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cimematicho · 2 years ago

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Disaster

Summary: Marc's mental health takes a turn for the worse when you give him some news. After chasing him to Chicago, you, Steven, and Jake are left to pick up the pieces.

Pairing: Steven Grant x f!Reader, Marc Spector x f!Reader, Jake Lockley x f!Reader

Word Count: ~5.9k

Warnings: angst, hurt/comfort with a happy ending, mental health issues, excessive drinking, tense encounter with police, insensitivity (insensitive language) towards mental illness, pregnancy, mentions of past child abuse and trauma, mentions of abortion. If there's anything else please let me know!

A/N: Please read the warnings! Let me know what you think! Happy holidays!

Marc Spector is a disaster.

He’s a walking red flag.

His mind is fucked up, and he’s never known how to deal with it.

There are triggers and tripwires inside him that even he can’t guess at, that he doesn’t want to look at.

His knuckles are bleeding, the palms of his hands scraped raw, and he can’t say whether he was in a fight or if he fell.

Did he stumble and fall?

Why is no one ever there to help him up again?

Something swirls inside him, a voice telling him to stop, but he won’t listen to those voices tonight. He won’t be the guy shouting on a street corner to a person no one else can see, to people no one else can see.

There are, some part of him knows, people to help him up again.

He’s just left them behind, shut them out.

“You’ve gotta go buddy.” The voice is American and gruff. It confuses him because he’s not sure how he got to the States. He glances up and around, vision blurred and doubled and tripled but he manages to make out the logo of the Cubs on the far wall of the bar.

The rough voice is still speaking to him when a hard hand grips his upper arm. He’s dragged upright but he doesn’t remember falling to the floor. There’s a bottle of something in his hand, amber liquid turning around the inside of the glass that feels like shards of a broken mirror in his brain.

Look, look, look, the mirror says. Look what you said you’d never become again.

He jerks away from the hand on his shoulder, memory like draggers, like the shape of a mother’s love and broken promises, twisting deep inside him.

The bottle clatters to the floor. It doesn’t burst, the glass is too thick for that, but the sound of it makes him frantic, reminds him of slamming doors and mistakes long past.

Someone is crying, someone is shouting, someone is hitting him -

No.

His own hands.

A whine lodges in his throat, his face smarts. He manages to still his hands.

The hands on his shoulders are shoving him now. “Get this fucking guy out of here. He’s fucking crazy. Something’s wrong with him-,”

He lands on the street in a heap, and it's cold.

It’s winter and it’s cold and there are Christmas decorations on this street. Winter decorations, the city of Chicago would probably say. White lights that twinkle overhead when he lands in the gutter, that spin and smash into each other before separating and diving away.

His hands are still smarting and the hard press of iced over snow and slush only makes it worse.

“Hey,” there’s a voice, feminine and kind, “What’s your name? Are you okay?” He can’t focus on the face that swims in front of him.

“Marc,” he manages.

He wants to go home. He wants to go home, he wants this person to call-

“Get away from him, lady! He’s fucking crazy. Someone call the cops, he’s gonna freeze out here-,”

“Marc,” he manages to meet her eyes. She’s older, eyes familiar.

“It’s gonna be okay, Marc," she says.

Marc doesn’t move, but he nods.

He blinks and blinks and blinks, until his eyes stay closed and the woman is tugged away. “Let them handle it. Cops’ll be here soon enough-,”

“Cops are going to-,”

The voices fade away, he stops listening.

His shirt is wet, his jeans too, and he doesn’t have a coat anymore.

He thinks about his mother and how he doesn’t want to be like her but it seems like it's inevitable that he will be. He thinks about how he’s shoved Jake and Steven so far away he hasn’t heard their voices in days.

Last, he thinks about you. About the tears slipping down your cheeks when he left, about the way his throat had been scraped raw with the blunt nails of his voice. The things he’d said to you, the fear in the pit of his belly, that poisoned seed long ago planted that spread blackened vines over his body.

Blue and red lights flash, and he finally hears one of his alters. Steven, panicked and worried, and Marc, what have you done now-

He’s answering, the voice in his throat choked, like there’s something wrapped around his lungs and heart. “Fuck off, Steven!” His voice explodes out of him, and the guy from the bar that dumped him on the ground jumps. “I didn’t do anything! I did what I had to-,”

He’d left you, he’d said horrible things to you, when you said-

Marc, I’m pregnant.

It should have been okay.

That should have been okay.

He should have been okay, should have been able to talk it out and over with you.

But it wasn’t, he isn’t.

Another bender.

He thought he was past this. He hasn’t done this in…eighteen months? Longer? Since he decided to be better for you. Since he decided he couldn’t keep doing that to you - disappearing and getting fucked up and not calling and coming home to you crying.

How many days has he been gone? Are you okay? What if something happened to you while he was out here fucking wallowing and screaming inside his own mind -

There’s nothing about you that he understands. He’s never understood how you could bear it. How could you bear it? When he does this, when you have to pick up the pieces, when Steven has to clean them up and Jake has to smooth things over with you?

But it's been more than a year, of reconciling his identity, of learning to live with Steven and Jake and not shove them down, of getting help and letting you help support him.

And now, this.

Pregnant.

One word had undone months of work.

For no reason.

He wants to go home to you, apologize, work it out with you.

But he’s drunk and he can’t move.

The blue and red lights flash behind his eyelids, rough hands again grip his shoulders, sick rolling up from his gut at the feeling of hands against his skin. Hard hands, rough hands.

Marc doesn’t want to be touched.

“Stop-,”

“He’s drunk.”

“Don’t touch me-,”

“Hasn’t been violent yet but he’s talking to himself. Something’s fuckin’ wrong with him but we didn’t want him to freeze to death. Some lady said his name is Marc.”

“Stop, stop-,”

“Okay. We’ll throw him in the drunk tank, let him dry out.”

“Stop touching me,” he manages not to slur, to speak clearly.

Still-

“What was that, pal?”

It’s too much.

Marc throws the hands off, stumbles away from the touch that burns like coal. He doesn’t want to be touched, he doesn’t want to be touched, he doesn’t want-

He’s knocked into the snow, handcuffs cold around his wrists, so cold they’re hot. He’s trapped and something is burning him and -

“-fucking kidding me?” Your voice is incensed. It comes to him warbled, like he’s hearing it through a tunnel. “His skin is raw. He’s fucking bleeding. He’s bruised.”

“It was for his own protection. He assaulted an officer and tried to hurt himself.” The voice that responds is feminine and surprisingly calm. “We didn’t have anywhere to put him besides the drunk tank. Couldn’t have him causing problems.”

Marc shifts, pushing himself upright. His hands are still behind his back, cuffs digging into his skin. His cheek hurts from being squished against the metal bench he’d been slumped on.

There’s a long silence before you take a breath and sigh. “Okay.”

A buzzer sounds and then a door slams. “You’re lucky,” another voice says, much harsher than the first. “If that lawyer hadn’t called he’d be facing charges right now. He should be facing charges right now.”

You let out a humorless laugh as Marc stands, shuffling past the other drunks, most of them sleeping, to the door of the holding cell. He tries to peer down the hall, tries to catch a glimpse of you.

“Right. Lucky he’s bleeding and bruised and near hypothermic because of the negligence of this department.”

“You’re lucky he’s not dead in a fucking gutter,” the harsh voice says, male and aggressive. It raises Marc’s hackles, because no one should be speaking to you like that. Not his brave girl, standing up for him in a police department like that wasn’t completely fucking dangerous. “Word of advice, sweetheart? Drop him. He’s not worth it. Guy doesn’t even know his own fucking name. He’s batshit crazy. He should be institutionalized.”

A door bangs shut again, the receptionist’s voice returns now, much gentler, “He needs help, honey. Serious help.”

“He’s not-,” you sound broken and raw. “He’s not crazy. We don’t use that word. He’s fine, usually. There was just - something happened that triggered him.”

“He talks to himself,” the receptionist says, not unkindly. Marc leans into the bars of the holding cell, the metal cold under his skin, against his cheek. There’s a heavy pause, the sound of a tissue being pulled out of a box. “My son was diagnosed with schizophrenia and-,”

You blow your nose and Marc misses the rest of the sentence. “He’s not schizophrenic,” you say. “Thank you, though.” Paper being folded, shoved into the interior pocket of a coat. “Can I take him home now?”

Hesitation. “Are you sure you don’t want to call someone else? To help you at least? He was fairly agitated earlier.”

The meaning of her words are clear, and shame wells deep inside him, threatening to swallow him whole.

“He would never hurt me,” you reply immediately and vehemently. “He knows me. He would never.”

“If you’re sure-,”

“I am,” you answer without hesitation. “Can you - Do you know who asked you to call me? If it wasn’t Marc-,”

Marc closes his eyes, presses his face harder into the metal, eyes clenched shut. “He - uh - introduced himself as Steven. Sounded British, I guess.” A pause, and then, “Multiple personalities then, not schizophrenic. How many personalities does he have? Are you sure none of them are dangerous?”

Your voice is tightly controlled, a nugget of familiar embarrassment digging into his gut. “Sorry, I’m - I’m not comfortable talking about that. I would just say - just in case you ever deal with someone else like Marc - they’re alters, not personalities. That’s important. It’s called Dissociative Identity Disorder.” Your correction is gentle and Marc isn’t sure why he feels like crying. “And no. None of them are violent. It’s a terrible stereotype.”

The receptionist doesn’t respond, but he imagines her nodding. “Of course,” she says eventually. “And the others know you too?”

“Yes,” you sniffle. “They work together really well, usually.”

“Of course,” the receptionist says, clearly placating now, clearly beginning to believe you were delusional about the truth of your situation.

“Okay. Let me see him now,” you say, voice thick. Marc knows you hear it too, the sympathy and empathy that was rapidly drying up.

And a moment later you’re moving down the hall. You’re there and meeting his eyes, and the look in them is flush with relief. “Marc,” you say, his name safe in your mouth.

The cell is unlocked by an officer, a different one to the aggressive, angry one. The cuffs are taken off his wrists only slightly roughly, and then your arms are coiled around him, squeezing tightly.

“You’re so cold,” you’re saying in his ear, a ringing in his ears that makes it hard to hear you. “Honey, you’re so cold. C’mon. Let’s go home.”

He follows you down the hall, through the buzz of a door and into the lobby.

Home.

Home, where?

“Merry Christmas,” the receptionist calls after you. “Hope everything works out.”

“Thanks,” you say, hand around Marc’s, even though neither of you celebrate Christmas and he isn’t sure there’s anything to work out between you anymore.

The car is a rental.

It smells new and the seats are still warm.

You reach into the backseat and hand him a coat.

He pulls it on, lets you fuss over his bruised wrists, the scrapes and cuts and blood that coats his skin.

You’re pissed, but he can’t tell at who or what.

“Marc,” you murmur and tug his hands to the air vents. Your voice is sweet, like a balm to him. His hands are cold, like icicles, and he hadn’t even realized. “Keep your hands here ‘til they’re warm,” you say before releasing his fingers and reaching to shift the car into drive.

Chicago is grim in the daylight, gray and flat, a winter that will last too long. Snowmelt drips from overhead, and the streets are all black slush.

He’s still not sure when, or how, he got to Chicago.

His hands start to feel warm again and so he sits back in his seat, not saying anything, not for a long time, not until you pull the car into the hotel’s parking garage and you’re opening the door.

“They’re right, y’know.”

You settle back in the driver’s seat, one foot on the ground, one leg in the icy cold. “What? Who?”

“I need serious help. You’re better off without me.”

You just stare at him, one tear trailing down your cheek that you flick away with an irritated hand. “C’mon,” you prod. “Let’s go.” You get out of the car, you shut the door and wait.

But you don’t deny it. You don’t say it's not true.

Marc watches you for a moment, fists shaking in his lap. “Marc,” Jake says, his eyes watching him in the rearview mirror, the first time he’s heard his voice in days. “Let go, hermano. You can rest now.”

He shakes his head, closes his eyes, tries to shove Jake down.

But he’s there, he’s not going anywhere.

“Don’t be so fuckin’ hardheaded, Marc. You need to rest. We need to take care of the body. You’re going to upset -,”

“I won’t,” he snarls, catching the way you jump at the outburst, even through glass and metal you hear him. He’s exhausted, close to burn out, already in the middle of a never ending melt down. He won’t upset you again. He won’t. “I won’t upset her. I will not,” he enunciates and shoves the door open.

You hold out a hand to him and Marc takes it, letting you guide him through the hotel lobby to the bank of elevators. He knows as soon as he steps inside that he’s made a mistake. The elevator is mirrored and when he meets his reflection’s gaze-

“Querida,” Jake says, tucking you into his side, nose against your temple. He inhales the icy scent of your skin. You smell like cold, like Marc’s soap. “I’m sorry. We tried to get him to go home. We tried to call you but Marc-,”

“Where is Marc?” Your eyes are wide and wet and Jake feels something inside him sink. “Why did he leave?”

Jake doesn’t know what to say - he only remembers bits and pieces of the last few days, he remembers almost nothing of the conversation that had sent Marc into a self-destructive spiral. Jake settles for what he knows to be the truth, “He needs to rest. He’s exhausted. I need to take care of the body.”

You nod and the elevator stops.

He follows you to the room you’d checked into. It’s small but nice. Clean. The bathroom has a bathtub. A big one with claw feet, the way you said you’d always like to have in a house someday.

“Can I help?”

Jake turns, finds you in the doorway to the bathroom. “I want to help you clean up. I missed you.”

Jake nods.

He feels sick, hungover and groggy. He feels dirty. He looks dirty and tired when he meets his eyes in the mirror over the sink. There are circles beneath his eyes and his cheeks look hollowed out, like someone has dug a spoon into the meat of him.

“Yeah, if you want,” he concedes.

Jake doesn’t want you to see them like this but you already have and so he might as well accept your kindness, your warm touch. He doesn’t know what Marc’s done, and so it might be the last time.

You run a bath, you settle Jake in the water, you sit on the edge of the tub and wash his hair. The scratch of your hands against his scalp is nice, soothing. The smell of the shampoo bothers him a little but not enough to say anything. You dig your hands into his hair, into the muscle at the base of his neck until he relaxes into your touch.

When he’s clean and you’re cupping his chin, running a razor over his jaw and cheek, you ask, “Do you remember what happened?”

“No. Wasn’t aware until we were here and it felt like Marc’s heart was going to-,”

Jake had come to in the cemetery at the foot of Randall’s grave. Wendy would be to his left, but Jake didn’t dare look that way.

“No. No, I don’t remember, hermosa.”

You nod and touch his cheek. “Can I tell you? Is Steven listening?”

Jake nods, touches your hand. “It’s just us. Me and you.”

“Jake,” you say. “I told Marc that I’m pregnant.” You swallow and continue before he can answer you. An odd feeling lodges in his chest, hot with something unknowable. “I should have told him in a different way but-,”

Jake remembers now, flashes of Marc’s despair, the worry gnawing at his gut. The panic and the memories and the fear. It was too sudden, too much-

You.

Pregnant.

With his child.

Marc hadn’t known how to handle it, his mother’s face swimming before his eyes. All the damage he’d be able to wreck on a tiny little life.

We aren’t ready.

I know, that’s why we’re talking about it.

So, what, you want to get rid of it?

I didn’t say that. I just wanted you to know so we could-

It’s okay. I know I’d be a terrible fucking parent. Just get rid of it. I don’t know why you even told me.

You’d shrunk away from Marc at that. Marc, that’s not what I meant. That’s not what I’m trying to say.

He’d scoffed, hadn’t looked at you. You think I’d be parent of the year or something?

No, I’m-

So you don’t want it.

No! Marc, stop putting words in my mouth!

Things had only escalated from there, egging you on until you’d burst, poking at you, demanding you say something hurtful, to push him away before he could damage you further. You or the -

“Pregnant?” Jake asks, interrupting you and his racing thoughts, thinking that this is the kind of thing that Grant is much more skilled at handling.

“Right,” you say, relaxing a little. And he supposes his reaction hasn’t been to antagonize you or run away and so it’s an improved one. “I just…needed to tell him. I needed to tell one of you. I felt so alone and-”

Jake takes your hand, his skin wet against yours. “Are you okay?”

“No.”

“‘Course you aren’t,” he soothes. “‘Course not. How am I lookin’?” He swipes a hand over his face, and you nod to indicate you’re done shaving him. “Lemme get us dressed. Marc wasn’t eating. We can go for pizza.”

Your face crumples and you nod, standing and shifting away from him. Something like grief flashes over your face but he can’t decipher why. “Okay,” you rasp, trying to clear your voice but it just cracks more. “Okay.”

“Hey,” he tugs you back by your hand. “Te amo. Siento lo que pasó.”

You nod again, but don’t comment, tugging yourself gently away.

Steven glances up from a red and white checkered tablecloth. There’s a half eaten deep dish pizza on the table. The plate directly in front of him is streaked with red sauce and his belly is full.

He’s alone at the table and there’s classic rock playing over the radio and when he looks out the window it’s snowing.

He’s confused. The last he remembers are police and pain and -

“Steven?” You’re suddenly there, sounding relieved, your voice like a spear of light into the darkness of his world.

“Love,” he meets your eyes as you sit down across from him. “What happened?”

“Jake…is he alright? I was only in the bathroom for a minute.”

Steven nods and takes your hand across the table. “He’s fine.” Steven looks you over, the tautness in your features, the sallow tinge of your skin. Marc’s put you through hell the last few days and he feels irritation spike inside him.

How could Marc do this to you? Again?

They - Marc hasn’t done this in ages.

“I already told Jake,” you say quickly. “What set Marc off. I’m guessing you don’t know either. He - I told him I’m pregnant and he didn’t take it well. I shouldn’t have sprung it on him-,”

“Pregnant?” Steven asks, suddenly realizing why Jake had walked out of the body so abruptly. You’ve just come back from the loo, and it’s clear you were just sick. It’s morning sickness and Jake doesn’t know how to handle that. But - “Pregnant? With - with ours?” When you nod, an unexpected elation curls up his spine. Pregnant. With their, with his, baby. “Oh, dear, that’s -,”

No wonder Marc had a bit of a breakdown then.

He stands, rips the napkin that’s tucked into the collar of his shirt out and sweeps Jake’s flat cap off his head, before he rounds the table to you. He tugs you into a hug when he sits next to you, curling his arms around you.

The breath you take is shaky against his chest, a hiccup in your voice. “Oh, Steven,” you whisper, hands curling into his shirt, one of Jake’s button-ups. You must have brought some clothes for all of them, had the presence of mind to remember Jake’s stupid cap he can’t live without. “I missed you,” your voice is numb and raw and filled with longing. “I love you so fucking much. I love you.”

“I love you too,” he chirps. “Very much. I’m sorry Marc-,”

Steven stops.

He’s sorry Marc - what? Ran off, relapsed into old coping mechanisms, worried you, left you utterly alone? All of the above?

“I’m just sorry,” he murmurs into the corner of your jaw. “So sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for, baby,” you say, fingers digging into his hair, the palm of your hand cupping the back of his neck. “Nothing.”

He pulls back, tugs your hand into his, the warmth of it comforting. “Were you sick? Just then?” He asks, just to confirm. You nod. “Pregnant. Really?”

“You’re taking it better than Marc or Jake.”

“Was Jake-,”

“He was putting on a brave face. But I think it thoroughly freaked him out.” You nuzzle his hand when he cups your jaw, tilts your head back so he can see your face. You don’t meet his eyes, gaze downcast.

Steven nods and releases your chin, let’s you curl into him. “Right. I think they just need a bit of time.”

“Not sure that’s the case. Marc literally ran to another country to get away from me,” you say miserably. “Jake doesn’t know what to do or say. I think he just wants it to go away. And the really terrible thing is, that was what I wanted to talk to each of you about. What we’d do. I don’t know what to do or how to feel.”

“You mean-,” Steven snaps his mouth shut. The last thing you needed was him dumping his own feelings onto yours, especially after Marc and Jake have made you feel unwanted and weird respectively. “Never mind that. I’m bloody thrilled. And if - if you don’t want to have a baby, then I’m here for you. I’m here for you no matter what.”

You pull back and meet his eyes, brows pulling together as you search his gaze.

For a moment, he thinks he’s made a terrible miscalculation as your lip wobbles dangerously but then your arms are circling his neck and you’re breathing out hard. “You’re amazing. Have I ever said before? You’re amazing.”

“If anyone is, it's you, love,” he says, holding you close, feeling the beat of your heart against his. “Chasing Marc halfway across the world. I-I’m really not sure what we’ve done to deserve that.”

You pull back and stare at him, your gaze guarded. “‘Course I came. You told the police to call me. I’d already figured out he was in Chicago when they called. I was on a layover in New York. But I had no idea where to go once I got here. The police were so fucking horrible. They-,” you stop and clutch him harder, like you mean to shield him from whatever happened. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter what they were saying. Marc is lucky Murdock likes Jake so much and that he had another lawyer friend in Chicago he could call.”

“You knew exactly what to do. We’re so lucky to have you.” He hesitates. “I’m sorry Marc left you like that. I’m sorry he gave you such a fright.”

You shift, so your head is against his shoulder, and for the first time you relax a little. “No. It’s, I can’t help but feel like it’s my fault. He’s been doing so well for so long, and I just said it. I know how he is about -,” you force yourself to stop talking again. “Really, it was unfair of me. And then he had to hear the horrible things the police said, after everything he’d already been through.”

“You defended us though, yeah? It’s alright.” Steven wasn’t there, but the moments come in glimpses, Marc’s shame and embarrassment, the way you’d spoken up for them, corrected the receptionist, done everything to help them.

“It’s not,” you say. “It’s not okay, what happened.” You shake your head, vehement in your disgust. “They shouldn’t treat people like that. I know things could have been much worse but it doesn’t make it okay.”

“‘Course not. One problem at a time though, love. Nothing came of it. Okay?”

It takes you a moment to respond, but eventually you nod back, swallowing hard. “Okay. Okay, Steven. Are you hungry? Jake said Marc wasn’t-wasn’t eating.” Your voice warbles. “Wasn’t eating, just drinking himself sick.”

“No, I feel alright now. Maybe a bit hungover but fine. Just tired, really.”

You nod and pull away, yanking your bag into your lap and searching for some money to leave on the table. “Do I make him that afraid?” You whisper, not looking up. “Have I misread everything so badly? That he’d hurt himself like that?”

Steven shakes his head, “Not everything is about you, love. He wasn’t trying to hurt you, or himself, really.”

You nod, but you don’t look like you believe him.

“He’s going to leave me, and take you and Jake with him.”

“No,” Steven says, picking up Jake’s cap to stuff in his pocket as you both stand. “Never,” he cups your face between his palms. “We’ll never let that happen, dear heart. We can’t be kept away from you.”

It’s dark outside when Marc wakes, wrapped in the sheets of an unfamiliar bed.

He feels better.

Clean and fed and rested, at least a little.

He’s only wearing a pair of briefs, the comforter a heavy weight on his chest.

You’re sitting up next to him in bed, your eyes glassy where they’re glued to the flickering TV.

He says your name and you look at him, immediately sliding down next to him, fingers digging into his shoulder as you bury your nose in his neck.

“Marc, I’m so sorry-,”

He’s shaking his head but he can’t get the words out. Not your fault, not your fault, not your fault.

It’s him. It’s always him.

It was bad already, but the police station only made it worse, reminding you surely of why he’s not good for you, why you deserve better.

“Don’t,” he says, voice harsher than he intends it to be. You go quiet, lips pressed together in a tight line. “It’s not your fault. It’s me. It’s always fucking me.”

You stroke his cheek. “You’re wrong, you know.”

He huffs out a laugh, cycling through everything he’s ever been wrong about. “Yeah.”

“Marc,” you tilt his face into yours, so close that the air he breathes is your breath. You smell like his soap, like minty toothpaste. He inhales, holds the breath of you inside, sure this is the moment you tell him to fuck off. “You’re wrong about being bad for me. I’m not better off without you, that’s exactly why I followed you here. The shit they said -,”

He dares to tuck you closer.

His head is clear now, and he can feel Jake and Steven close at hand, watching and waiting, making sure he doesn’t fuck this up again.

But the body has slept and his belly is full and he’s not drunk or hungover or standing at the foot of his little brother’s grave.

He’s okay. He’s good.

“This isn’t about that.”

“Like hell it’s not.” Your voice is gentle. “You believe that shit.”

“No,” he sits up and pulls away from you, paces the length of the hotel room even though he’s freezing. “No.”

But it didn’t make it any better. Reminds him of what his kid would go through with him as a father.

Unstable. Crazy. Whatever you want to call it.

“Marc,” you say his name again.

Safe. He’s safe with you, always. Even when you disagreed, even when you were mad at each other. “Honey, look at me.”

He does.

You look vulnerable, swathed in the comforting mountain of sheets that aren’t yours. “Let me say what I need to.” You wait for him to nod before you continue. “I should have approached you about it in a different way. I’m sorry for that. I’m sorry you ended up in that police station because of it.” He opens his mouth but you give him a look that dries the words on his tongue. “I’m pregnant. We did that together. We make the decision about what comes next together. All of us.”

He gives a short nod, panic welling in him again at the thought.

Everything about it, about having a kid and being a father, reminds him of the sharp smell of booze, the clack of belt loops, the fear of death, rising tidewaters.

But you’d be there.

You’d never be that kind of mother, that kind of partner.

“Even if I don’t - even if I’m not her,” he finds himself saying, the words unbidden and sagging with grief. “You’re right. The police station has everything to do with it. Even if I’m not her, I’m still this. I’m still what she made me. I’m still what people think of me.”

Shame, he hates to admit that he still feels it, even with you. Sometimes he hates that you know, that he has to be reminded you know what happened to him, that you know Jake and Steven and might like them better than him.

You hold a hand out to him, and Marc steps readily towards you. You pull him under the blankets, fingers digging into his skin, fussing and fidgeting with the necklace looped around his throat. “Marc,” you whisper, hands curling into his hair.

He loves the way you say his name, how often you say it.

But his skin prickles with unease. “No kid needs to deal with all my shit. I’m never gonna be good for them, because of what happened to me.”

You fold him close to you, cocoon him in your scent and the shape of your arms. “Or,” you nudge your nose against his. “You’ll be good because of it. I’m not afraid of you being a parent. I’m afraid of losing you.”

Marc scoffs, “You don’t have a single fucking concern-,”

“None. Not one. But we’re - we don’t have enough space. And I don’t know how a kid will fit into our life and our plans. We wanted to travel. I’m getting a promotion soon.” You touch his cheek. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. If it’s the right time.”

Normal concerns, he realizes. Totally banal concerns, that is what has been plaguing you.

“You get so afraid that you aren’t enough, that someone is going to leave you behind, that you self-destruct before anyone has the chance to explain what’s going on.” You lean your forehead into his. “You ran before I could explain.”

“You’re mad.”

“Yes,” you agree. It’s straightforward, it’s easy to understand and digest. “I’m mad. But not forever. And I’m not going anywhere.” You lace your fingers with his, kiss the backs of his knuckles. “You’ve gotten and are getting help. You try to be better every single day. We, me and you and Jake and Steven, we have a system that works for all of us. We have a way of making things work. Shit happens. This isn’t the end of the world. It’s just something that happened.”

It’s hard to internalize, hard to reconcile. He’s broken and he hears the words that echo through years. It’s all your fault.

“It’s always me-,”

“No. It’s not. And either way, we’re here to help. Don’t shut us out.”

He swallows, can’t think about himself anymore, or his mother, or his past, or the police station. You though, he can always think about you.

A memory swirls up, staring at a picture Steven had taken of you at the park last spring. Back when benders were so common for Marc, but you were determined to see him to the end of the tunnel, the light at the end. He’d been drunk already, eyes wet, when the old lady next to him on the plane leaned over and said, “Beautiful.”

Nothing more. Only that.

“Pregnant. You’re pregnant,” he lets his voice lilt into a question.

“Yes. I’m not sure how, we’re so good about condoms and birth control.”

“Shit happens though, right?” He echos your words. “It’s just something that happened. We’ll deal.”

“Together?” You venture.

He nods, firm now. You believe in him, whether he’s crazy or not, fucked up or not, worthy or not, you believe in him. “Together.”

Marc pauses, curls his arm around your shoulders. “And I’m sorry. Even if you don’t want me to be. I’m sorry about the last few days. I think - I can’t help but think about her. I don’t wanna be like her.”

“Marc,” your voice is firm. “You won’t be. But if you can’t trust yourself, trust me. I would not let what happened to you, happen to my baby.”

And that -

Shocks Marc.

He shouldn't have had to rely on his own mind to create protectors.

He should have already been protected. His father, his father should never have let it happen.

Marc looks at you, the fierce look in your eyes. No, you’d never let that happen. You’d never become his father.

And somewhere inside him, he knows he’ll never be his mother. Not with Steven and Jake and you to guide him home. “Nothing is wrong with you,” you reiterate. “Nothing. This isn’t a question of whether you’d be a good parent, if you’d fuck up. This is about us, and what we need. All the rest will come as it may.”

Your hands are on his again, gentle over the bruises and cuts he doesn't remember getting.

"Okay."

Between the four of you, things would be okay.

"I'm not going anywhere, either," he says. "Not again. You won't lose me."

You shoulders drop, relief pours over him. .

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