Cleo's mind is far too preoccupied to find even an ounce of sleep, a reversal of how the dynamic was just months ago. Now Cleo is the one who stays up late and refuses to close her eyes, whilst the boys sleep peacefully. Though, the night before their departure, Steven finds his girl wide awake, sitting at his desk, wearing his sweater and using his glasses as she reads over his books. It warms his heart, as if it's being hugged from the inside.
He smiles and just watches her go. Her mind becomes completely entranced by the books as her eyes read over the stories she now knows are real. What were once fairy tales are now a reality. Cleo reaches over for her glass of water to bring it to her parched lips, and in doing so sees one of her boys hovering over her.
" Sorry, sorry!" Steven exclaims as his eyes go wide like a doe, " I-I'll go, didn't mean to stare."
" It's fine, hun," Cleo softly expresses as she sets down the glass, then pats the chair next to her, " Sit."
Steven's head nervously bobs as he musters up a gentle grin. His knees bend as he takes his seat in front of her darling gaze, one slightly covered by his own wire-framed glasses.
" I didn't know you need glasses," He keenly observes.
" Oh... I don't, really," She sighs, " My eyes are just tired."
The archaeologist goes to remove the glasses but is stopped by Steven, who jumps at the opportunity to grab her elbows and stop her. Cleo's eyes meet his gaze once more, and all of his nerves flare up and create panic in his bloodstream.
" Sorry... it's just... You look so beautiful," He expresses with his sickly sweet grin.
Cleo mirrors the man in front of her as her lips curl up into a smile as well, her eyes getting lost in his own as she feels the weight being lifted from her shoulders, her back naturally fixing its posture as a soft fire is lit inside her chest to warm her dwindling heart.
" You should get some sleep," She notes as she curls her hands around his, " Big day tomorrow."
" I'll be alright. I'm quite used to not sleeping, y'know," Steven amusingly remarks with a subtle chuckle.
" Get her to bed. She hasn't been sleeping for days," Marc sternly adds as he appears in the mirror behind Cleo, where he inevitably catches Steven's gaze.
Steven's brows furrow, a frown forming along his face as his eyes depart Cleo to move over to the mirror, where he then meets her gaze yet again, with a more solemn and somber exterior.
" Have you been sleeping, love?" He ponders.
Cleo's breath gets hitched in her throat. She's been caught. Her tailbone curls as the muscles in her body tense.
" Yes," She nods.
" That's a lie."
" Marc says you're lying."
" I'm not."
" Yes, she is."
" But Marc says--"
" Steven."
Cleo interrupts her wonderful puzzle piece by removing her hands from his and placing them on either side of his face, forcing him to meet her gaze as she deeply inhales to give herself a sense of calm, even if her eyes show anything but.
" I'm okay," She affirms, smiling as if to prove her own words, " Promise."
Steven remains utterly unconvinced. He can see it with his own eyes and feel it in his soul. He knows the woman in front of him is struggling, yet she absolutely refuses to let him in and help. She wishes only to pretend as though her problems are nonexistent, a very similar coping mechanism to Marc, making it the slightest bit peculiar when he notices this fault in Cleo, and not in himself.
Steven's gaze lingers on her, his concern etched across his face like fine lines of worry. He wants to reach out, to offer his support and lend her his strength, but Cleo's walls stand tall, impenetrable. She insists on shouldering her burdens alone, afraid to burden others with her troubles. It's a familiar battle he's fought himself, but now he yearns to break through the barriers and show Cleo that she doesn't have to face her demons alone.
At that moment, a flicker ignites within Steven. He understands that Cleo might resist his help, but he can't stand idly by while she suffers in silence. He silently vows to be there for her, to offer his unwavering support, even if she's not ready to accept it just yet.
As Cleo holds his gaze, her eyes glistening with a mix of vulnerability and strength, Steven sees the depths of her struggle. The weight of her constant vigilance, the fear that gnaws at her, and the invisible presence that haunts her every move. It fills him with a profound sense of protectiveness, an urge to shield her from harm and provide her with the peace she so desperately needs.
He leans forward, brushing his lips against her forehead in a tender gesture. It's a silent reassurance, a promise that he's there for her, no matter what. Cleo closes her eyes, savoring the fleeting touch, feeling a glimmer of hope bloom within her chest. In that brief moment of connection, she realizes that she doesn't have to bear the weight of her fears alone.
But it's not enough for Marc. He wants to go deeper, to reveal the truth so he can fix whatever problems exist in her mind or out of it. Marc desperately wants to fix it, but Cleo is reluctant to even tell him what is wrong. He knows that they're not alone and he knows that Cleo is not as okay as she verbally announces. He spent too long as a slave of Khonshu to not pick up on the differences in reality. He's too observant for his perspective to be oblivious.
Though he longed for freedom, he never thought it would feel quite like this. He expected to feel the same as he did before he entered the temple on the brink of death... yet he feels the same. His clothes hang the same way on his body. His hair feels the same against his skin, and his head is still heavy with burden as if there are too many entities hiding within.
It makes him second guess even going to Cairo. He has no powers, no God sanding on his shoulder, and no way of protecting Cleo. He is a trained fighter still, but something tells him to stay here. To stay away from Cairo and to not go on the dig. It's a pit in the bottom of his stomach, one filled with dread and horror that he cannot explain. It festers and grows, creating a bubble of panic, even as he drags the bags into the car to take them to the airfield.
Stop the car.
Turn around.
The intrusive thoughts linger in his mind. They shout at him, begging him to do something, to do anything as his eyes roam around the road around them. On the way to the airfield, Marc swears the same bird flies alongside the car for the entire trip. He does not know if he is dreaming, or perhaps imagining the entire thing, but there the bird is, right outside the passenger window, flapping its wings in the wind and following the car till they arrive at the airfield.
Cleo and Marc then step outside of the car and grab their bags. They step through the gates of the airfield and go to the hangar, where a familiar face emerges, smiling with his white and yellow teeth.
" Hola, loca," Diego remarks as he begins prepping the plane.
" Hola, bastardo," Cleo sighs as she takes their bags and begins tossing them in the plane.
" Hola, mi vida."
Cleo pauses.
That name, that nickname. It sounds so familiar in her ear, yet the Spanish leaving her boy's mouth isn't. It's something that tickles her brain with familiarity, yet she has no idea why.
" You speak Spanish?" She asks as she turns around to face him.
" What?" Marc asks dumbfoundedly, " I mean... a little bit."
Cleo's brows furrow, yet she continues on, opting to not overthink the encounter, for she truly does not have enough energy for it.
Unfortunately, their second flight to Cairo isn't as glamorous as the first. They're caught in the middle of a storm, unable to escape the rain and thunder, as if Thor and Zeus and Seth were all working together to kill them. Every lightning strike, every crackle of thunder, every ounce of rain that pours only further proves Marc's theory... they should have never left.
Marc and Cleo sit strapped into the back of the tiny plane, holding onto whatever they can find for dear life.
The turbulence rattles their nerves, and fear creeps into their hearts with every jolt. Cleo's grip tightens on the armrest, her knuckles turning white as she prays for the storm to pass. Marc, ever the stoic warrior, tries to maintain his composure, his jaw clenched as he braces for impact. He silently prays to his God as Steven loudly shouts from inside of his mind.
But fate has a different plan in store for them.
Suddenly, the engine sputters and coughs, its roar diminishing to a feeble whimper. Panic sets in as the plane begins to descend rapidly, hurtling towards the unforgiving earth below. The ground rushes up to meet them, and all they can do is hold on tight, their minds filled with a mix of terror and disbelief.
The impact is brutal, the plane crashing with a deafening roar. Metal twists and bends, glass shatters, and chaos erupts within the confined space. Cleo and Marc are thrown about like rag dolls, their bodies battered and bruised as they are tossed around by the sheer force of the crash.
When the chaos subsides, silence hangs heavy in the air. Cleo slowly opens her eyes, her body aching and her head spinning. Her breath is ragged as she finds herself somewhat safe inside of a sand cacoon, one that prevented any fatal injuries from the crash. She looks around, disoriented, and sees the wreckage of the plane, the remnants of their ill-fated journey scattered across the desert landscape. The sight sends a shiver down her spine, realizing the gravity of their situation.
A surge of adrenaline jolts her into action. She scans the area, searching for any signs of life. Her heart thumps in her chest as her throat grows dry. And then, relief floods over her as she spots Marc, battered but alive, a few feet away. She crawls towards him, her limbs weak and protesting with every movement. Finally, she reaches him, her hand trembling as she gently shakes him awake.
"Marc... Marc, wake up," She whispers urgently, her voice laced with desperation, " Steven? Marc? Please... please wake up."
Slowly, Marc's eyes flutter open, the pain evident in his gaze. He groans, trying to sit up, but his body protests, and he slumps back down. Cleo places a hand on his shoulder, her touch a reassuring anchor amidst the chaos.
"We... we crashed," He mumbles, his voice filled with disbelief.
Cleo nods, her chest heaving with every breath she takes. She doesn't notice the giant gash she has on her arm, but does take not of the blood spilling from Marc's forehead. She's quick to attend to his wound, as Marc is quick to address hers, only to be shooed away.
" I'll heal," She utters.
" So will I," Marc protests.
" Not fast enough," Cleo states, " Not anymore."
Marc sighs, but allows her to address his wounds first. His eyes quickly scan over her body to check for any more injuries. Aside from dirt, sand, and a little blood, she appears to be perfectly fine, though it does little to ease Steven's rambling thoughts.
" Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, oh my god. We just fell from the bloody sky! Holy hell, how did we survive? How did Cleo survive? She only has a tiny bit of blood-- Oh god... what if she's bleeding on the inside?! What if--"
" Where's Diego?" Marc asks in an attempt to quiet the man inside his head.
Cleo's eyes meet his in an instant, and her heart drops down past her stomach and to the depths of the Duat, for Marc was the only sign of life she was able to find. The plane is in shambles. It completely fell apart in the crash... and there's no signs of another body anywhere in the surrounding area.
It's as if the Gods wanted only the puzzle pieces to survive the crash.
" Be-virkat elohim," Marc mumbles under his breath as he clasps his Star of David necklace between his finger tips.
They then gather their waning strength and manage to crawl out of the wreckage, the desert sun scorching their weary bodies. Cairo looms in the distance, but it feels impossibly far. They stumble through the barren landscape, each step a painful reminder of their ordeal.
Hours turn into days as they navigate the harsh terrain, their bodies growing weaker with each passing moment. Their minds, however, remain resilient, fueled by an unyielding determination to survive. They rely on their wits and resourcefulness, scavenging for food and water wherever they can find it. Their phones are dead and have no chance of any signal.
As they journey through the unforgiving desert, Cleo's mind is no longer preoccupied with the weight of her inner turmoil. The crash has shifted her focus, forcing her to confront the immediate challenges of survival. In this harsh reality, she finds a glimmer of strength she didn't know she possessed. Marc, too, is consumed by the present. The voices that once haunted him are temporarily silenced by the urgency of their situation. The adrenaline fuels his every move, pushing him forward even when his body screams in protest. Their clothes are tattered, and exhaustion clings to them like a second skin. But their determination refuses to waver. They press on, their bond growing stronger with each passing hardship.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, they stumble upon a small village on the outskirts of Cairo. The sight of civilization brings a renewed sense of hope, and they push through the last remnants of their strength to make their way towards it.
As they approach the village, the locals, curious yet cautious, gather around them. The villagers, touched by their plight, quickly spring into action, providing them with food, water, and medical assistance.
" Shrank lak ( Thank you )" Cleo gently smiles as an elder woman brings her a class of water.
" Shawtan tawilan min almanzili? ( Long way from home? )" The woman asks.
" La," Cleo shakes her head, " Ana min aliaskandariati. Ana dhahib alaa alqahirat lilhafri ( I'm from Alexandria. I'm going to Cairo for a dig. )"
" Hal 'ant wazamjuk eulama' athar? ( Are you and your husband archaeologists?)" The woman continues.
" 'Ana 'akum ( I am )" Cleo affirms, though not feeling the need to correct her mistake, " Hu mawhub bituruq 'ukhraa ( He is gifted in other ways )"
The woman curtly nods, then disappears for a moment to converse with a man from the village, of whom agrees to lend them two camels for their journey to the city, for it is far too long on foot. And considering they have spent days in the sweltering heat of the desert, they gladly accept.
Both Cleo and Marc hop onto the saddles on the camel backs, where the smell of musk and crusted urine enters their noses. It's certainly an unpleasant smell, but one that Cleo has grown used to over her lifetime. She only rode camels on her grandmother's farm, and since has left it to the tourists.
They embark on their journey back to the shimmering city, of which takes a fraction of the time. They have scarves wrapped around their heads and faces to protect them from the sand being flung about by the racing wind.
Soon enough, and after far too much time, they enter the beautiful city of Cairo. As they ride in on camel back, the dogs of the city grow weary of their presence. They begin barking, which, at first, is seen as quite normal.
It isn't until Cleo turns her head and sees the dog does panic and dread flud her system. Right before her eyes are a pack of three dogs, with fur as black as night and glowing yellow eyes, that seem to hold a sense of power and authority behind them. The noise of the city begins to drown out, and all Cleo can hear is the maddening barking of the dogs. They switch between in synch and in chaos. The dogs are big and burley in size, with large jaws and sharp teeth that could effortlessly take a life with one bite. It traps her ears and blocks all other senses. She's unable to focus or think about anything else as the stench of wet dog enters her nostrils and overpowers that of the camel.
She's snapped out of the daze by a hand being placed on her calf, and out of pure instinct, she goes to grab the blade conceled beneath her belt, only for her muscles to soften once she lays eyes on Marc.
" You were gonna stab me in broad daylight?" He questions.
" I was considering it," She quips.
Marc lets out a sarcastic laugh as he helps his girl off of the camel, as if she needs it. The two then grab their bags, and walk on foot the rest of the way to the hotel, where they're greeted by an anxious auntie.
" 'Ayn kinti?! ( Where have you been?! )" She exclaims.
" Fi alsahra' ( In the desert )" Cleo responds obviously.
" Limadha ta'akhart? ( Why are you late? )"
" Li'ana tayiratana tahatamat , eamati ( Because our plane crashed, auntie )"
" Diego?"
Cleo shakes her head, and the elder woman doesn't need a verbal response to read between the lines.
" 'Ana asf ( I'm sorry )" She utters softly, then goes behind her desk and grabs two sets of keys, "Ladaya ghurfatan hadhih almara ( I have two rooms this time )"
" La haja ( No need )," Cleo declares, " Sanakhudh alghurfat alwahida( We'll take the one room )"
The auntie offers a cheeky grin as she hands over the key, and quickly averts her gaze to the handsome man joining Cleo for the second time.
Cleo and Marc trudge up the steps as their clothes stick to their sticky skin, and sighs of relief leave both of their lips once they step through the threshold of the exact same room they had the last time they were in the city, of which gives Steven the chills.
The room provides a mix of wonderful and dreadful memories. It's the place where their relationship was elevated, but also where dark discoveres were made about Marc's inner thoughts.
" I'm going to shower," Cleo announces, effectively snapping him out of his daze.
Marc nods in response, fully prepared to offer her privacy. He takes a seat on the fluffy bed to wait his turn to enter the bathroom, but can't help but notice that Cleo has left the bathroom door open just a tad. The water is running and her clothes cover the floor, posing an interesting invitation.
" Did she forget to close the door?"
Marc let's out a dry chuckle at Steven's innocence, but cannot deny his deires. He gets up from the bed and opens the bathroom door just enough for him to enter, then closes it to preserve the warmth. He strips the clothes from his body, leaving only his Star of David necklace as he then steps inside the shower to join Cleo within the water.
Her long, black hair is drenched as the water runs down her body and removes any inpurities along with it. Marc starts by pressing his body against her back, and slowly peppers kisses along her shoulders and neck as his hands gently massasge her hips. His fingers knead her skin. His lips dance along her body, providing a swarm of warmth and ecstasy within the bathroom bubble.
Cleo tilts her head to the side, allowing Marc to have more access as his movements become harder and dig deeper into her tanned skin. Her pitch black hair gets thrown to one side, as she hears Marc inhale deeply, then feels his nails digging into her skin.
It barely stings, but makes Cleo gasp as her breasts are pressed against the bone-chilling tile. He enters her swiftly and without hesitation, drawing a moan from her lips as her eyes roll back. Cleo enjoys being squished against the wall as the water splashes on her skin, and he enjoys watching her body bounce with each thrust of his hips. He seems to enjoy it more than usual, for his eyes are stuck on her round bottom. Cleo's abs clench as she feels herself getting closer and closer to her peak, which then comes crashing down as his movements stay strong. He continues fucking her into the wall, groaning as she moans and writhes against his touch. He doesn't even notice her fingers digging into the tile so harshly that it begins to crack beneath her touch.
Their time together ends after easily a half hour of pure bliss, where any sign of their deed gets washed away with the water. Cleo turns around to face him, her cheeks red and lungs desperate for air. She stands up on her tippey toes to plant a kiss on his lips, before she pulls away, smiling as she looks into his eyes.
" That was fun."
She soon exits the shower and wraps a towel around her body, whilst Marc continues standing under the running water, a look of pure and utter confusion evidant on his face, with his furrowed brows and slacked jaw, for he has no memory of anything happening between the two of them.
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[ we're getting closer to the good stuff 👀 is it obvious which God it is yet? ]