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English
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Published:
2022-04-08
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1,173
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1/1
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the end

Summary:

“I’m not brooding,” he sneers.

 

“Are too.”

 

A teasing tone but god it hurts and he frantically tries to hide it.

 

“Fuck you,” Marc spits, stumbling to his feet and away from the puddle, as if that would take him away from the other.

--

Snapshot of Marc, undone

Notes:

interpret as you will, i haven't read the comics but love the show so far, not sure if i got all this quite right it was just inspired by a song (linked in first paragraph)

written in a hurry and probably not well edited but i wanted to get the idea down before i lost it

can be read as gen or marc/steven

Work Text:

Marc’s shoulders sag, the weight of them sloping his back, dragging him into himself. As if that would be safe. It’s a laughable thought—he doesn’t laugh. His feet dangle from the ledge and light glints on the bloodied leather of his boots. Wet concrete scrapes under his palms—grip too tight. Cold air burns in his lungs and he can scarcely breathe. There’s nothing up here for him. Nothing in this sprawling desolate landscape of urban decay to pull him back from this edge.

 

He hadn’t felt it coming, at first. Not until the ground seemed ready to open and swallow him and deliver him god knows where…

 

He almost wants it to.

 

This is no life. Not really, anyway. Living on borrowed time, fighting night after night and for what? His own god is suspiciously silent, like all the other voices in his head. It’s surprisingly…lonely. It’s the first time he’s been alone in so…so long. He’d forgotten what it felt like. A part of him would panic but he—he can’t. Doesn’t have the energy. For the first time in a long time, he doesn’t have the will to peel himself up off the concrete ledge and keep going. 

 

Maybe this is the end…

 

 

 

“What makes you think that?” asks a quiet voice that sounds so much like his own.

 

Marc sighs, deep and heavy and his shoulders drag him even farther in. A sort of relief fills his lungs but it’s followed just as quickly by dread that chokes him. Try as he might to quash the feeling, he knows it’s been felt. There’s no way it was missed. Not by Steven. He glances at a puddle nearby, barely catching the reflection of himself there.

 

“I don’t know…” he admits. Would never admit it to anyone else but… “Maybe it’s time.”

 

No one knows better than Steven. His only real friend, the one who knows him inside and out now. Steven should know what makes him think that. Maybe time to bring the end to these elaborate plans. The end of everything feels so near, why not? There’s no safety no matter where he runs, no change no matter how hard he fights, no surprise in anything anymore. He could do it—he’s killed so many others, after all. 

 

He can’t bring himself to look at those reflected eyes again.

 

“‘Spose you might be right,” Steven murmurs, his accented voice filtering soft from the puddle’s surface and from deep in Marc’s chest. 

 

Marc scoffs and shakes his head, curls damp with sweat and rain. “Some help you are.”

 

He doesn’t see it but he feels Steven’s patient lopsided smile. 

 

“Well? C’mon mate, make up your mind! You want help or you want someone to agree with you?”

 

Marc just shakes his head again. It’s all he has energy for. Steven sighs out his nose in the puddle nearby but Marc can feel him inside. Gently rooting around for something, lifting the veil between them just enough Marc can feel the soft brush of fingers against his own. 

 

“You’re a menace when you get like this, I don’t think there’s anyone in the whole world that broods like you do, darlin’.”

 

Marc’s spine stiffens at that, Steven sucks his teeth.

 

“I’m not brooding,” he sneers.

 

“Are too.”

 

A teasing tone but god it hurts and he frantically tries to hide it.

 

“Fuck you,” Marc spits, stumbling to his feet and away from the puddle, as if that would take him away from the other.

 

“Ah, there he is…” He hears the smile in Steven’s words as he shoves their hands in his pockets. “Not quite dead yet, are we?”

 

The words are gentle, Marc knows they are. But it just reminds him what kind of life Steven could’ve had without him. Without this desperate hanger-on, in need of someone’s guiding hand through this desolate yawning void. His feet carry them right to the other edge of the building. Could carry him right off of it and into oblivion but—

 

Step by step feels as though he’s slogging through sand. The toes of his bloody boots barely scrape the roof’s border and suddenly he can’t go any farther. Not of his own volition. The feeling of arms wrapped tight around his chest pull him up short. Anger and desperation burn tears in his eyes that he won’t acknowledge. He doesn’t lift a hand to wipe them away, just shakes as the first tear rolls unbidden down his cheek. Then—oh god—

 

Then the rest follow and his knees buckle. Concern lights bright somewhere deep in his mind but not for him. What worry would he have for himself now? He could worry for Steven, for the others, he should try to keep them safe but he’s just so…empty. Moonlight burnishes bright and unforgiving on tear-tracked cheeks and all he can do is stare. Wishing he could take himself the last inch.

 

Marc, don’t think that.

 

Why stay? This deal has been nothing but a curse—with Khonshu absent, he thinks it freely. A curse against himself. Against Steven.

 

Marc.

 

Christ, Steven doesn’t deserve this. Would be better off without. If only he could give him that.

 

A small traitorous thought admits, very quietly, it would hurt so much to set him free.

 

“Marc! Listen to me!”

 

He jolts as Steven’s voice finally breaks through the haze and the wilderness of pain.

 

“Marc, breathe, darlin’, c’mon now. Don’t do this to me.”

 

Oh, that’s— Fuck, something about the way Steven says that, it repeats in Marc’s head over and over until it surrounds him. Don’t do this to me—not begging for his own life. Don’t do this to me—begging for Marc’s. The mercenary’s shoulders shake with silent tears but he sucks in a heaving wet breath. Cold air still burns and he clings to the sensation, to the icicles in his chest. 

 

Cold is better than nothing. 

 

“Come back to me,” Steven murmurs, “you can do it. You can keep going.”

 

“I can’t—” Marc chokes.

 

“Then let me.” Steven’s voice, his offer envelopes Marc head to toe. All the times the mercenary scrambled for command, gave it up unwillingly for vengeance, for his mission, now… “Give me control, darling.”

 

Marc buries himself in Steven, desperate for something he can’t give name to, and sobs. 

 

“I want this to be the end of the nights we try to die,” Steven mumbles into his ear, his lungs, his heart, soothing the ache. “Picture what will be, not where you are now. Beyond here, you’re limitless, darling.”

 

A million thoughts clutter his head but before he can latch to a single one, Steven wipes them clean. Leaving behind a soothing balm. The guiding hand he’s been so desperately seeking. The sensation of arms around Marc’s shaking shoulders, phantom heat against his chest and neck as though someone were leaning into him. Cradling him away from hopelessness.

 

He leans into it.

 

“Come with me, Marc. Let me save us.”