#threegoldfish

Alright, so maybe Marc shouldn't have snorted a laugh at the comment. He could have been a little more understanding of what poor Steven was going through at the moment, considering he was currently watching from the mirror by their bed while the other man lay in bed with his arms covering his eyes and a look of despair on his face. Marc couldn't blame his alter for being antsy -- it was about three in the morning after all. "What all embarrassin' have you even done lately, huh? Can't be that bad, baby. Seriously?" Marc wasn't trying to belittle the other, of course not. His tone was soft and his eyes were softer even though the position meant Steven wasn't looking his way. He could feel the prickle of tense anxiety around their mind. It was easier to pick up on thanks to the fact he was more-so co-fronting at that very moment, instead of just hanging around in their mind space. "This gonna be a weekly ritual for you? Overthinkin' and keeping us up all night?" Again, not accusatory at all. Marc wasn't upset, wasn't all that bothered. If he got tired enough he could drift away and settle somewhere in the back of their mind. Could find peace away from the stress that was existing at the same time as Steven was. "Need me to read you a bedtime story?" More a joke than anything else. Not exactly a real offer because like hell he was the type to do alla that. He was pretty sure he'd be terrible at story telling anyhow. It was only after a moment's pause that Marc felt the little tickle at the back of their mind, and before he even realized it he could feel Jake's presence before even noticing their third taking space a bit further off in the full length mirror kept close enough by. 'For clothes fixing' is what Jake had said in the past, but they all knew damn well that wasn't all there was to it.

"You know, babita -- there's a few ways to get the mind to slow down for sleep." It was clear where Jake's intentions were, if not from his tone then from the smirk overtaking his features. Always one to poke.

It had all, funnily enough, started with one tiny, single complaint from Marc. Something offhand, not even really serious, and not even part of a bigger conversation. Just an absent mention from the other man — his roommate now, for a little bit at that point. About a sore set of muscles and an annoying ache around the neck area. Probably from a whole plethora of issues. Old training, old mercenary work, and then that bloody cot the other had housed himself on for who knew how long before Steven really started fronting. Would give anyone a crick in the neck! No wonder. Point was — a complaint was made, and who was Steven if not a thorough and kind roommate. All it had taken was a few searches up on his phone, a few videos watched, and one trip to a fragrance store he stuck out in like a sore thumb for some lotion he learned was perfect for these kinds of things. The researcher he was, of course he did as much. Now all that was left was a night they were both in ( read : a night Steven didn't have work ) — which just so happened to be tonight.

red bottom heels clicked quickly down the pavement on this chilly london night, fur coat being clasped tighter at the opening. earrings danced in the light, the woman clearly in a rush to get home. but not because it was late--no. because she had something worth while. and took it without the bastard in question noticing. but he'd notice sooner or later.

it was strapped to the inside of her coat, the notebook sized stone having ancient writing engraved in it. the further she walked the less cars were around. but a taxi? she was in luck.

he stood there against his cab, seemingly waiting for business. she'd seen him once or twice in the nights before. perhaps there was good money in late night rides after the tube had closed for the evening. regardless--she felt no fear. sasha was more than capable of defending herself if it came down to it.

so she approached the man with a smirk stretching across red painted lips, eyes sparkling almost as much as her earrings did. a handsome fellow, really. strong features.

" my, my, my. what a face you have, krasivyi. I almost want to offer you double to take me home for gracing me with such a treat. " though the smile she gave was more lighthearted than her heavily flirtatious sentence. showing she meant no harm. small handbag held closer against her torso.

"OK," Thera's next-to-last text had said, "meet me out there." Her last one had been the location, right before she set off herself.

The first part of the planning might have seemed a bit worrying, even for someone with Jake's calculated calm - 'Need to talk to you when the others are definitely asleep'. Not just 'non-fronting', not even 'puttering about in the headspace', asleep. It had needed to be Jake, of course, not only because he was the steady one but because he knew how to keep his mouth shut; Steven, bless him, would do his best but probably burst a blood vessel in the attempt, and Marc ... well, Marc was the one they were keeping it from.

Now she moves around the kitchen of the rented cabin in the Catskills, triple checking yet again on the supplies. Equal parts Vegan and not, some good whiskey for Jake, and an assortment of other goodies - plus, equally important, enough wood for the firepit outside.

[ ϟ ]—– Even the air felt different this time somehow, its scent something indistinguishable, thicker and heavier, despite the onslaught of heavy rainfall.

It was all entirely... unpleasant.

From the moment he had set foot on familiar soil, the very same ground that had seen battle with Malekith unfold, where the god's blood was spilled, and events took place that were left ingrained in his mind, familiar tension continued to grow in tendons and flesh.

Muscles had already stiffened hours prior however, and with feet now firmly planted upon the ground thunderer attempted - and failed - to release the tightly wound strings in his being.

To no avail, of course, and to great displeasure of the Asgardian.

Then the pacing commenced once more, the effort to rearrange tumbling, concern-riddled thoughts into reasonable sentences another thing that had been attempted during the moments he stood waiting. The workings of the god's mind, erratic as they were, turn clouds even darker, added more moisture to already thick, over-sized droplets of cascading rain.

Every atom in his body protested against his presence here, memories rising to the surface suppressed by current, very relevant, new fears.

" Son of Odin, this is a warning, one you must heed for if you do not the World as you know it, and the Gods beyond it, will perish, forever. Odin's foe will rise once more. The shadow will open and devour all that is dear to Odin's kin. 51.4934° N, 0.0098° E - tomorrow '

The note had been left behind in his quarters, tucked away in the confines of a bedroom that still felt unfamiliar, shared with no one and memorized with ease.

The words within felt like a warning and threat both, and apprehension had lasted only a few moments, the implications considered and deemed acceptable. Fleeing, or worse yet, not acting, was not in his nature, went against every fiber of crafted righteousness, was not even present in the short list of possibilities.

Therefore he had arrived at the coordinates mentioned, landing at the exact spot the coordinates had indicated, and waited since the first rays of dawn had touched the dewy grass.

With only an hour left to midnight patience had grown slim, reduced to a bare sliver, and no effort was made any longer to halt the rain from becoming a dangerous downpour.

The air smelled of wet concrete and cigarettes, a far lighter scent than what Arthur had long grown used to. The city carried less of the heavy sun, the dry dust in the air; even the minor scent of diesel was gone, replaced with the stench of cars and the unique kind of cold. 

It wasn’t sharp, but it was damp. The kind that got into sleeves, soaked down to the bone, and stayed there. It didn’t matter how fast he walked. It didn’t matter even matter what direction he went. Busses rolled past with a hiss of tires and low mechanical growls, pigeons picked at the remains of a sandwich, entirely unbothered by the traffic. 

Arthur stood at the edge of a narrow street, beside the chipped brick wall of an old café that had closed briefly for renovation. The metal shutter over the window was tagged in something, graffiti that had been done so rushed and poorly that it was impossible to read. 

A cup rested loosely in one hand, holding something that steamed faintly in the cold. Coffee, he was near-certain. 

He looked fine. He looked alive. A living impossibility - but then again, so was Marc. 

Arthur almost felt as if he’d sensed the man before he saw him, looking up to catch his gaze; and for a split second, his thoughts flickered somewhere inevitable. Running would be pointless. 

But with any luck, he wouldn’t be murdered in the middle of a public street. 

He didn’t flinch, instead just shifting his stance slightly, as if he could come across like he’d been expecting this from the start. The same calm wrapped around him like it always had, too composed for the situation and too familiar to be accidental. His lips curled, not quite a smile or a smirk; something that didn’t fully reach his eyes. 

“Well.” His voice didn’t carry. It never did; the sound barely cut through the hiss of a passing car. 

“I’d say it’s nice to see you again, but that might be pushing it, wouldn’t it?” 

Vega grits out a sigh, cracks her neck, and pulls the hood up over half-wild head. Her cheeks glow radioactive from the wind and something unnameable working her nerves raw. Marc Spector. She’s been tracking him six days now, though “tracking” is overselling it; more like an accidental astrology.

The ex-mercenary with the thousand-yard stare and the shoulders slumping like someone carved out his backbone. She’d tried to brush up against him in a crowd, once, but he moved strange, like bits of him are running on a delay.

What she needs is simple, maybe impossible. Likely. A job that isn’t really a job, though it’s something that’d strangle her in the aftermath if she fails just the same. She never thought she’d be so bad at this. She’d been crippled, flayed, bombed out and dismembered in all manner of theaters, and still— still— this is the worst. The simple act of approaching a man and asking for alliance. Like standing at the edge of a broken dam and praying you both survived the jump.

It won't help him to know that she's been stalking him; but hey, only because (a) she knew no other way to stage an approach, and (b) the situation with the "job" was so absolutely fucked that the risk is lower if she met him with plausible deniability and not in a neon-lit bar, or— god forbid— at his door. He could be jumpy, according to the dossier she'd absorbed again and again.

All that means to Vega is that anyone can break if they’ve been interrupted in the wrong rhythm.

“You know, the city’s always fucking the schedule up,” this is true, and she has complained on Reddit about it, “‘Least you have decent— uh, somewhat palatable coffee to keep you upright.”

𝑬𝒚𝒆𝒃𝒓𝒐𝒘𝒔   𝒍𝒐𝒘   𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒓   𝒉𝒆𝒓   𝒆𝒚𝒆𝒔,  Layla   tried   to   make   sense   of   the   situation,   rapidly   blinking   at   the   sight   of   the   teary   eyed   man   in   front   of   her.   It’s   still   hard   for   her   to   wrap   her   mind   around   the   fact   that   this   was. . .   that   this   used   to   be   her   husband.   Still   was,   some   of   the   time,   apparently?   It’s   hard   to   understand;   thank   the   gods   she   didn’t   need   to   explain   it   to   someone   else.

“If   the   sun’s   hurting   your   eyes,   why   don’t   we   go   inside,   hm?”   A   tight   smile   makes   its   way   onto   her   lips,   and   Layla   turns   to   head   for   the   safe   house   even   before   she   gets   an   answer   from   Steven.   “We   shouldn’t   be   seen   out   in   the   public   anyways.”