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imarvelatthestars · 2 years

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Travelling Man: August

Notes: The series title is inspired by the Chameleon Circuit song 'Travelling Man' - it's hard to fully explain why, but that song just reminds me so much of Marc (& Steven) even though it's a Doctor Who song. If y'all are interested in the playlist that helps inspire this and most of my other Moon Knight x Reader fics, you can look here.

Premise: Our story starts before the show begins, with Steven unaware that he’s an alter while he experiences memory loss and insomnia. You, the reader, are a new hire at the British Museum in the gift shop during the summer tourist season and end up working most of your shifts with Steven Grant. (The reader is neurodivergent coded, but nothing is specified.) [Previous chapter - July]

Warnings: mention of memory gaps and sleepwalking, I (an American) try to accurately portray the London experience, an attempt at describing British Sign Language was made

Pairings: Steven Grant x Reader; slight Marc Spector x Reader; endgame Moon Knight system x Reader

Word Count: ~3.7k

The first time you see Steven outside of work, it takes you by surprise. Hard. Because he's on your mind, sudden but gently poking his way into your life beyond the museum in the little things like that new tea shop at the station near your flat or the posters of that Ancient Egypt movie coming out this autumn that you're sure he'll love to hate, and then he's suddenly right in front of you in the middle of town, surrounded by shops and food stands and people doing fancy acts on the sidewalk. He's sitting on the edge of a fountain by a brass statue, eating and talking like the statue can hear him. You take a step closer and realize it's not a statue, but a man in costume and face paint and hairspray. It's almost like you've summoned him.

You adjust your bag over your shoulder and brave the butterflies in your stomach, approaching him with an incredulous, giddy smile. "Steven?" you call just as his eyes flicker onto you.

The way his face lights up nearly knocks you over. He's up in a flash, arms spread wide and his mouth still half full, but he's saying your name and laughing and it's nice.

"God, fancy seeing you here." He laughs again, this time with a hand over his mouth so he can swallow politely. "Sorry. Shawarma mouth."

You shake your head. "No, you're fine. Sorry I took you by surprise."

"No, no, it's alrigh'. Not like I own the whole of bloody London, yeah? You can walk where you like. Just, er, just never thought I'd see you down here."

It's a fair assumption. London transportation is hell on a good day and you'd really rather stay home being just slightly bored than having to deal with it more than you have to. But you were restless the moment you woke up, your body needed to be outside, needed to feel the wind and sun, so you decided to explore. You're glad now that you did. And that you dolled yourself up a little more than usual.

"It's- It's good," he stammers as he looks everywhere except at you. "Good t' see you," and he says your name like a beautiful afterthought.

You're not really sure where to go from there. There's that weird tingle in the air again, the one that makes you feel funny when you're stood too close to him. You blink and take a step back, clear your mind, and look at the statue man still perched on the edge of the fountain.

"Who's your friend?" you ask with your thumb half over your shoulder.

Steven is moving his bag and what's left of his shawarma further down the bench-edge to make room for you, even going so far as to brush off some crumbs. Then he waves his arm in a big, mockingly elegant gesture and it makes you laugh.

"He's really committed to the bit," he says as you sit. "Always just sits and lets me talk, he does. He's a good mate."

You wave and introduce yourself, but the statue man doesn't move. He really is committed. Oh well, good for him. If he's not gonna talk, then he probably won't mind if you focus on Steven, who's already going on about the latest addition to the exhibit and why exactly it's so brilliantly important, all in between bites of shawarma and you let him. The sun is setting and it casts shades of pink and orange over the square, over his face, lights up his eyes as fairy lights start to pop on and torches are lit and you manage to actually look into his eyes for once while he's distracted. It's only been a month, you've only known him a month, you barely remember his last name, you don't even know if he has a favorite color or a favorite TV show, but you know that you like him.

"So." He chews thoughtfully. "What 'bout you? Ever had vegan shawarma?"

Your eyes drop so quickly that it's impossible he could miss it. You hope he doesn't take it wrong, it's just that it's hard enough to keep eye contact with most people, let alone him. Especially if you've been staring without even meaning to.

"No, can't say I have," and you laugh a little. You must have missed the part where he made the bridge between work and food. It's almost impressive, really, that you were zonked out enough for your brain to stop working. "Is it good?"

Steven groans and nods his head so emphatically that you're worried it'll roll off. "Is it! You've no idea what you're missing!"

You have some idea.

॰ ☆ ॰ ☽ ॰ ☆ ॰

"Do you hang out with statue man often?" you ask the day after.

Steven wrinkles his mouth while he thinks. "Sometimes, yeah. He's a saint, that man, bless. Not that I'd really know what qualifies as being saint worthy, but listenin' to me natter on has t' be up there."

You shuffle and reshuffle and pat down the edges of the museum postcards. Your lips are pursed as you try to hold back your smile. "What does that make me, then?"

His shirt ruffles from the speed at which he snaps his head around to look at you. You do your best to stay cool, but you're dying to know what his face looks like right now and if he's smiling. You hope he's smiling. It would be nice if he is.

When you finally do turn your gaze over your shoulder, you can see that his cheeks are a shade darker. He has a dopey little smile. There's something tugging at his lips that isn't a smile - a retort, maybe? But it fades before he can seem to have the courage to say it and that's okay, too. You're just glad he smiled.

॰ ☆ ॰ ☽ ॰ ☆ ॰

A family of four come into the shop on a lazy Tuesday morning. The one dad is dressed very smartly in nice slacks and a button up; he has salt and pepper hair and a nose ring. His husband, judging by their rings, is signing to him while their two daughters trot around at their knees. Your heart instantly melts and it takes every ounce of your willpower not to go "OhmygodSteven, looooooooookatthebabies, they'resocute!" right in his ear.

You watch them meander around the shop, pick out a few trinkets and a book for the younger girl, and God, it feels like your chest is about to explode. Dad #1, the older one, picks up the youngest girl and rests her on his hip while the other pulls out his wallet.

Steven is the one who rings them up, but you hover at his side and wave at the chubby cheeked sweet pea babbling at you over the counter. She has Dad #1's bright hazel eyes and Dad #2's hearing aid, and her sister, probably about 6, is enamored with one of the blue scarab plushies.

"You guys have a good time?" Steven asks and you translate it into sign for him almost without thinking.

Everyone stops, just for a moment, and looks at you. There's a moment where you're worried maybe you overstepped, so you lower your hands. But then Dad #2 breaks into a smile that rivals the sun and eagerly signs back to you.

"We had a great time, thank you," you tell Steven, your eyes still fixed on Dad. "Our youngest liked the jars with the animal heads on them."

Steven nods. "Canopic jars. Full of pharoah bits. Always a favorite."

Dad #2 laughs while Dad #1 suddenly dashes off after the 6 year old who's stolen the scarab and is attempting to make a break for it.

"We'll get the bug!" he shouts.

You wave and sign bye when they leave, and the youngest girl watches you over her dad's shoulder. She has about three teeth and you can see all of them when she grins and slobbers on dad's collar.

"I didn't know you knew sign."

You shrug and wipe the grubby toddler prints off the edge of the counter before your next round of customers comes in. "I had to take a few language classes for school. Figured that would be the best one to take."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Signing always leaves you with a pleasant, warm feeling in your chest. "Everyone should be able to have a conversation, y'know?"

Is he staring? His eyes are practically burning holes into the side of your face, so yes, he is. And when you look at him head on, you feel like you just got hit by a bus because he's looking at you like he adores you. You could swear there are stars in his eyes.

"Incroyable," he sighs, and it makes your stomach go queasy, but in a good way. A nice way. Nice like him.

"What's that?"

There's that dopey smile again. "'s French. That was French."

And now it's your turn to be surprised because of all the things you could have expected out of Steven Grant, his ability to speak French wasn't one of them. "You know French? That's amazing."

"Bit like you, then, eh? Amazing? Like, totally?"

Geez, now you're blushing and tapping the tip of your shoe against the floor like you just got asked to the prom. You mutter something lame under your breath, something along the lines of "thanks, you too, buckaroo" and you long to be swallowed whole by the Earth. But Steven is an angel and his laugh sounds so genuine that you think maybe the bad joke was worth it just to hear him.

He looks like he wants to say something at some point, but Donna comes in and chases him off for his lunch break while she complains about not wanting to pay him to stand around and flirt for 30 minutes. If it makes your heart jump a little, you don't dwell on it.

॰ ☆ ॰ ☽ ॰ ☆ ॰

"Would you teach me sign language?" he asks you in the staff room after you clock out.

"You sure? I'm not the best, I'm still learning."

His smile is as keen as he is. "I'm sure I'd love it anyway." And you love him for it because it means he cares.

So you show him how to say "good night": a thumbs up with his right hand, then a downward waving motion with both palms facing in toward his chest. Then he asks for "hello" and you just wave, and you both laugh.

"And 'my name is Steven'?"

A fist to the sternum, then two fingers pressed to the temple almost like a salute, and the letters of his name. You demonstrate it with your own name, then again with his until he starts to get the idea of it.

"What about-" He wets his lips and you finally notice the shakiness of his breath, like he's just been scared within an inch of his life. His eyes are focused on a spot somewhere below your nose. "What about 'can I walk you to your bus'?"

Oh.

You show him and he repeats it back to you, wide-eyed and nervous, and it's messy, but it's so endearing, so sweet, and then you realize that he's legitimately asking you and your face is burning. Your right hand bobs up and down in an approximation of a 'yes' that goes right over his head. So you tell him out loud and he grins.

The bus is early, for once in your entire life, so you don't have any time to sit and talk with him like you wanted. But you're one of the first passengers to find a seat, so you settle in and give Steven a wave through the window.

"Laters gators!" He's all muffled, but you knew he was gonna say it.

You grin and sign it back to him: two fingers in a v-shape by your eyes, then an L-shape that bounces forward an inch, and a little chomping gesture as if your hands are the jaws of an alligator. See you later, alligator.

Steven is frozen with that goofy look on his face again, and he's smiling again, and you see the light from the streetlamp reflecting in his eyes and you realize that you have it bad. Fuck.

Crushes are never easy. You know this. And the last thing you expected to come out of working in the gift shop of the British Museum was a crush, yet here you are. It's infantile, it's silly, and it'll probably pass soon, but it's burning inside you all the same and you honestly feel bad for Steven because he's just going about his normal life without a care in the world and he doesn't even know that you're thinking about him like you're a teenager crushing on her deskmate. The deskmate that's more brilliant than, like, people with doctorate's in their fields, and is miles out of your league just because his jawline could qualify as a deadly weapon.

What you should do is push this whole crush thing aside and not focus on it. You know if you poke at it and ponder over it, if you let yourself fawn over him, if you let your eyes linger like they did that night by the fountain, you're gonna get yourself hurt. But also... Steven is the nicest guy you've ever met. He laughs at your jokes. He asks you what it is you want from life. He's patient and smart and handsome - like, really handsome, even if he dresses like an early onset grandpa and even if you don't remember thinking he was terribly handsome when you first met, so you're not sure exactly when you started thinking it - and by the time the bus drops you at the station by your flat, you've already gone through five Steven Grant profiles on Facebook. You find his profile while you're in the lift. You send a friend request before you unlock your door. He accepts it about the time you settle into bed. You send him an alligator emoji on Messenger, then turn your phone over and close your eyes. And if you dream about little alligators with English accents that night, it's not really anyone's business, is it?

॰ ☆ ॰ ☽ ॰ ☆ ॰

Steven is absent again on the 25th. Donna fills in. He's gone on the 26th, too. He comes back the day after and he sounds funny. All those awful fears from last month come rushing to the front of your mind through the course of the day, only ten times worse - is he gonna ignore you again? is he gonna ditch you at the end of the night and act like he doesn't know what you're talking about the next time he shows up? And he is off when he talks to you, it's impossible not to notice, but the uncomfortable roughness isn't so bad this time. He sounds like an American putting on a really bad accent and he doesn't entirely meet your eyes, but he tries.

"Are you okay?" you ask at the end of the day, before he can run out on you. "You seemed off today."

His shoulders tense like he's bracing for something as he counts the cash in the till. "I'm fine."

"I'm not trying to pry, I just wanted to make sure you were alright." He's very quiet. You feel like your heart is going to launch itself out of your throat. "You didn't make fun of the shitty scorpion amulets we got on our shipment today. I thought maybe you were sick or something."

Steven just shuffles in place. You used the 'bad attempt at humor' attack. It was not effective. -500 HP.

You look down at the little scarab plushies and try very hard not to cry. You're not sure why you want to cry. You just want him to be back to normal. Where's your friend, Steven? The guy who makes you laugh and will literally never shut up about Ancient Egypt? The guy who looked at you with stars in his eyes? What happened to him?

Your throat hurts when you whisper, "I'm sorry."

The gift shop is aching with the weight of his silence. It's never felt like a tomb before, not even with canopic jars and half a dozen sarcophagi on display, not until now.

But then he sighs. "Don't be," he says in that weird, low voice. "I'm not myself today."

You fix him with a hopeful stare, brows drawn together. "Anything I can do to help?"

Steven bites back a smile and shakes his head. It only just occurs to you that he's done his hair differently - it's more tamed, his curls are smoothed over and nicely combed to frame his face instead of being left to frazzle above his temples. You can't see much of the silvery greys when it's done this way, but you like it. He looks nice. He looks good. But he also looks sad.

"Okay." Best to drop it. "Just wanted you to know I care. As a friend." The last word feels bitter in your mouth because you thought... Well, you thought something, didn't you? Only now you're not sure.

"Thanks," he says a minute later, but you're already out the door.

॰ ☆ ॰ ☽ ॰ ☆ ॰

"Hiya," Steven beams when you come in the next morning.

"Hey," you answer.

It's a big departure from your usual smile, wave, and chat, but you're in a big funk after last night and you cannot for the life of you figure out what makes Steven act so bizarrely, and that just frustrates you even more because it really shouldn't be this difficult to be normal. And you're mad that you're even thinking like this because you, of all people, should be more understanding, more patient, but it really hurts that he's flip-flopped on you again. Because you like him. Maybe you even really like him.

Is it me? Is it him? Does he just not know how to say, 'sorry, love, not interested in bein' friends anymore, cheers'?

And then it comes to you.

Steven's been quiet since you came in. He keeps watching you with that furrow in his brow and the awkward tilt of his shoulders that says he's confused and hurt, but he stays quiet. You realize he's been waiting for you.

"Steven, did I bother you when we ran into each other earlier this month?"

His eyes widen, then narrow in thought. "What? No? No, course not. Why would you-? I...? How d'you mean?"

"When I was staring at you." God, your face feels hot. "Look, if I made you uncomfortable because of that, I'm really sorry. I have a really bad habit of getting lost in thought and staring off into space only to realize that I'm staring at someone. But if that's the case, then you really only have to tell me. It's not a big deal. You don't have to..." How are you supposed to put this delicately while not also feeling like an ass? "You don't have to call in sick or act weird around me because of it."

"H-Have I? Been acting weird 'round you?"

Seriously? "What else would you call yesterday?"

Steven groans as his face falls into his hands. "Oh, God. What did I do? Was I a knob?" He starts shaking his head and his voice is muffled, but he sounds caught between being mortified and exasperated. "I was a knob. I'm so sorry, love." When he finally drops his hands, you can see that his eyes look red. And on even closer inspection, you can see the beginning of grayish-purple bags under them. Shit, is he okay? "Whatever I did, yeah? Whatever it was, I wasn't myself, I swear t' you."

And that strikes you as really odd. "Steven," you begin, your voice gentler and slower than it's been so far. You reach across the counter and place your hand over his, and he almost flinches. "Do you not remember last night?"

"What makes you say that?" But the question comes a second too late. By the time he's saying it, you've already seen the look in his eyes that screams out 'no!'.

You turn to fully face him, reaching for him so you can take both his hands in yours in a way that you would never have done with anyone else, but with him it's different. He's different. You feel a bond with him that you haven't felt with very many others, and maybe it's that spark of his, the one that makes him a little off that draws you to him, maybe it's his tenderness, but whatever it is, it grabs hold of you by your heartstrings and it won't let go.

The museum is gonna open soon. Donna will probably be barging in any minute now to tell the pair of you to get off your asses and shape up. Doesn't matter, though. Because yes, you like him, but more importantly, Steven's your friend and right now, he's scared.

"Are you okay?" He blinks and you squeeze his hands. "Seriously, Steven. I'm worried about you. What's going on?"

His lips starts trembling. "I'm not sleepin'," he says. "Can't sleep. I'm too scared to 'cause... 'cause I keep sleepwalkin' when I do. I wake up in strange places and I dunno where I am. And I'm not crazy. I know I'm not. I just-."

"Hey. No, I never said you were. I'd never think that."

You want to stroke your hand over and through his hair, promise him everything's going to be alright and that you won't leave his side for as long as he needs you, but to do so would be to cross a line that you don't have the courage to even approach. And the fact that you have this desire to touch him so intimately in the first place startles you. You don't know this man, not really, but God knows you want to.

You'll take what you can get, you decide in the moments between the clacking of Donna's heels sounding just beyond the gift shop doors.

"We'll figure it out," you tell him, and you don't even register the use of 'we' when you should've used 'you'. But he does. Steven always notices.

#marvel #moon knight #steven grant x reader #marc spector x reader #steven grant #marc spector #this was mostly done on mobile so here's to hoping i didn't royally screw it up

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