it. Wendy finds out.

Warnings: Animal death, brief descriptions of gore surrounding it, death threats (poisoning), Wendy slapping Jake.

Word Count: 1318 It's on AO3 -> Here

At some point in Jake’s childhood, he distinctly remembers their house having mice. It was around the autumn time when the air outside grew colder and the rodents were searching for food and shelter. He knew they were in the house before Marc and Steven’s parents did. Saw them scurrying around at some point in the kitchen, munching on cereal. So he made the decision to grab a handful of sugary rice puffs and leave them in a little nook in one of the empty cabinet.

He liked them. Like spending his time trying to catch a few glimpses of the fluffy house mice creeping around. They were eating the food, he monitored it just enough to know when to try and top up the poorly-folded makeshift paper dish he made for them to hold the food. That’s how he knew they were still around and happily living in the corner cupboard.

He carried on feeding them and keeping an eye out for them for the upcoming weeks, trying to find more things for them to eat other than cereal. Eventually, when he saw the opportunity, he even went to the library and looked at a few books about mice. About keeping them as pets. He knew that they were wild, that they weren’t really pets, but he liked looking after them and that was enough for him to want to know how to do it properly in his own way. He wanted to make sure he wasn’t hurting them accidentally.

Despite not being that into arts and crafts, he tried his best to make a little makeshift house out of cardboard. He picked up random sticks from the garden outside and dotted them around the cupboard. He’d leave little rasins and seeds. He even caught a small dead house spider and left it for them after reading mice would sometimes eat bugs.

One day, he managed to grab a few pieces of raw pasta from the pantry whilst the adults were out doing who knows what. He had waited until they left, leaving about half an hour just to make sure they were gone, before rushing into the kitchen and pulling a chair over to stand on in order to reach one of the higher shelves.

Standing on his tiptoes, he grabbed the bag and picked out a few pieces that he’d deemed worthy enough for his little fuzzy friends. He rushed to move the chair back under the dining room table and sprinted over to the cupboard where he’d been watching over the mice with a big grin, happy that he could give them a little variety as a treat. He had rambled excitedly out loud to the room as he got closer, announcing the surprise to the mice as though they were listening and could understand.

The moment he’d pulled the small door open to the unused storage area, his face dropped. For a moment he could’ve sworn his heart stopped dead and a pulse of disbelief spread through his chest. A disbelief that boiled down into a brief anger, and simmered into a slow burning grief. His eyes were fixed on the sight before him, his gaze locked on the image that would still harden his gaze and squeeze his chest whenever he was reminded of it.

Right in the centre of the cupboard, where he had originally placed his small makeshift paper dish of food, was a mousetrap. A mouse trap with a small and bloodied mouse caught in it, trying to escape. It frantically squeaked in panic as it tried to free the trapped limb from beneath the metal bar that had pinned it in place. He stood in horror as he suddenly realised it had been trying to gnaw its leg off to get out, a tiny puddle of blood seeping from around and off of the baseboard of the trap.

The nausea grew as he started to properly process the situation, the terrified shrieks of the mouse sounding out as he watched it suffer, frozen in place and completely clueless as to how he could help it. Faintly, he registered small streaks of water running down his cheeks as he flicked his eyes back and forth, trying to figure out what he could actually do. The pieces of pasta cracked in his hand as he clenched his fist around them, trying desperately to not match the panic of the mouse and cause it to scare even more.

His eyes flickered around to search his surroundings for something to help. Anything. Anything at all. On the window sill, only barely having spotted them as he looked over the room, he spotted a pair of wire cutters. The boy had all but lunged towards them, the fractured pasta falling to the floor as he opened his hand. A spark of hope nestled in his chest as he shakily picked them up, madly spinning back around and skidding towards the cupboard on his knees.

It was a hope that had been so dearly misplaced. Snuffed out almost as soon as it had been lit. He hadn’t even realised the rodent had stopped making noise, that it had stopped trying to claw and scamper its way to freedom. Jake just knelt there and stared at the small, limp form of the mouse as the bloody limb twitched every so often as a result of the exposed nerve endings being touched.

The next thing he saw as he pried his damp, reddened eyes from the lifeless form was the destroyed cardboard house he’d made for them. The sticks had been snapped and the walls lined with glue traps, acting as a border to trap them in. In the little food bowl that had been pushed to the side, he saw the cereal he’d put in it mixed with some odd green-blue pellets. Mouse poison.

Seeing that had been the final straw to make him slam the cupboard door shut and run out of the room, the frantic scratching and squeaking sounds still clawing inside his head. He scampered up the stairs, tripping over his own feet and driving his shin into the edge of the step before recovering and continuing to make a run for their bedroom. His hands shook as he wrenched the door open and pushed it shut, his knees buckling as soon as he had pressed his back into it. He sat staring into nothingness, the familiar engulfing blanket of dissociation wrapping around him as the day grew later. Eventually their parents got back and after a few minutes of distant chatter, he heard her footsteps climbing the staircase.

He was shoved forwards further into the room like a limp corpse as the door pushed open without warning, Wendy calmly walking into the room with a disinterested expression. She stared at him kneeled on the floor with disdain, nonchalantly moving closer, and Jake stayed completely still; half present half gone. The woman crouched down to meet his eye level as he stared straight ahead into nothingness, no sign that he was really present in the moment. Unimpressed, she stayed silent for a few moments, keeping her expression completely unreadable and her body language still.

Jake flinched hard when her palm collided with a raw smack to the side of his face, his eyes wide with the same shock as he’d had when opening that cupboard door. He looked at her with sluggish surprise at the jarring impact, his skin tingling with pins and needles at the power of the slap. Wendy continued to watch him for a moment more before calmly standing up again and looking down on him with disgust, turning to leave the room and close the door behind her.

“If I ever find you doing this again, I’ll put that poison in your food and make you eat it. Act like a pest, and you’ll get treated like one.”

#moon knight #moon knight system #moon knight fanfic #jake lockley #kid jake lockley #wendy spector #my fic #writing #ao3

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trickster-jpeg · 3 months

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Can’t You See That You’re Lost Without Me?

Summary: Snippet from the system's childhood. They were around seven years old when their mum left them on the side of the road one day. The whole thing must’ve only lasted with them chasing after the car for no longer than a few minutes, but it still stuck with them.

Warnings: I mean just major warning for child. The whole thing is triggered by them having a meltdown because they're overstimulated, so obviously Wendy's not gonna react with compassion or sympathy.

Word Count: 1123 It's On AO3 -> Here

They were around seven years old when their mum left them on the side of the road one day. The whole thing must’ve only lasted with them chasing after the car for no longer than a few minutes, but it still stuck with them.

They couldn’t remember the circumstances properly, the best that they could work out was that they’d been walking around shopping with their mum all day. From what they can remember, they didn’t think the day had even been that bad in all honesty. Their mum had even bought them a small stuffed teddy from a garden centre. A soft grey elephant that they’d fallen in love with upon sight.

They didn’t remember anything else until they were seated in the car, utterly exhausted as well as both hungry and thirsty. This combined with their legs aching after having done so much movement without break was really the perfect recipe for overstimulation and a meltdown. Neither of which was a fun experience to say the least. So when their mother said that they were going to stop off at and walk around another shop, the lump that had been growing in their throat suddenly swelled further.

Their sandpaper mouth and the hunger-pained knot in their stomach became apparent as they tried to soothe it by swallowing what little saliva they had in their mouth. A wave of frustration washed over them as they were suddenly aware of how drained they had become from the day’s events. Burning tears welled up in their eyes as they failed to verbalise their needs, not knowing how to formulate the words to tell their mother that they physically couldn’t will themself to use up anymore of the energy they didn’t have. Too exasperated to think properly, they kicked their feet out at the dashboard, their shoe colliding against it with a heavy clatter. In irritation, they violently shook their head in an attempt to convey what they were trying to tell her.

“NO!”

It was such a stupid thing to be pushed over the edge by, so ordinary. They knew now that they couldn’t help it, that meltdowns and overstimulation were just things they had to be careful of and at worst all they could do was try to minimise the damage. But at the time, they hadn’t known any better. Didn’t have the reassurance or the vocabulary to explain their behaviour. They had simply just been labelled a problem and told that they had to grow up. To learn how to act their age.

They couldn’t remember how it suddenly got worse. How it reached the point it did. All they knew was that it suddenly jumped to their mother pulling over on the side of the road and shouting at them to get out. They could remember the fear that coursed through them as they continued to kick the dash, desperately trying to get their words out to apologise and explain. But they couldn’t.

She reached over to harshly unbuckle their seatbelt. She angrily grabbed the handle and all but threw the door open, all while ordering them to get out of the car. Their breathing was heavy as the tears streamed from their eyes, their throat closing even tighter the more they made attempts at spitting their excuses out for her to hear. Not that she would’ve listened. She just kept shouting.

And then suddenly they were outside of the car. They couldn’t tell whether they’d voluntarily exited the vehicle with the terror of their mother’s fury acting as a catalyst, or whether she’d done something to push them out. All they knew is that the next moment in the sequence of events was that they were watching her reach over the now empty passenger seat and slam the door shut. All they knew was that they had been stood on the roadside as they watched in horror as the car began to speed away from them.

It took a moment for their brain to send the signals to their legs because they remember the shock as they tried to process what was happening at that moment in time. The disbelief as they stood on the patchy, dying grass and blinked the tears out of their eyes. Full body tremors rippling throughout their body like a beacon as the dirt kicked up on the road from where the car had been stationary not moments ago. Then they were clutching their new elephant friend in their hand desperate to not leave it behind and running after the vehicle as fast as their short legs could take them.

They know that they had screamed after her, begging for her to stop driving away from them. Breaths catching in their chest as they pushed themselves even further past the physical exertion they had been suffering as they wailed for her to come back. Their legs erupted with searing pain as their muscles consumed energy reserves they didn’t have. They howled with dread as they begged for her to stop and listen to their apologies. That they’d do whatever she wanted if only she’d let them back into the car.

They remember she stopped eventually. It must’ve felt longer in the moment as a child, because looking back on it she probably hadn’t driven that far away from them. She’d pulled up onto the side of the road again and as they sprinted to the door, they could still feel the way she’d stared at them as though she was looking into their very soul. Her piercing and uncaring gaze judging every fibre of them. They felt sick as they remembered the apologies that spilled from their lips like a tsunami. The trepidation as they felt the pressure to convince her to let them back into the car. To not leave them to find their way back home on their own.

Eventually, she muttered under her breath begrudgingly before reaching over and just barely popping the door open. They could still see the way they’d lunged to tug at the door, their body all but diving into the car seat as they thanked her for her patience. As they felt the relief at how ‘kind’ she had been letting them back into the vehicle and for putting up with their awful behaviour.

They didn’t remember anything else from that day. They didn’t try to. Why would they when they didn’t even want to know anymore about it? They just wanted to collect what they could to eventually try and bury it in the earth next to their mother and never visit the cemetery full of similar events that they had created. They didn’t bother marking its grave. It didn’t deserve the recognition of a headstone.

#moon knight #moon knight system #moon knight fanfic #steven grant #kid steven grant #marc spector #kid marc spector #jake lockley #kid jake lockley #autistic moon knight system #autistic steven grant #autistic marc spector #autistic jake lockley #wendy spector #my fic #writing #ao3 #whump

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trickster-jpeg · 3 months

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Learning Everything Ain’t What It Seems, That’s The Thing About These Days.

Summary: There was a small stack of polaroids tucked away in a box in one of the little nooks of the flat, along with an old camera from around the 80s. Jake always started to hate the collection of polaroids as he looked further into the box.

Warnings: N/A

Word Count: 725 It's On AO3 -> Here

There was a small stack of polaroids tucked away in a box in one of the little nooks of the flat, along with an old camera from around the 80s. They’d had it since they were kids, taken it when it became apparent that their parents neither wanted to or needed to use it, and they’d kept it ever since. Or at least Jake had. He knows that both Marc and Steven remember using it at some point during their childhoods, but he doesn’t actually think they know that they still own it.

Jake still uses it from time to time. Takes pictures of the scenery, random animals, flowers, their apartment, the inside of his car. Anything really. It’s calming, in a way. Like driving. Being in control of what you take pictures of and how you frame it, the angle, the lighting. Everything. And most importantly, its a piece of time captured in a single shot that proves your existence in that very moment. Something that Jake especially needs, even if he’d never admit it.

He can look back on the pictures he’s taken throughout the years and hold onto them with certainty. Proof that he existed. Proof that he was alive. Proof that he has something more to him than just being protection. That he can do something that’s not causing or enduring harm in some capacity.

Sometimes he looks at the pictures and feels nothing. He remembers the images, can recount the moments in detail, but he just feels nothing towards the memory. A complete disconnect from it all. Like he was just a bystander in his own life. In his own memories. It’s called ‘emotional amnesia’. He’d heard the term from somewhere. Knew about it somehow. Probably Steven and his new found interest in researching their disorder. However he found out about it, one thing he knew about it was that it was fucking torture.

He found it borderline heartbreaking that he could remember a moment, he could logically state how it was in the moment. Maybe he smiled because the cat he took a picture of decided to start following him for a couple of blocks on his way back to the apartment, feeling endeared by the small scraggly creature that trailed behind him. Logically, he could know that that had happened. He’s couldn’t remember the feeling of it. He couldn’t remember the warmth in his chest, or the excitement at knowing he had the perfect opportunity to take a picture, or the giddiness at seeing the perfect picture develop in the moment. He could think back on some of his memories and feel absolutely nothing towards them, and it was torture that pissed him off to no end.

But in someways, it was better than not knowing at all. Some of the pictures he had stashed away in his tattered shoe box, he couldn’t remember at all. If they were generic enough, he couldn’t even guess if they were his work to begin with or someone else’s. He could admire the frame and the dynamics of the shot, or even just the simplicity of it. He just knew absolutely nothing about it.

The worst photos were the ones with them in it. The ones where he could just get lost staring at their younger self, wondering who that kid was and how they could’ve turned out to be. He doesn’t know why they still have some of the photos they do either. The ones that are very clearly faked for the sake of it. The ones where he can see straight through the awkward smile and into the dead eyes that only just hide the screams for help and the wishes of death. The ones that eventually just all together stop being taken. As though all documentation of that life—their life—had suddenly been cut off as though they had simply just ceased to exist, just like their brother.

Jake always started to hate the collection of polaroids as he looked further into the box. As he once again reminded himself of that separate stack of photos from their past that he’d kept tucked away in an old sealed envelope at the bottom of the shoebox. The ones that no matter how much pain they brought, he was never quite able to bring himself to get rid of.

#moon knight #moon knight system #moon knight fanfic #jake lockley #introspection #whump #my fic #writing #ao3

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trickster-jpeg · 3 months

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I’ve Got Soul But I’m Not A Soldier.

Summary: Marc’s feels like he’s failed Steven now that the Brit knows about their past, Layla’s there to try and help put his mind to rest with reassurance.

Warnings: N/A

Word Count: 1412 It's On AO3 -> Here

“I feel like I’ve failed him.”

Marc watched as Layla’s head snapped up from the book she was quietly reading, confusion crossing her face at the lack of context.

“Failed who?”

“Steven.”

Within a split second of his words, he saw his wife’s expression melt into a sympathetic look. Uncertain of where to tread, not exactly sure as to where Marc was taking the conversation, but willing to hear him out nonetheless. She looked conflicted for a moment, a desire to move close and give the man her undivided attention to show that she was listening. But that was the last thing that her husband wanted or needed.

After years of emotional repression and being unable to open up or talk about even the simplest of troubles filtering through his head, having someone watching him made him feel almost as though he were a bug under a microscope just seconds away from being pinned in a frame. He could never get the words out under visible attention being shown to him, so one of the best things Layla could do was to continue reading and wait for Marc to carry on talking. Or at least fake something to make it appear as though she wasn’t waiting on him. Watching him.

Marc shifted his position uncomfortably from where he sat on the opposite end of the sofa. He’d spent the last ten minutes or so just watching the fish swim around in the tank, even going so far as to count the bubbles from the filter whilst trying to psyche himself up to speak. He’d been working on getting better at sharing things. For his sake, and for Layla’s sake. He wanted to be better for her and this was one of the ways he could do that. Even if he’d rather peel off his own skin and barbecue it than talk about his demons.

With a shaky inhale, he flickered his eyes upwards to briefly glance at the woman sitting opposite to him before moving his focus back to the goldfish and speaking.

“I just- He was never supposed to know the things he knows now. Was never supposed to see them or learn about them or me. I know it’s good that he knows that there’s communication and it’s for the better overall but- A part of me just feels like it’s all been for nothing. That I've put all this effort into trying to give him a good life and it’s just crumbled.”

He swallowed hard and took a deep, shaky inhale in the hope that it’d help squash the almost instant regret of starting the conversation that had began to well up in the pit of his stomach. A part of his mind berated him for speaking, taunting him with cruel words that tried to disregard everything he said. To make him doubt whether any of the words he’d spoken had any validity. Whether they’re actually worth anything or he’s just wasting someone else’s time and making himself seem damaged for pity points. Telling him that he’s making up fake issues for attention because he’s a selfish brat. It’s a voice that parrots the words that sound distinctly like his mother’s.

And so in a panic, he continues to ramble in an attempt to drown out his own thoughts.

“Like- I know logically he’s got a good life now. Here. With us. But I- It’s- I can’t-“

He cuts himself off with a frustrated noise and clenches his eyes shut, his face pressing firmly into his palms as he tries to collect himself.

Layla was probably so fed up with him, so sick of his petty and meaningless bullshit. She probably regretted ever even thinking that she wanted to know his thoughts. His feelings. Such a waste of space. No weight or merit at all, just there to make everyone else feel like utter shit because that’s all he was good at doing. He couldn’t even say the right words to form a phrase let alone piece together a coherent sentence. Why couldn’t he just speak like a normal person? What kind of person gets overwhelmed and feels like fleeing across the ocean at the thought of saying two or three fucking sentences?

‘Hey, I feel like a huge fuck up and just a complete waste of space because I can’t even keep my own alter from experiencing and remembering the trauma we went through as a kid, even though that’s the only thing I was good for. How’s your day been?’. He was such a fucking failure, it’s no wonder his mom started to hate him. She was probably looking for a reason to, even before he’d killed his brother. It’s probably why his father didn’t waste his breath trying to stick up for his son or defend him against his mother either. He just wasn’t worth it.

“…c- Mar- MARC-“

His head jerked up in surprise, violently snapping out of his own self made mental spiral. He felt Layla’s hands gently holding his own, having just been cupping the sides of his face before he’d moved his head away. She had a concerned look on her face as she scanned her eyes over him, searching for something he couldn’t quite figure out. Faintly, his mind made a comment about how he’d gone and made her worried for no reason, but the gentle grip she had on his hands grounded him enough to focus on that rather than his own thoughts. He watched her hesitantly for a second, his eyes darting away from making contact with hers every few seconds just to scan around the apartment and look at something else.

They sat in silence for a few more minutes before he decided he should say something and tried to awkwardly clear his throat. However, as he went to open his mouth to speak, he found himself being cut off by her.

“You’re not a failure, Marc. Sure, you tend not to deal with things in the healthiest of ways, but it’s understandable given everything you’ve had to deal with on your own before.” She pauses for a moment to read his expression, checking that he was listening and that it was alright for her to continue talking. “You’ve protected Steven from the trauma you all went through for decades. You made sure he knew he was loved and cared for and looked after. You let him know he wasn’t alone, the same way he did by just being there for you. Even if he knows things about your history now, that doesn’t take away from the fact that you did so much for him just so he could know that he had someone there for him in a way that you didn’t when you needed one. That doesn’t sound like it was all for nothing to me, does it?”

Hesitantly, he shook his head slightly as he still tried to process her words in full. Even if he didn’t believe some of the things she’d said about him, there would probably always be a small part of him that doubted he could be anything remotely decent, he could admit that she was right. He’d done everything he could to make sure Steven could be as content as he could be. Writing him postcards from his mum, setting up a voicemail so he could chat to her, taking on the memories he didn’t have and the symptoms that he wasn’t supposed to know he experienced, or even doing small things like making sure he always had snacks he liked in the flat.

Even if Steven knew now, he’d still grown up with the support that Marc never had. That he’d hoped and prayed for and craved. He’d been able to surround himself with his passion of egyptology, his love of poetry, being able to buy the books and items he wanted without any shame or hesitation. Never having to worry about things like not having enough to pay rent, or deciding whether he needed to ration his food or just go hungry for a few days to make ends meet. Because that was something Marc had made sure that he’d never have to go through or struggle with, because Steven had saved his life and the least he could do was make sure the other man had a good one of his own to live. And despite knowing the things he does now, that must count for something.

#moon knight #moon knight system #moon knight fanfic #marc spector #layla el faouly #my fic #writing #ao3 #hurt/comfort

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trickster-jpeg · 3 months

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I Paced Around For Hours On Empty, I Jumped At The Slightest Of Sounds.

Summary: Jake’s experience with being trapped in a sarcophagus, and a healthy dose of claustrophobia.

Warnings: N/A

Word Count: 980 It's On AO3 -> Here

All Jake could see was darkness. While that could be taken as some kind of edgy, metaphorical statement of his character, in this moment all he could literally see was darkness. He’d been hidden away in headspace, unable to do anything as he watched Harrow lift the gun and fire it square into their chest.

They’d been surrounded by water, because of course it was fitting that they’d die in the water after escaping it as a child. Their life had come full circle to land when all of this truly first started. Dying alone wasn’t the nicest thing to have to do, but he was just glad that Marc and Steven had each other as they did it. He was terrified. Born out of a need to protect them. Born to shield them from the absolute worst of it, to keep them safe from the shadows. And he’d failed to do that.

He thought it was all over, until he woke up to darkness. Eyes wide open, and he couldn’t see a thing. Were his eyes even open? He reached up gently to move his hands to feel his eyelids. When they connected with a poke and a stinging pain, he assumed they were. It was just really fucking dark.

Where the hell was he? Where were they? Them. Marc and Steven. All of a sudden, Jake became so incredibly aware of the complete disconnect he felt from his counterparts. Radio silence. It was like they were just gone. They couldn’t be gone. How could he know they were alright if he couldn’t feel them? If he wasn’t there with them to make sure that they were safe.

He had to find them.

Blindly, he tried to surge forward where he stood and run into the darkness, a new found drive that kickstarted with a jolt of energy. And within not even half a second, he hit his head on something directly in front of him, his legs not even being able to move properly let alone take a step forward. Assuming he was just facing a wall, he moved to turn and go the other way. Which was when he realised he couldn’t turn around, not even by a fraction. In a panic, he tried to turn himself the other way only the be met with the same dilemma. He was boxed in.

What if they hadn’t died, not properly? Maybe it was some kind of sick joke and Jake was sat conscious in his own dead body. What if for some fucked up reason Marc and Steven had gone dormant? Who knows how long he could be in here, completely stuck and alone. What was ‘here’, a box? What if he was in a coffin? What if they were being buried? Was he being buried alive?

In an instant, he raised his hands to start frantically hitting at the wall in front of him. The pain that bloomed in his fists was instant as he bashed them against the coarse stone, sanding down his knuckles only to have its thirst quenched as his blood started to stain it. Panic rose further at the realisation he didn’t have his gloves. He wasn’t wearing them. Why would he be? No one knew he had them except Khonshu.

Khonshu. He could get them out of it. He’d be able to help Jake like he’d helped Marc that night in the desert. No. He would’ve been able to help. But he was gone. Just like Marc. Just like Steven. Just like everyone. It was just him and the dark and the fucking coffin he was trapped in and for once he had no clue how he was going to get himself out of this problem.

Honestly, he was almost tempted to start head butting it, if nothing else worked to open it at least he’d be able to knock himsef unconscious and relieve suffering through this purgatory. His chest heaved and his bones cracked as he continued to struggle in place. He spat strings of curses, both english and spanish, fluctuating from angry to frantic to scared to desperate.

“CAN YOU HEAR ME? HARROW- HIJO DE PUTA I WILL KILL YOU WHEN I GET OUT OF THIS- LET ME OUT OF HERE NOW-“

From an existence formed around trauma, it was understandable that he had some issues. One of those being his hatred confined spaces. So much of his childhood revolved around them, for protection, for punishment, for comfort, for fear. When they were controlled, when he could dictate them and have that micromanagement, a tangible way to remove himself if needed, then he’d be fine. Almost prefer them in a way.

But when it was forced, when he was shut away because he ‘deserved’ it, or when he saw it as his only option to stay trapped and hidden or exposed and endangered, that was when he couldn’t handle it. Locked rooms were fine as long as he held the key to dictate when it was unlocked. As soon as it became like some sort of cage, he’d be consumed with the overwhelming urge to claw out by any means possible.

Overwhelmed, and frustrated to no end, his movements started to slow. He grew more sluggish and his hits became heavier with less weight behind them as he started to realise all of his fight was fucking useless. It wasn’t going to move. He was stuck in there. Trapped. Waiting to die, or to be freed, or whatever the fuck would happen. Which is why he closed his eyes and tried to go somewhere else. Somewhere open, where he wasn’t completely shut in.

He wasn’t sure how long it had been when it changed. But at some point, it did. And when he opened his eyes, he stuck face to face, sat in an office staring at Arthur fucking Harrow.

#moon knight #moon knight system #moon knight fanfic #jake lockley #my fic #writing #ao3 #whump #claustrophobia

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trickster-jpeg · 3 months

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Just A Man, I'm Not A Hero. Just A Boy, Who Had To Sing This Song.

Summary: Marc just gotten the call that his mom had died, and he has no idea how to feel about it.

Warnings: Suicidal ideation, self blame, a lot of internal conflict, and references to child abuse.

Word Count: 983 It's On AO3 -> Here

His mom was dead. Gone, deceased, never coming back. He was never going to see her again and he felt physically sick. He’d just gotten the phone call about the funeral, about the shiva, and he was fucking terrified. How could she just be gone? He’d felt her lingering over his shoulder, his identity, his entire life, and now he was just supposed to accept the fact that she’d never be there again. He’d done everything he physically could to get away from her, and now that he knew that he’d never have to see her again, he was terrified. He wanted her back. He didn’t want her to be gone. He wanted his mom back.

He missed her. Missed the way she’d smile at him. The times she’d rub little circles into his back until he fell asleep. How she’d leave the door open just a sliver with the landing light on, just because he was terrified of the dark. She’d hold him and let him sleep next to her when he’d woken up crying his eyes out from a nightmare, singing to him in a soft and hushed voice. The way he’d try to squirm away as she’d fuss over his appearance before going to temple. Always making a show of singing him happy birthday, making sure he had a nice cake and a party. The way she’d smiled at him the first time he held his baby brother and made sure that he knew he’d always be there for him, to look out for him. Because that’s what big brothers did.

It should’ve been me. I should’ve been the one to die. I never should’ve brought him into that cave. I broke her heart by killing her son.

He had also been her son. Her first born. He’d been the one to survive, and after that she had treated him like he was dead to her. Like he’d drowned alongside his brother. That the boy that had survived wasn’t a boy but a creature. Some monster that had crawled into the corpse of the person he was, the son she knew, and replaced him to suck the life force out of the family. And he hated himself for it. He had hated himself more than he had ever thought he was capable of feeling anything before and it was all because she did.

Society tells children that their parents know everything. That they’re meant to be respected and listened to, that they pass wisdom onto their next of kin in the hopes that their children can be better people than they were. Kids are never told that their parents are wrong. Your parents are smart, they know a lot more than a child would so you should take their word as gospel. But what happens when the people that you’re dependent on to survive suddenly turn their backs on you? What to do when your mom starts drinking? When she suddenly starts to scream at you. To blame you. When she starts to beat you. Tries to abandon you. He was never told what to do when his mom threatens to kill him. When she tried to kill him.

“I brought you into this world and I can take you out of it.”

She made him feel disgusting. So fucking worthless. So small, so weak, so fucking scared. And so incredibly fucking angry. He hated her. Hated the way she made him feel. Hated the things that she did to him, the things she forced him to go through. How he had to stay quiet. How he had conditioned himself into being good and not talking about it just because her reputation would be ruined. Because it would make her look bad and he didn’t want her to look bad because he loved her. And any time he thought about telling someone, just to say something- anything, he just wanted to punish himself because of how awful a son he would’ve been to destroy her image and make people see her like that in that light. Because if he told people lies about his mom he’d be a bad son, and good sons don’t speak badly of their mothers.

The more he thought about it the sicker he felt. The emptier he felt. It made him want to scream until his throat bled. Made him want to choke on his own blood until he was gagging from the overwhelming iron taste filling his mouth, drowning his lungs. The urges he’d get to try and kill himself in the most painful, damaging ways and purposefully survive so he had to live with the things he’d done to himself. The burning desires to grasp at his hair and tear it from his scalp, to gouge and gnaw at the skin on his fingers until he’d peeled down to the bones.

All he could think about was the nights as a child that he’d spent wishing she would just die. He could only think about the guilt that choked him like a noose after realising what he’d thought, what he’d whispered aloud to himself as he lay in bed with the moon dusting a faint light across his face. The betrayal he felt in his mind at even considering that acceptable for a split second, just for a selfish craving to be released from the never ending nightmare of both his waking and sleeping life.

But now that she was gone, all he wanted was to hug her one last time. To apologise to her. To try and make peace. And deep down he was fucking ashamed more than he would ever fully be able to even comprehend. Because he was still just that scared little boy stuck in the water-filled cave, just barely able to keep his head up above the water level. That scared little boy who just needed a mom.

#moon knight #moon knight system #moon knight fanfic #marc spector #wendy spector #my fic #writing #whump #ao3

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trickster-jpeg · 3 months

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Cracked At The Line In The Air, I feel safe.

Summary: Steven accidentally breaks his childhood teddy and it triggers a meltdown.

Warnings: Steven hits himself as a stim during his meltdown. Not sure of that warrants a warning but just in case.

Word Count: 1607 It's On AO3 -> Here

A/N: 'Ricitos' is just a term of endearment (usually for a partner, up to you how you interpret it) that means curly hair/small curls.

It’s broken. It’s broken. Oh my god, it’s broken.

Steven was laying in bed. It was the middle of the night and he was just settling down to sleep. It had been a good day. Nothing bad had happened, he’d been rather at ease, enjoying going about his day with minimal interference. He’d rolled over to lay down on his side and seen his childhood teddy tipped over, having fallen onto the floor. It was a fuzzy small elephant called Nellie. The stuffing distributed unevenly and one of the ears slightly worse for wear than the other due to constant chewing as a child, but it was still whole. It had small black beads for eyes, a stubby little trunk, and two tiny white mounds either side of its face for tusks. Not wanting her to be lonely, because he still had a tendency to anthropomorphize things, he went to pick her up and place her back on her spot on the bed.

Despite having had it for decades, it was still in relatively solid condition. He’d put effort into maintaining its state and was rather chuffed with himself at having had her for so long with minimal incidents. Which is why it was all the more heartbreaking when one of the seams on its neck had stuck out and gotten caught in the floorboards. He had no idea how, but it did, and when he grabbed her to pull her upwards it started to tug. Something he had realised far too late to stop it from happening.

The seam had stayed wedged firmly in the crack and as soon as the force of pulling the toy was applied, it started to unravel. In an instant, the body started to separate from the head, the old stuffing starting to tip and pile out onto the floor beneath itself. The stitches snapped as the neck stayed stuck to the ground, disconnecting from the main body and tugging a front arm off along with it.

His brain stopped dead in its tracks, physically incapable of processing what had just happened. It was almost as if time had slowed as Steven watched the events unfold in absolute horror. He froze instantly, eyes bulging as his mouth hung open with shock. A tremble immediately started to zap through his hand as his fingers loosened from a firm clasp around the worn but soft body of the toy, to a lax and limp claw that was just barely holding it. It was only as it tumbled out of his grip to lay with the rest of itself, surrounded by the stuffing that was once inside, that Steven lunged at the broken object, his heart pounding out of his chest as he frantically tried to gather all of the pieces together in his arms.

“No. No, no, no, no- NO- NO!”

His lungs constricted as his breathing instantly got caught, fractured breaths intermingling with the rising nausea and swirled around like the ocean in a storm. Broken sounding words flooded from his mouth as he stuttered to get them out in a desperate attempt to relieve some of the crushing pressure growing like a lump in his throat. They got muddled and stuck, his tongue getting in the way as he tried to stammer anything new, but was unable to get them out in a way that felt right. His mouth quickly flooded with the crimson metallic taste of blood as he bit down on his cheek, his jaw crunching down in a moment of shock as he tried to process what just happened.

Fat globules of tears poured down his face as he desperately willed the pieces to form back together, to undo it all and fix itself. His breaths heaved as he continued to work himself up, bawling harder and harder as he grasped the pieces impossibly closer to him. The sudden heartbreak was painful, physically painful and even more so psychologically. He felt the disparaging familiarity of dissociation grip him, his brain disconnecting from his body as he started to heave strangled sobs, whimpering pleas for the elephant to be okay. For his Nellie to be all better again.

He couldn’t lose her, she’d been there for him since he was a kid. She was the only thing that could calm him down when things got too bad, something not even his headmates could fully manage to do. Meltdowns, flashbacks, nightmares, panic attacks. Even just giving him something to cry into when a character he liked in a film died, or just something to fall asleep with when he needed to. He didn’t care that people might see it as childish, after everything the system had been through when they were supposed to have been a child, he thought they should almost be owed it to make up for lost time. But Nellie was something from his childhood. Their childhood. Which is why it was all the more painful that she was now broken apart and torn in his arms.

Gradually, he felt his body begin to rock back and forwards, his breathing trying to match the motions frantically at the sudden awareness he really wasn’t breathing right. How could he have been so careless? How stupid could he have been to just destroy one of his most treasured items? One of the only truly, wholly good things they had from their parents, from their little brother, and he’d gone and broken it. Bringing the main body of the teddy to his face, he pressed it against his skin and started to muffle his cries, the pain steadily shifting into a burning anger. Anger that he could blame no one for but himself.

His brows furrowed in irritation as a swelling burning flashed in his chest, his grip tightened around the material painfully as the rage towards himself grew. The feeling began to burst through his limbs as he clenched his jaw almost painfully, grinding his teeth in annoyance as tears kept trickling down his face. Through huffed breaths, a guttural rumble rose in his oesophagus and tore up his throat in a furious roar.

“FUCK! HOW COULD I BE SO FUCKING STUPID? WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH ME? FUCKING STUPID- USELESS- WORTHLESS FUCKING- FUCK-”

In an instant, he raised his arms up with fists balled and started to bash them against the side of his head. The motion was repetitive and a bit painful, but soothing in a way. He carried on letting random, frustrated words and whines fumble out of his lips as his body took over. Tears and snot dripped down his face as he continued to hit his temples, sobbing in bitterness as a crash of self-hatred pooled in his chest. Briefly, he thought he heard someone speaking to him but he couldn’t figure out what they were saying.

There was a new resistance in his arms, something that pulled them back and made them feel not quite right. That made him almost struggle to do the thing that was soothing him. That was helping. Made it feel like it wasn’t helping. Like it was almost worse. He didn’t like it, it felt restraining. So instead moved them away and sat on his hands, trying to mitigate the uncomfortable feeling that stopped them with pressure. Continued to rock back and forth, to make the noises that climbed up his throat.

“Steven. It’s going to be okay. We can fix it. It’s alright.”

He shook his head disparagingly at the words, too overwhelmed to be able to form anything comprehensible. His legs bounced rhythmically as he tried to convey what he wanted to say, tried desperately to grasp at words and throw them out in a way that made sense. That helped him explain that it wasn’t alright and that it couldn’t be fixed. That he couldn’t fix it and it was too late for anything to be saved. But in some way he felt as though the speaker understood his thoughts regardless of whether or not they were spoken, and the gravelled voice spoke again. Accompanied by someone else.

“It might not feel like it, but this’ll pass and we can stitch her up. She’ll be fine, it was an accident, Steven. You’re not stupid or useless, it was a mistake.”

“He’s right, ricitos. We can fix our fluffy friend. Maybe even get her some new stuffing and fill it out properly again.”

As the voices spoke, they projected feelings of warmth. There was a contrast between their comfort and the gradual dimming of the burning that had been exploding in his chest. Whatever it was, it was nice. It was kind. Caring. And they said they could fix it. They could fix Nellie. He just needed to try and calm down so that they could. Gently, he felt himself move off of sitting on his hands. Felt them start to lift and snake up to wrap around him and hold him in a way that felt good. That felt safe. Protected. It felt like he could just let go.

He didn’t want to feel this way anymore. Didn’t want to feel any of it. And somehow he knew they would be able to help him stop feeling that way. They’d be able to fix it for him, they could fix Nellie. Stop him from causing more damage to their belongings and their body. He didn’t mean for it to happen, he never meant to hurt them, never meant to hurt himself. But he just couldn’t help it. So, that’s what he did. He let the pair take his place, and went into the back.

#moon knight #moon knight system #moon knight fanfic #steven grant #jake lockley #marc spector #autistic steven grant #(Marc & Jake are as well but this is just focused on Steven)#my fic #ao3 #hurt/comfort #meltdowns #we stan Nellie the elephant here #writing

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trickster-jpeg · 3 months

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I’m Trying To Just Fill In All The Gaps.

Summary: Jake gets triggered out to save them from getting hit by a car and tries to make sure they’re safe before they pass out from shock.

Warnings: N/A

Word Count: 1154 It's On AO3 -> Here

One minute Jake had been in the back, existing in the headspace as either Marc or Steven went about their day, and the next he had lurched out to the front with just barely enough time to react as he pulled the body backwards from crossing the road. With no more than a split second passing between the knee-jerk reaction, a car came blitzing past them with a screeched swerve and continued to speed down the street, the driver uncaring of the fact that they very nearly could’ve killed someone. Barely managing to keep a grounded grip on the body from the shock of adrenaline that coursed through him, Jake focused all of his energy on staying upright as the momentum took them stumbling backwards.

As he steadied himself in an attempt to plant his feet, he registered the jolts of panic being sent forward to him by Steven, his mind feeling blurred and hazy as the Brit continued to stand close to the front. From years of experience, he knew that these kinds of triggered switches left them feeling groggy and disoriented, but this time he felt different in a way he couldn’t quite place. A rising warmth began to cover him as a wave of heat pushed sweat to the surface of his skin, his pulse slowing as opposed to the increasing panic of his headmate at the realisation that they’d nearly been hit by a car. The man blinked hard, his vision being dotted with spots before the outer edges of his sight began to shrink into a tunnel-like scope. Vaguely, he registered his fingers loosening their grip around something, a worried feminine voice reaching his ears before being overpowered by a loud ringing and the item clattering to the floor.

Amidst the rapid onslaught of current sensory information, Jake realised he was completely unaware of the circumstances that led them to this moment, as well as the unknown area they were currently in. Meaning he had almost no clue as to what was going on. A great condition to be stuck in when his main, and only, priority at the moment was to make sure they were safe. Extremely conscious of the fading presence of his spatial awareness, as well as the knowledge that they were in an exposed and public location, he focused all of his energy on quickly locating a secure place that he could stop and wait for the feeling to pass.

In a desperate attempt to keep himself grounded and prioritise their safety, he forcefully pushed Steven away from being anywhere near the front and grit his teeth to push through the growing vertigo as he scanned his eyes over their surroundings. Regardless of any prior agreed upon attempts to be more open and kinder with not grabbing control or pushing others away when co-conscious, sometimes it couldn’t be helped and Jake would rather deal with the possibility of the other two being pissy about it later than risk any harm that could come to them in the moment. Despite not knowing the district, Jake made quick work of locating a back alley and immediately began to dart towards it with unsteady legs.

With each frantic step he took, he felt his condition worsening. The dark spots in his vision growing and the sounds of blood rushing in his ears as he swiftly turned the corner and all but ran further into the alley. It was a sheltered and dim space, large bins crammed against the walls semi-adjacent to each other, perfect for hiding themselves away as the growing threat of passing out became more imminent. As he pressed his body between two of the bins, his back slamming into the damp and chipped brick walls, the shaking in his legs became overwhelming enough that he could no longer fight against gravity as the limbs gave out beneath him sending his body crashing to the ground. He felt his eyes roll up into the back of his head as unconsciousness overtook him, just barely feeling himself hit the concrete before they blacked out.

It couldn’t have been more than maybe thirty seconds at most until Jake regained consciousness, or at least that’s what he assumed by the fact that he didn’t feel stiff and there were no indents on his arms when he brushed away pieces of gravel that had been stuck to them. Taking a deep breath in, he slowly sat himself up and propped his back against the wall, purposefully ignoring the stains and bad smells that came with the joy of being stuck between bins in a random back alley in the middle of a busy city. Mentally, he reached out to see if either Marc or Steven were near, receiving a very faint response that they were after a few moments of waiting. With a content nod that his headmates were alright, he decided to sit and gather his bearings, not wanting to cause another fainting spell by trying to get up and move before his body was ready.

It took a few minutes for the haziness to subside as he tried to focus on fighting away the now growing headache. The longer he sat still with his head wedged between his knees, the more collected he felt. Pieces of information that he had been so sorely lacking before the blackout began to appear as he sifted through their collective memory bank. They’d been on their way to meet up with Layla to grab some food, talking to her on the phone while they went to cross the road, which explains the voice that Jake had faintly heard when he’d switched in. It also explained the lack of the device on their person as well, because he had dropped it when his arms went weak.

After another few minutes of simply focusing on his breathing and processing the events, Jake gently murmured a hushed apology to Steven for pushing him away from the front so abruptly. He clenched his jaw and swallowed as he came to the conclusion that enough time had probably passed that it should be okay for them to stand and go find their phone. Faintly, the man started to feel a familiar warmth grow in his chest, phasing into existence with something akin to that of being covered with a fluffy blanket, and he knew that it was Steven slowly moving in to take back over the reins. The shift between the two was gradual, more like turning down the opacity on Jake and turning it up on Steven rather than a clear or snappy switch. And now that Jake was sure they were as alright as they could be given the circumstances, it was alright for him to step back. Without much resistance, he leaned back into the headspace he’d been residing in, satisfied with his successful job of getting them through it like he always does.

#moon knight #moon knight system #moon knight fanfic #jake lockley #my fic #writing #whump #ao3

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trickster-jpeg · 3 months

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I See The Danger, It's Written There In Your Eyes.

Summary: Steven is frontstuck and hasn't been able to talk to Marc in nearly two weeks. When he sits down to try and establish contact with the man, he accidentally ends up speaking to someone else he's never met before.

Warnings: Steven does briefly go into a small spiral of doubt about whether the system is real/if he's just made it up and its actually another disorder or something.

Word Count: 2121 It's On AO3 -> Here

Maybe before his awareness of the system, Steven would’ve been happy to just be able to live his life on his own. But now that he was comfortable with the familiar presence of Marc coexisting with him in this life, it was honestly incredibly jarring to be alone again. He was frontstuck. Completely isolated from his counterpart, with no way of accessing the innerworld and no idea how to get back in contact. He was totally cut off from the man for who knows what reason, fronting on his own and being in control for now upwards of almost two weeks, and he hated it.

It was even worse when the doubt set in. The anxiety and fear that had started to steadily grow as each isolated day passed, his mind slowly being laced with doubts and worries. Logically, he knew that Marc was there somewhere. He knew that they were plural, that they had dissociative identity disorder. That his mother was abusive and dead, and that he was an alter just like Marc. He’d spoken to Layla about his doubts and she’d been extremely reassuring and understanding of the current circumstances.

But that didn’t mean his anxiety wasn’t there. What if it was just some elaborate story, completely made up and all in his head? Maybe it was something else. That he was still mentally ill, but it was something else. Could just be some kind of episode, maybe a mood disorder. Delusional or maybe even a rational way to stay in denial about it all being a personality disorder. Suffice to say, his mind was spiralling down the rabbit hole the longer he was stuck on his own and he was getting desperate for some kind of sign that it was real. In his last call with Layla, she’d suggested taking a day for himself. To try and just acknowledge what was happening within their system and accept it, even if the acceptance was fake. To simply pretend it was a planned ‘Steven’ day that he and Marc had agreed upon and avoid ruminating on it as best as he could.

So that’s what he was doing today. Self-care, whoop whoop!

He’d stayed in bed a lot later than he usually would, totally because he was laying in and not because he couldn’t find the motivation to get up until he physically rolled off the mattress onto the floor. Then he’d made himself breakfast… Lunch. Bordering closer to tea time rather than lunch if he was being totally honest with himself. Layla had brought over curry the night before when they’d hung out, so he pulled out the leftover remnants of his takeaway and reheated them in the microwave. Nothing better to do than sit on the kitchen top and watch the container spin around in the machine until it was ready. Sluggishly, he’d reached behind him to mess with the CD player that sat behind him, tucked away in a little nook, and luckily for him it had something in it. Pressing play, the music crackled to life, something soft yet with a steady pacing. A tether to secure and protect him from drifting off into his head in the silence.

Eventually, the numbers ticked down into single digits and Steven reached over to pull the door right before it started beeping. Not caring much about the heat stinging into his fingers through the container, he tipped the contents into a bowl and moved to flop down onto the sofa. Remote in hand and fork in the other, he balanced the dish on his blanket covered lap and switched on the TV to some random Blue Planet documentary. With eyes fixated to screens, he shovelled the curry into his mouth. Steven wasn’t hungry, but he cared enough about the body that he forced himself to eat. Just in case Marc showed up.

Marc. The one thing he wasn’t supposed to be thinking about. Couldn’t even go an entire day without thinking about him. About the system. The half of him that was missing. Not missing. No. Marc was still there, he wasn’t gone. He’d be back, he wouldn’t leave Steven. Not without saying something. Anything. He couldn’t be alone. Maybe he could try to reach out again. Just for a minute or two. It wouldn’t hurt just to try.

It was with a slight desperation, one of which he was choosing to ignore, that he put down the now empty bowl and moved to lay down. Meditation, or at least the classical type of it, had never really worked for Steven. Marc was the same, he could never stay still for that long and whenever he did he started spiralling in ways that dug up old wounds instead of fixating on the present. Instead what the Brit did when trying to get into a meditative state, was he’d try to take a nap. For some reason, he found it easiest to enter the headspace when he was laying down on something comfortable with his eyes closed, almost falling asleep but just on the cusp of clinging to his consciousness. He’d try to reach out, to grasp onto something tangible and use it as a beacon to drag him closer towards the innerworld.

Taking a few deep breaths, the man shuffled into a more comfortable position and tried to let himself go. His thoughts continued to flit about, cropping up in random ways and interjecting. It was only when he reached the point of recognition that this was the closest he’d get to achieving a quiet mindscape, he tried to reach out to the American.

“Marc? You in there? I’d really appreciate something, anything really. Just a sign that you’re alive and that this isn’t all just some elaborate mental invention…”

A minute passed. Or at least that’s the amount of time he assumed had passed. It was hard to know when you didn’t want to actively check a phone or a clock. He tried to keep his mind as still as possible, not wanting any disruption to block out a response just in case it was a faint thing. Staring into the dark void of his inner eyelids and sighing in disappointment, a familiar sense of discouragement settling in his chest. Steven wanted to try again, but he didn’t want to just set himself up for more disappointment. He just didn’t want to be alone.

Faintly he thought about just giving up and calling it a day, deciding it would be more productive to continue watching the tele and listen to David Attenborough tell him about fish or something. That was until very distantly a feeling overcame him almost as if telling him he wasn’t on his own. Something that should’ve been extremely reassuring if only for the fact that he knew it wasn’t Marc saying that to him. It was something else. Someone else. And honestly, Steven couldn’t tell if he was more on edge about it, or if he was actually happy that someone new had shown up. At least they were new to him, because Marc sure as hell never made any mention or hint that there could be a third alter in the system.

With a new spark of energy, he blinked his eyes open hastily and sat up with the impulse to find a mirror. Clumsily, his feet carried him towards the bathroom and he stared at his reflection nervously. His pupils flickered over his own face, scanning to see any differences (no matter how small) that might signal a new person. He could feel his pulse rate rising ever so slightly with a certain thrill at the prospect of having another headmate, questions whirring around his mind about what they might be like. He concluded they’d be nice, if they’d had the decency to respond to him just then instead of staying hidden and quiet, then they had to be nice. What was their name? How did they sound? What did they like? Who were they?

Distracted with his spiral of curiosity, he barely managed to notice the ever so familiar grip of someone subtly trying to take over the body, or at least guide it away from looking into the mirror. A whispered thought that wasn’t his saying something about finding it weird, not wanting to be seen like that. Which made sense to the Brit. He’d found it quite jarring to see himself like that. Or his not-self. Expecting to see a reflection of himself only to be able to catch a glimpse of Marc. The uncomfortable awareness of being consciously perceived by someone that wasn’t you. So, he allowed his eyes to drift and took the initiative to turn themself away from the mirror, deciding it might be nicer to just lay back down and try to talk that way.

“Hello? I heard you, I felt you, I know you’re in there somewhere…”

Steven didn’t want to be too forward, and he especially didn’t want to be demanding. If the alter wanted to remain hidden, he would respect that. Albeit very reluctantly. So, he left it open ended. An invitation to initiate conversation on the other alter’s terms. They could respond if they wanted to, he let them know that he was aware of them, meaning he knew he was no longer alone. Whether their goal was to simply reassure Steven it wasn’t all in his head, or if they’d finally gotten comfortable enough to show themself, the man was just glad that he had been given some kind of relief from the denial and doubt.

He lay in comfortable silence, simply waiting for anything that may or may not be said or pushed towards him to feel. It was a strangely relaxing way to pass the time, just floating in his own little bubble just on the edge of sleep. It was only when he felt another nudge of something that he tried to be more forward with his interaction.

“Do you… do you have a name? Something I can call you by?”

A few beats of awkward silence passed before he heard something. A faint bit of pressure settling to the side of his head as a slightly murky voice pushed cautiously through his mind. It felt sturdy, reliable in a distant way, yet comfortably familiar enough that he knew he could trust it despite the alter’s inner conflict as to their own reveal. It was almost as if the alter was actively trying to fight against their own instinct to stay invisible on the sidelines, pushing through the discomfort of being known just to help Steven’s sanity.

“...Call me Jake.”

Instantly, Steven began to grin, his emotions bleeding all through the innerspace as he tried to convey his happiness at the response, as well as to just try and reassure the alter- to try and reassure Jake that he was extremely glad for the company. From somewhere he felt the man sigh internally at the large display of emotions, but he made no move to retreat so Steven took that as a win. He wanted to question the man more, to get to know him and interact with him, almost as if to catch up on the missed time they’d not had together yet. But he got the gist that that probably wouldn’t be the best course of action if he wanted to keep Jake at ease.

“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, mate. My name’s Ste-”

“Steven. Sí, lo sé. I know.”

The Brit paused momentarily, not sure as to how he should respond in a way that didn’t seem like he was pushing for information.

“I take it you’re not a new appearance then?”

“Let's just say it's been a while.”

Then it fell silent. As much as Steven liked to try and talk to people, he’d always been awkward at small talk. Especially when it was obvious that the person on the other end seemed as though they would rather lick an electric cattle prod than continue speaking. He didn’t hold it against Jake, the man seemed closer to Marc in his increasing dislike of nattering. Which is why Steven took it as a cue to simply be glad for the internal companionship after almost two weeks of solitude. If Jake didn’t want to answer, Steven wouldn’t ask; he’d just enjoy the other man’s faint presence. Slowly, he rolled onto his side on the sofa and opened his eyes to look at the TV that was still playing the documentary. Feeling a lot lighter than he had in a while, he spoke aloud to the man with a content tone.

“You alright with watching this, or is there something else you’d prefer?”

#moon knight #moon knight system #moon knight fanfic #steven grant #jake lockley #my fic #writing #ao3 #whump #hurt/comfort

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trickster-jpeg · 3 months

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Like Crying Out In An Empty Room, With No One There Except The Moon.

This is technically a stand alone, but I did write a continuation where Marc and Jake find out about the nightmares -> Here

Summary: Steven is usually the one to help calm the others down when they get nightmares, so when he suddenly starts to get them he hides it and pulls away. Turns out he can only hide them for so long before their technically-still-wife, Layla, witnesses the aftermath first hand.

Warnings: Child abuse (Verbal & Emotional/Psychological), Death Threats (Wendy making threats to/makes a show of pretending to crash the car they’re both in).

Word Count: 3838 It's On AO3 -> Here

One thing that wasn’t a common occurrence for Steven was nightmares. Sure, he’d had his fair share of waking up in a cold sweat after the classic fear-fests that were: continuously falling only to wake up just as you hit the ground, being chased by some unknown creature, watching as his teeth fell out into the sink. The usual. But they’d never been like this. Not in a long time.

As a child he’d just assumed that they were just normal nightmares for kids to have; his mum screaming at him, his dad ignoring it like it wasn’t happening right in front of him. Just a classic childhood fear of rejection. That was until everything went to shit and he started bleeding into Marc’s life, and vice versa. Then Jake came along to spice things up just a little bit further and suddenly the weakened amnesia barriers meant other things started to seep through the cracks of the walls separating them all. Like the trauma that had caused their disorder in the first place, for example.

In the context of nightmares, Steven was the one who often ended up waking up into the tail end of them. He never really knew the content of them, just the feeling of Marc’s panic and fear as the man retreated into the headspace to recuperate. Hell, he’d even unknowingly stepped in for Jake a few times, dealt with the man’s insistence that he could handle it perfectly fine on his own and didn’t need any help. Though he’d loathe to admit it, he was reluctantly thankful towards the Brit for giving him a break and taking care of them in a way that he struggled.

It’s not like they could control when it happens, so when it did it was pretty easy for Steven to slip into the familiar role of comforting and self-soothing. He’d usually put on a nice little documentary and just ramble to himself out loud to remind them that they’re not alone in this fight.

Which was probably why it became such a shit show when Steven was the one to start having the nightmares. Something that became even worse when he realised that his other headmates were completely unaware of it.

For ages he’d been trying to take more responsibility in the system. He knew that Marc and Jake wanted to try and ‘protect him’ or look after him, despite knowing he could take care of himself. He understood the logic, he’d known the least and like Marc had said in that moment of emotion when they’d died (temporarily): That was the whole point of him. And that’s what it boiled down to, which pissed him off to no end sometimes. So he saw this new occurrence as just that, taking more responsibility in the system. Marc and Jake already had enough to deal with, having a couple nightmares was the least of his worries. Or that’s what he told himself at the start.

He didn’t want to be obvious with his avoidance, didn’t want to clue anyone in on his growing isolation. He honestly didn’t even realise it until Layla questioned him on if something was wrong, asked why he seemed like he was distant as of late. Sure he’d sent her less messages and hardly spoken to anyone that wasn’t the system or their technically-still-wife, sure he’d been less willing to meet up with her or do the stuff he usually enjoyed. So what if he suddenly started to lose the spark he carried when talking about his special interests, or was less likely to engage with system related business? It didn’t matter that he’d been struggling to get the body into bed for sleep more and more as of late. He was sure Jake and Marc were actually glad that he’d started to pull back from complaining about their late night escapades, or whatever they got up to when he wasn’t out and about.

It didn’t matter, because he was doing fine. He was functional and no one would ever find out what was going on. They’d never know about the panic attacks or the late-night breakdowns or the times where he’d had to make a mad sprint to the bathroom or kitchen sink to avoid heaving up stomach acid onto the bed after being startled awake. They’d be none the wiser to it because he was Steven, and Steven was the one alter in the system that was least affected by their CPTSD symptoms. He was the normal one, and he was doing just fine.

Layla had been out of the country for some time, barely having time to call or text between her escapades with antiquities dealing. It was understandable and Steven was almost glad that she wouldn’t be distracted from any possible dangers just because she tried to send them a quick text. But she was finally back and staying over at their flat to catch up on some much needed rest and grab her bearings, spending a week readjusting to the change in timezone. And Steven was glad, truly he was. As much as he’d been withdrawing, he did miss her dearly and was thrilled that she’d be around for a bit longer. His main concern was now that she was living with them, albeit temporarily, there was a very real possibility that his little nightmare issue would be discovered.

So far, they’d made it through most of the week smooth sailing, Layla and his headmates none the wiser. It was almost like she was some kind of nightmare protection warding charm, her presence automatically causing them to retreat somewhat. Either that or he was still very much having nightmares, he just didn’t remember them. Which would probably explain the heaviness in his chest and the pit in his stomach every time he woke up. He’d been trying to put off sleeping for as long as possible. Worst comes to worst he could simply use his neurodivergence to his advantage and excuse his behaviour as fixating on a particularly interesting piece of text surrounding egyptology. It’s not like he didn’t know plenty of sources to quote and play off as only having recently learned them.

They’d hit the five day mark of cohabiting before Steven’s facade came crashing down. It was late in the evening when Layla suggested watching something on the tele, wanting to just relax and wind down for the night with the Brit. Not thinking anything out of the ordinary, he readily agreed. Why wouldn’t he? He loved spending time with her. They spent a few minutes channel surfing before they flicked onto ‘The Mummy’. Instantly their interest peaked, a shared delight in poking fun at the inaccuracies of their shared field of interest.

They spent their time exchanging comments, briefly making a competition out of who could notice the mistakes first, and after a while it faded into simply watching the film settled into a comfortable silence. A newly bought and extremely soft blanket lay spread across the pair as they leaned against one another, enjoying the others company and warmth. The TV hummed ever so slightly, not something many people would be able to pick up on, but Steven simply allowed it to fade into the background underneath the audio of the film. Subconsciously, he leaned further into Layla’s side, his head feeling rather heavy as he gently rested it onto her shoulder. He heard her quietly huff an amused yet affectionate laugh at the action but paid it no mind, too busy relaxing into the safety her presence provided them. The safety it provided him. He felt the blanket move upwards over him just a bit higher as his eyes fluttered shut, unaware he was even falling asleep.

He was in the car, his mum sat in the driver's seat, coming back from a shopping trip or something. Just the two of them spending some time out together, like every other regular parent and child. They were driving back to the house, just sitting in regular silence. He didn’t know why he knew all of this, or how. He just did. Quietly, he watched the scenery change as they drove down the familiar roads. It was an odd time of the day, barely any cars on the road. But that was fine because it just meant they’d be home quicker and avoid all the traffic.

He didn’t know when the atmosphere changed, the hostility that suddenly spread throughout the vehicle. It was an instant change and all of a sudden Steven became incredibly aware of the enclosed close proximity that they were both sat in. He manually pushed down the tension that he felt creeping up his limbs, not wanting to appear as though anything was wrong between the two of them. Deciding to feign ignorance to whatever events would unfold in the very near future.

It started with his mum muttering under her breath. An incoherent jumble of words that strung together to form an even more intelligible set of sentences. It was as her tone began to grow more hostile and dangerous that he suddenly became extremely aware of every single one of his fuck ups throughout the day. Accidentally pushing the shopping trolley into the back of her when she’d stopped suddenly in the aisle, the thing too heavy for his arms to pull and stop it in time. Walking down the pavement behind her and stepping on the heels of her shoes, not realising how close she’d actually been. He did that thing she hated, staring down and watching his feet when he walked. All those little things and more as his brain started to gradually build up the panic and release the steady stream of adrenaline that was screaming for him to get away. But he couldn’t.

The words became more coherent, her voice climbing in volume as she ranted faster and faster, her words cutting deep into his brain and bouncing around in the space. His eyes flickering to her tightening grip on the steering wheel, her knuckles whitening at the force. Somehow the scenery had started to speed up, the trees now blurring more and more as the arrow on dashboard pointed to steadily increasing numbers. His mum was fucking furious and he only had himself to blame. As tense as he was, he still tried to not react, not wanting to be even more trouble and start winding her up further with crocodile tears. And he was doing a good job of it.

Until she started to swerve the car.

Instantly, the words started to tear from his throat in a strangle panic, rasping slightly as he faintly noted he hadn’t had anything to drink since the early morning. Apologies spilled from his lips, a silent and desperate plea for her to stop. For her to slow down, to focus on the road, to calm down, to stop shouting at him. To stop saying all of those things she was saying that were chipping away at pieces of his heart like verbal pickaxes.

“WHAT’S STOPPING ME FROM CRASHING THIS FUCKING CAR RIGHT NOW? I BET YOU’D FUCKING LOVE FOR THAT TO HAPPEN. FOR ME TO DIE HERE AND NOW. FOR THIS TO ALL END BECAUSE YOU CLEARLY THINK I’M SUCH AN AWFUL MOTHER, ISN’T THAT RIGHT?”

He watched as his mum let go of the steering wheel for a moment, the car instantly drifting straight towards the ditch on the side of the road, before jerking away and being set back on course. Tears poured from his eyes as he struggled to catch his breath, thrown headfirst into a panic attack at the imminent threat on his life as well as his mother’s. He tried to gasp out a response, an apology begging for her to stop. To understand how sorry he was. To try and convince her how much he loved her and cared about her. But his throat was too tight and his mum was just too loud, not even giving a moment's pause between her shouts.

“AFTER EVERYTHING I HAVE DONE FOR YOU, THIS IS HOW YOU REPAY ME? AFTER EVERYTHING YOU DID TO THIS FAMILY. YOU’RE LUCKY THAT I’M EVEN WILLING TO BE SEEN WITH YOU IN PUBLIC OR TAKE YOU OUT. FUCKING EMBARRASSMENT.”

His hands were clasped around the seat belt, his legs trying to draw upwards to his chest in an attempt to curl up and protect himself from what he believed could be the very real threat of serious injury. His eyes frantically scanned the road ahead to look for another car, a part of his mind telling him that his mum would get in trouble if anyone saw the way she was driving. His body swayed from side to side in the seat as the tires screeched on the road, the vehicle weaving manically under the control of his mum. Chest burning as he tried to catch his breath, he tried to scrunch his eyes shut in fear as if being unable to see what was happening would somehow protect him. His mum continued to speak, her tone slightly lower but still just as threatening. Still just as damaging.

“You’ve always got to be such a spoiled brat and ruin my day. I bet you fucking LOVE seeing me like this- So pleased at seeing me suffer and struggle. I bet that’s how you felt when you fucking killed hi-”

In an instant, Steven was gasping awake and propelling himself away from the warm body next to him. He blindly tumbled back off of the seat and crashed down to the floor, shuffling backwards on the hardwood until his back collided with something inanimate and solid. Still scrunching his eyes shut hard, he continued to rattle out pleas, heartbreakingly desperate attempts asking his mum to stop the car. Reassurance that he still loved her so much, that she didn’t need to do this and that he was so incredibly sorry for the things he’d done. Promises that he’d be better, that he’d be a good son for her, that he’d make it up to her.

He felt a hand brush over his shoulder, the touch light but unexpected enough and so fearfully unwelcome that a whimper escaped his mouth as he forcefully flinched backwards away from it. The hem of his soft and slightly oversized sweater was balled in his hands, fingers tightly clutched around the material and clinging to it like a lifeline. Teardrops streamed down his face harshly as he continued to try and minimise the noises he made as he sobbed, trying not to make her even more angry at the dramatic display.

Distantly, he hears the sound of something gently shuffling, moving back and forth before stopping across from him. The noise grows closer and approaches, instinctually causing him to try and curl up even more and make himself smaller. To his side, he suddenly heard something light hitting the floor and landing right next to his figure, something else gently being placed on his other side. The weirdly soft material that brushed against his leg was so distracting it almost snapped him out of his blubbering stupor. It felt nice though. Different. Almost reassuring.

Prying the fingers of one of his hands away from his sweater, he shakily darted his hand out to grab the thing, pulling it close to him in an instant. He felt it unfold on top of his legs slightly as he moved it, the type of pressure making him feel secure instead of terrified. His other hand gingerly and curiously shot out to grab the other thing resting against his other side, fingers wrapping around it and hugging it into his chest to cradle it. It was a vaguely familiar feeling as he shifted fearfully to hide himself under the soft material.

His breathing still heaved painfully as he fought to keep the jerking rising-falling movement of his shoulders as small as possible so as not to draw even more attention to himself, but it slowed down fractionally along with the tears rolling down his cheeks. The buzzed shouting of his mum screaming in his head lowered ever so gradually as another voice that wasn’t his own filled the air. It was calm and collected, a steady and familiar tone saying something. Reciting something.

It wasn’t something he understood, not at first, not in english. It took a moment before he processed what the phonetics sounded like. It was french. His favourite poet. Marceline Desbordes-Valmore.

As the voice spoke, delivering more stanzas of poetry, Steven copied. His thoughts running on autopilot as he mimicked the words being spoken by the voice, the safety it carried. Then half way through one of them, he began to translate it, his body taking over and steadying his breathing as it started to settle it back into the automatic and subconscious process.

“N’écris pas. Je te crains ; j’ai peur de ma mémoire ; Elle a gardé ta voix qui m’appelle souvent. Ne montre pas l’eau vive à qui ne peut la boire. Une chère écriture est un portrait vivant. N’écris pas.”// “Do not write. I fear you. I fear to remember, for memory holds the voice I have often heard. To the one who cannot drink, do not show water, the beloved one’s picture in the handwritten word. Do not write.”

As he thinks the words, he feels a rush of confidence at the lack of immediate danger, tentatively peeling his eyes open and peeking up from underneath what he now sees is a blanket. It takes a moment for them to adjust to the darkness of the room, a single dim lamp acting as a spotlight, highlighting a single figure sat across from him on the floor with her legs crossed and a book in hand. He knew her. He knew this place. This wasn’t the car, his mum wasn’t here. He was in his flat in London, and sitting adjacent to him was Layla. Steven’s lip trembled slightly, the overwhelming emotions not having completely settled down yet, jaw clicking quietly as he opened his mouth to speak in a rasped yet hushed tone.

“Your voice is lovely.”

Instantly, Layla’s head snaps up and looks towards him, her eyes full of surprise but also joy and reassurance at the sight of a mostly grounded and present Steven. She smiled, a dash of worry still evident but mostly hidden by relief. Softly, she closes the poetry book and places it to her side before slowly shuffling towards him, leaving enough time for him to say something if he doesn’t want her to be near. Eventually, she makes her way to be just in touching distance to the man, but still not touching him and instead waiting for any contact to be initiated. In a voice that’s so uniquely safe to Steven, she speaks.

“Hey, Steven. How are you feeling?”

The Brit swore he could’ve almost started full on crying again at the softness in which she said his name. He nodded gently in response, glancing down briefly to see the teddy he was holding hugged to his chest. As childish as it might’ve been, Steven treasured that item more than he could ever truly convey, and it warmed his heart to know that Layla not only acknowledged that without judging but also willingly gave it to him as comfort when he couldn’t accept it in any other forms. He looked back up to meet her eyes and knew the silent question she was asking. Do you want to talk about it?

They’d started trying to be more transparent about things with her about their childhood. Not to the extent of relaying everything, but she knew enough to paint a clear picture in her mind as to what they went through. He knew that she knew exactly what the subject of the nightmare was about, if not for the faint memory of all of the things he said out loud while he still thought he was stuck inside of it. And as much as he hated the idea of admitting the problem after months of hiding it, he wanted nothing more than to rid himself of the burden of carrying the weight alone. So he lifted his arm up to expose some of the blanket, nonverballing asking her to sit beside him, and started to talk.

“Why did she have to do those things to us? We were a child. We were scared and we were grieving and we’d just lost our brother. Marc had just lost his brother and all he needed was his mum, we needed our mum. We needed someone who cared about us. And instead, we had to deal with it ourselves. We had to care for and look after each other because no one else would. We were just a kid, Layla. We shouldn’t have had to do that. None of this should’ve ever happened. She’s the reason that we’re even a we in the first place and we got away from her and she’s still managing to break us even now. It’s not fair that we had to- I hate it so much- I just- I just want it to stop. Why can’t we just make it stop?”

Stray tears trickled down his face as he leaned into Layla just as he’d done earlier in the night, her arm wrapping around him in a hug and rubbing small circles into his shoulder as he rambled. A heavy silence settled over them as his words fell to a close, a shuddering breath shaking him slightly before he forced himself to relax. Steven didn’t expect a response from her, he was just glad he had someone who listened to him. He felt her add a bit more pressure to his back before pausing and slowly drawing him in closer for a hug, in which he gladly allowed himself to be pulled and enveloped into her arms. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, the faint smell of incense lingering in her hair from having burned some earlier.

He knew he’d have to talk about things later in more depth. Layla would never force him to talk about something he didn’t want to, but he knew he’d feel better getting it all out in the open, and he knew that she’d listen to anything he had to say without judgement. Sure, it was uncomfortable sitting on the hard wood of the old floorboards, and they’d probably regret not getting up sooner and moving to somewhere more comfortable later on. But for now he just wanted to exist safely, sheltered in the protection she provided him, so that’s exactly what he intended on doing. He closed his eyes and allowed her to just hold him. To give him the comfort and compassion he had been denied as a boy. It wouldn’t magically fix everything in an instant, but it was a start and that’s all he could ask for.

#moon knight #moon knight system #moon knight fanfic #steven grant #layla el faouly #wendy spector #my fic #writing #whump #ao3 #hurt/comfort

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trickster-jpeg · 3 months

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I’ll Call Out Your Name, But You Won’t Call Back.

Summary: Young Marc struggles with washing due to his trauma with water. He has to look clean and presentable since his parents are taking him out to eat for lunch the next day. One thing leads to another and he ends up severely overheating in the bath.

Warnings: Descriptions about overheating, as well as very hot water (not damagingly so but still), so it might trigger readers with heat-related trauma/anxiety. Descriptions of vomiting as well.

Word Count: 3490 It's on AO3 -> Here

Washing was something that everyone had to do. Whether you liked it or not, you could only put off your personal hygiene for so long without it becoming distinctly noticeable to other people. And being noticeable to other people was the absolute last thing Marc wanted to be. He’d gotten pretty good at hiding his issues. Barely shy of entering his teenage years and he was already having to struggle with his own trauma fuelled depressive episodes that left him neglecting his own hygiene from a lack of energy and a minefield of triggers that came with washing. If he could have it his way, he’d never have to wash again. No showers, no baths, no nothing. He was doing this so people didn’t start to question his parents, because even though he was old enough to be in charge of washing himself, society dictated that they still had to make sure that he was actually washing. He couldn’t even think about stepping inside the shower without having a panic attack so bad he nearly threw up. The idea of being trapped in such a confined space and constantly pelted with streams of water propelled his mind back to that day in the cave, a constant reminder to the biggest fuck up of his life. The day he’d killed his brother. The day he should’ve been the one to die. The day that he’d ruined everything for his entire family.

But he needed to wash. And if he couldn’t even stand to stomach looking at the shower half of the time, it meant the next best thing would be the bath. It wasn’t the most ideal thing, being sat almost completely submerged in a body of water, but as long as the lights were on and he didn’t move fast enough to cause the surface to ripple and the temperature wasn’t cold enough to remind him of the rain, he could grit his teeth and push through it with minimal pain.

They were going out somewhere tomorrow. His mother, father, and him. It was supposed to be something nice, a lunch at some fancy place. He couldn’t remember where they were going, or why they were actually going there, but he just knew that it meant he had to be completely clean for it. And so if he had to work himself up hours prior to turning the cool metallic taps that flooded the tub with steaming water, then so be it. Because he had to grow up eventually and get over this. He couldn’t spend this rest of his life having a breakdown before washing just because of something he did to himself. It was his fault he was even having to deal with this in the first place, so it was a fitting punishment that he shouldn’t be able to do normal things like everyone else. He was a disgusting person, so it was fitting that his hygiene lacked so much that he could let everyone know to see him as a disgusting person.

Opening the cupboard to look at the boiler, he shakily reached out a hand to wrap around the copper pipe connected to it to check that the water was going to be hot enough. It was barely a second before he jerked his hand back from the piece, a beating warmth briefly radiating at his fingertips before fading away. He had no more excuses to delay this, so he might as well get it over with. The bath would take about ten minutes to fill up, give or take, and the longer he left it the worse it was going to get because his mom would be furious if he was doing this late into the night, it would just be more ammunition to use against him and he refused to fuck things up right before something important to her.

He walked into the bathroom, bare feet meeting the cool tiles of the floor before moving to rest on the fuzzy, old bath mat they’d had for years. Rain pelted against the closed window, a heavy rainstorm pushing its way across the area. Just what he needed to worsen this experience, but it was fitting that he should be suffering like this. His brother went through so much worse. Reluctantly he leaned over the tub, pressing his weight onto one of his hands as he grabbed the reflective silver taps and turned with the other. The pipes gargled and rumbled with no movement, and for a split second he felt hope that the would have a valid excuse as to why he couldn’t wash. Until the first few globules of water were spat out through the mouth of it, and began to cascade heavily into the now filling tub.

Panic immediately rose in his chest, his breaths heaving as he watched the waterfall fill the container. A feeling of disconnect suddenly phased into his mind as he could have sworn he heard his brother calling out for a split second. His lungs felt heavy with invisible water as he subconsciously swallowed, his throat constricting as though trying to block anything from getting in. His limbs were tense as his muscles readied themself, automatically preparing themselves in case something were to happen. As if something else took over, he jerked his hand backwards away from the taps to avoid getting splashed by the boiling water and all but launched himself out of the room, dashing down the hall to calm down in his room and wait for the bath to fill.

He crashed into the space between his bed and wall, nails digging into his legs as he huddled into himself to escape but also forcing him to stay completely present in the moment. It wouldn’t do him well to forget to turn the taps off and have the bath overfill, flooding onto the bathroom floor. His mom would do nothing short of kill him if he were to fuck up that badly. He remembers the screaming from the day she’d caught it just in time before it were to spill over, and he’d never make the mistake again. His eyes fixated on the small plastic clock hanging on one of the walls opposite him, counting the minutes before he had to get up and check on the water.

After the seven minute mark, he stood and clenched his jaw before making his way back down the hall towards the growing crash of rushing water filling up the tub. Wrapping his hand around the handle, he fought against the screaming in his mind to not go in there and pushed the door open. The cloud of steam rushed out of the room almost immediately, and in a panic so as to not alert either of his parents to it, he squeezed through the opening into the bathroom and slammed the door shut with his back firmly plastered against it. A hand reached for the lock and turned it as he processed his surroundings. The light illuminated a room in the way that made things visible through the steam, but distorted enough that he couldn’t fully see the walls opposite him. Despite the almost claustrophobic feeling in his chest as a result of the humidity, he actually found himself slightly more at ease as it felt like the room could be much bigger now that he couldn’t see it all.

‘Almost like in Tomb Buster when Rosser and Grant are walking through the jungle, with all the fog hiding the surroundings.’

Nervously, but with a new sliver of calmness wrapping over him to help him cope, he moved forward to reach over and turn off the taps. He gingerly dipped the tips of his fingers into the water to check the temperature and pulled them back with a wince. He didn’t want to have to be stuck in here while running more water to cool it down a bit, and he didn’t want to accidentally cool it down too much otherwise he wouldn’t be able to sit in it without having a panic attack. So with a resigned nod, he dipped his fingers back in and held them there to test how bearable of a heat it was. After a few moments of grimacing, he pulled his hand back out and looked at it. It was red, obviously, but it didn’t hurt as much after adjusting to it. Grabbing a towel from the rack, he folded it and placed it on the lid of the toilet, within grabbing distance from the bath for when he decided to get out. Because even if he didn’t want to, he had to. And with that thought in mind, he started to peel of the clothes that he was wearing and step into the bath.

The buzzing pain in his feet was instant. A slight burning akin to heavy pins and needles danced up to reach about just up to his mid-shin. His hands gripped the sides of the bath and he scrunched his eyes shut and waited for the feeling to become more bearable. After a minute of standing, he decided that moving into a kneel would give his body more time to adjust and be a better next step than trying to lay down submerged straight away. His eyes stung slightly as his knees moved to rest on the bottom of the tub, thin lines of tears gathering in them as he lowered himself further into the steaming water. He knew it wasn’t hot enough to cause actual damage, which was just about the only thing keeping him from jumping out of it.

He’d done this before, or things similar to it. Usually his baths were on the hotter side when he had them just because he was never the best judge of how to get the ratio into a genuinely comfortable temperature, but he would also usually add more cold water if it were this temperature because it wasn’t as late at it currently was in the evening when having them. After a few more minutes of very slow progression, he found himself lying propped up in the water and trying to not move in an attempt at keeping the stillness of the surface tension. A fuzzy wave of tiredness moved over him as the mugginess of the room beaded sweat across his brow.

His chest rose and fell with slow deep breaths as drew in more oxygen, the air heavy with heat and humidity as the steam smothered the closed off room. Briefly, he thought that he should’ve probably opened the window to let some of it out, but it was too late now because any movement caused his skin to erupt in a tingling pain due to the water. There was a noticeable absence of his usual panic, but Marc didn’t acknowledge it, he actually relished in being able to do something normal without spiralling. He missed being able to bathe without the constant terror that would make him relive his trauma.

Vaguely, he was aware of his eyes fluttering shut as an unknown amount of time passed, his head feeling more foggy and weighted with warmth. His chest felt heavy in a way that reminded him of being buried under one too many blankets when trying to sleep as his head nodded forward slightly with a tired feeling. More sweat dripped down into his eyes as the salt in it made them start to sting almost painfully. It was that pain that acted as a reminder to keep him tethered in reality when the heat started to make him feel as if he was floating away. Uncontrollably, he started to blink with an almost dizzying force to stop the burning sensation in his eyes. He gasped in pain as his skin stung, sitting up in the bath with a wave of dizziness to rub the sweat out of his eyes.

Suddenly, the pleasant blanketed feeling of warmth morphed into something borderline suffocating as he heaved in a sharp breath realising that the heat of the room and the water felt as though it was smothering him. The panic was back, but this time for a very different reason. This was a concept that never even crossed his mind, that he’d unknowingly started to boil himself, creating a makeshift steam bath that had made him feel so overheated he’d nearly passed out in the bath. He’d always try to be dismissive of the thoughts that screamed at him that the bath was dangerous, the thoughts that made sure that he was always on guard when having one so as to not risk it. The thoughts that he’d been so adamant to rationalise and chalk up to the trauma or the fear of water in order to actually be able to wash. Marc had been so glad that he could just wash like a normal person, so content with just soaking in the familiar feeling of an existence without constant distress for even just a moment, that he’d been so close to accidentally doing exactly what he was so scared would happen.

His hand shook with an unreliable lack of strength as they wrapped around the sides of the bath, his trembling arms willing himself to be pulled to his feet and remove himself from the water. Marc all but rolled over the side, his water covered legs removing any friction and allowing him to spin himself out of the container and onto the floor. Delirium began to kick in as he pressed himself against the floor, drinking in the cool relief it gave against the nauseating heat emanating from his head, stomach, and red raw skin. Blearily, he was vaguely aware of the bulging veins on his trembling limbs, his body trying to get rid of as much heat as possible by letting the vessels dilate.

He lay still, shuddering, gulping down as much air into his lungs as he could as he fought to keep conscious. The nausea in his stomach began to rise and spread upwards as his mouth started to fill with saliva, a very familiar process signalling the impending urge to vomit. Moving on pure instinct, he forces his body up and just barely manages to prop himself up and lean over the side of the tub before retching. Immediately, bile as well as the food he’d eaten no less than a few hours ago forced its way up his throat, landing straight in the lowly cooling bath water. He tried to be as quiet as possible, his remaining awareness reminding him that the last thing he needed was for his mom to hear him or try to demand he open the door to see what was going on.

The pressure in his head came and went in waves, the dizziness and heat becoming more tolerable now that he had the chilled floor beneath him to draw the temperatures away. Marc didn’t know how long he stayed sat with his face leaning against the acrylic side of the bath, trying to regain an ounce of strength to pull himself up to open the window and get the air circulating. He nudge the towel that sat to the side of him folded up on the lid of the toilet and sluggishly made a move to grab it and wrap it around himself, growing more aware of the puddle of water he was sitting in as his body couldn’t even air dry in the humidity of the room. Rain continued to steadily pelt against the window, a presence grounding him to the reality of his surroundings and he tried to recover. Shakily, he managed to move to his feet, sitting down on the lid of the toilet lethargically and moving to turn the cold water tap of the sink. The cool water slowly trickled out, running over his hands in a refreshingly welcomed change of temperature. He cupped his hands and brought the water to his lips to swish it around his mouth before spitting out the acrid taste left by the stomach acid. His eyes drooped as he leaned into the cooling feeling, a complete lack of energy leaving him unable to do much else.

In the distance, he heard footsteps outside the room, walking down the hall and towards the bathroom. A jolt of fear sparked and he sprung into motion, all but launching himself towards the handle on the window and shoving it open to let the steam out. The bite of cold air made him take an instinctual deep breath in of shock before he started to shiver at the sudden change in temperature, his skin only covered by the worn towel wrapped around him. He turned around to turn the handles of the tap back off, the noise of water against the sink ringing out louder than he’d like when his main goal was to go as unnoticed in the home as possible, not wanting to draw the attention to himself. Marc froze where he sat with baited breath as he watched the door and waited to see what would happen next as the footsteps drew closer. A shadow of two feet stopped outside the door and the faint knock on the door signalled that the person standing outside was his dad.

“Son? Are you alright in there?”

A tired whimper involuntarily worked its way up his throat and escaped from his lips as the events of the night caught up to him, he just wanted to get some comfort. And so without much thought, he pulled the towel more securely over his shoulders and around him, and shakily walked over to unlock the door to see his dad. His dad stood there with a semi-concerned look as Marc peeled the door open, the boy’s face pale and coated in sweat. With a wobbly voice, tears of exhaustion and feeling overwhelmed, he trembled out a response looking up at the man trying to seek out comfort.

“I threw up.”

Immediately, the man’s expression melted sympathetically as he waited for Marc to step back so he could also enter the bathroom. He let out a sigh of annoyance as he saw that Marc had thrown up in the bathtub but didn’t say anything other than a murmured reassurance. He looked at Marc with an awkward smile and moved to grab a hand towel, gently wiping the boy’s face before moving to dry his hair softly. The boy closed his eyes and soaked up the simple act, leaning into the affection and committing it to memory. After making sure it was no longer dripping, he picked up Marc’s pyjamas and handed them to him. A subtle sadness settled in his chest as he remembered this most likely wouldn’t be happening again. He was too old to need help drying his hair, old enough to get ready for bed on his own. He wasn’t a little kid, he had to do things for himself.

“Go to bed, son. We’ve got to be up early tomorrow.”

Wordlessly, he accepted the clothes and nodded his head, shuffling past his dad and down the hallway towards his room. His bottom lip wobbled slightly as he pushed back tears, already feeling the touches on his scalp from the affectionate actions fading, a cold emptiness replacing it as he dried off the rest of himself and changed into his pyjamas. Numbly, he stumbled to his bed all but collapsing as the last of his limited energy left him. His head steadily pounded in growing pain from dehydration as he swallowed, trying to soothe his sandpaper throat. With heavy limbs, he managed to hug a teddy bear close to his chest before starting to succumb to the uncomfortable pull of sleep.

In the distance, he faintly heard his parents talking. His father’s steady and explaining tone being cut off by a frustrated mother, just barely caring enough to keep her tone below a shout. Her words laced with disgust as she responded to his father presumably explaining that Marc had thrown up, her accusatory words muttering about how the boy must’ve done it deliberately in an attempt to get out of the lunch and ruin the next day for all of them. He registered her footsteps moving towards his door, a strike of panic nestling in his chest but he was too exhausted to react to it. She was muttering about how he would still be going and that it was no excuse to disrupt the next day for everyone. For a moment, he thought she’d open the door and come into the room, to do who knows what but make sure that he understood they would still be going out tomorrow. But instead she simply walked down the stairs adjacent to his door, her footsteps fading into the distance with her voice as Marc’s body decided he was finally allowed to fall asleep for the night.

#moon knight #moon knight system #moon knight fanfiction #marc spector #kid marc spector #elias spector #wendy spector #aquaphobia #tw vomiting #tw overheating #writing #my fic #ao3 #whump

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