Chapter Text
You'd first realized there was something off about Steven Grant when he didn't remember meeting you, though you'd met already and worked together multiple times.
You were new to London and working at the museum, hired on to help in the gift shop and do inventory. You were thankful to have found a job you actually liked after moving to London from the US. It was the perfect job for you, you had an interest in history, specifically Egyptian mythology and customs and you were good with customers. Your only complaint might have been Donna, who rarely did work now that you were hired and was sometimes rather rude with her observations, but she was tolerable.
Steven was quiet, brooding, when you'd met him on your first day. He was certainly an attractive man, but his dark gaze and resting murder face was a little off putting. He'd offered a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes when Donna introduced you and a firm handshake. And that had been the end of the introduction.
You worked with him three times, doing inventory late and closing up together. You'd tried to make idle conversation a few times, but he'd only hummed in answer, seeming too occupied with his duties to answer. You thought maybe he was a "get in, keep your head down, get out" kind of guy when it came to work and probably had no interest in making friends with coworkers and gave up on trying to start a friendship.
Then he'd come to work after a few days off looking frazzled, anxious, and like he hasn't slept in days. He's also ten minutes late for his shift. His normally slicked back hair was a mess of wavy curls atop his head. He frowned in confusion when he saw you behind the counter, a nervous smile coming across his face.
"Hiya... umm w-who are you?" he'd asked, clutching his bag tightly, looking at where you stood behind the counter. "That's my work station. Why are you at my work station? Has Donna moved me to a different area and not told me?"
You laughed, because of course he had to be joking.
Right?
When he continued to stare at you puzzled, your laughter died right in your throat. You pointed to your name tag, reminding him of your name. "We've worked together three times...I'm new...we met last week?" You frowned.
He blinks at that, looks around as though he can find some confirmation of that in the Egyptian decor and trinkets for sale, and runs a hand through his already messy hair. He licks his lips, mumbling something you can't quite hear, and then nods and smiles.
"Right. Right. Yeah. We met the other day, yeah? Right. Sorry," he comes around behind the counter, placing his bag underneath and fumbles to put on his name tag.
"Are you..." you pause. Should you even ask? "Are you okay, Steven?"
He nods, frantically, finally gets his name tag right and offers you a smile. "Yes," he laughs and adjusts his coat. "I-I haven't been sleeping well."
You accept that explanation and go about your daily duties, finding that something has somehow changed in the few days since you've seen him. He's not quiet or brooding, in fact it seems he can't stop talking between customers. He tells you all about his one-finned fish Gus, his mom who sends him postcards from her travels abroad, his interest in Egyptian mythology, his likes and dislikes, and more. You nod and offer your own in return, laughing at the jokes he makes, though he seems surprised every time like he doesn't realize he's actually funny, and find yourself enjoying this version of Steven Grant's company.
At the end of your shift he smiles at you and waves saying 'Laters Gators' and you realize then that you actually like Steven.
You build a rapport rather quickly, one that has you looking forward to when you are scheduled together. He remembers you mentioning the kind of coffee you like and brings you one every morning, smiling bashfully each time and saying how it was no problem at all to bring you one. You laugh and joke and find his nervous and shy nature quite charming.
Then he comes to work one day and just from that dark look in his eye, you can immediately tell he's not himself. He's the Steven you first met, the one who's quiet, with calculating eyes and just going through the motions. He doesn't have coffee for you or that bashful smile and he doesn't offer any greeting other than a curt nod. You worry briefly that you've done something wrong and given how close you have become, you think you're at a stage where you can ask.
"Hey Steven," you say leaning on the counter opposite of him.
He's fixing his name tag, making sure it is perfectly straight and aligned with shirt, while it's normally askew and sometimes upside down until you tell him. He glances up at you, then focuses on his task.
"Hi."
"Everything alright?"
He looks up again, his name tag now fixed and perfect. He pulls once on his coat firmly to rid it of wrinkles. "I'm perfectly fine."
It's then you realize his accent is gone. You frown at him.
"Okay... I uh...I watched that archaeology documentary you told me about. The one on-."
"We should really get to work," he interrupts.
Your stomach sinks and you nod. "Right. Of course. Sorry."
The shift goes by as it had when you'd first met, quiet and now tense. You can't help, but look over at him, wondering just what the hell is going on with him, waiting to see if he will snap out of it and be his normally quirky and cute self.
He doesn't.
He doesn't show up for his shift the next day either, Donna informing you that he called in sick and that you are covering for him alone.
When he does come to work the day after he's the Steven you like, the smiling one, holding a coffee and sporting a small cut on his hairline.
"Morning, got you a coffee, just the way you like it," he grins, offering it to you.
You try to hide the pure bewilderment you feel at the changes in his personality.
You smile instead and take the coffee, thanking him.
"What happened there?" You ask, pointing to the small cut.
Steven shrugs. "No idea. Just woke up with it. Must have bumped it in my sleep."
You'd learned rather quickly that Steven was quite clumsy, a walking magnet for injuries.
"Are you feeling better?" you change the subject, watching him put his name tag on, crooked and off center.
"Hmm?" he says absently, wincing when he pokes himself.
"You called in sick yesterday?"
He frowns, looking at you with an arched eyebrow, shaking his head once. "No I didn't... did I?"
"Yeah? I was here, I covered for you."
The same puzzled look comes over his face, just like the one when you'd first met. "It's Thursday, yeah?"
"Friday, actually."
His face falls and again he's looking around confused and worried. "Fr-Friday?"
You nod.
He looks frightened now, though he lets out a breathy laugh. "Are you having a laugh?"
"No...are you okay?"
He doesn't look okay.
"I-I need a minute. Sorry. I'll be back. S-Sorry."
He rushes past you, toward the back, where the employee bathrooms are and doesn't come back for ten minutes. When he does, he's laughing at the missed time off, attributing it to a lack of sleep and bumping his head, pointing to the cut. Despite his best effort to dismiss it, you can clearly see the worry in his eyes. Still you laugh too, trying to help ease his worries and offer to clean the cut for him. He reluctantly agrees.
It's within the confines of the washroom, when you're close and he's looking up at you with brown eyes that shine with nervousness (and exhaustion) and you're applying a smiley face band aid to the cut that he stutters out a proposition.
Or tries too.
"Do you...I was wondering... would you maybe-."
You already know where this is going and you're relieved he's finally found the courage to ask like you've been hoping he would. Sure he's a bit odd and that other side of him can be downright scary, but this side, the one in front of you, the one that makes you laugh and brings you coffee, you like this side a lot.
You save him the trouble of having to find the words.
"I'd love to get dinner with you, Steven. Tomorrow at 7 good?"
He breathes out a relieved sigh and nods, that smile you love brightening his face. "Yeah. Yeah that's good."
He stands you up.
You're sitting at the restaurant he'd suggested at exactly seven, waiting for him to arrive and anxiously watching the minutes pass on your watch. The waiter comes around every ten minutes for the first half hour, pity mixed into his smiling features as he offers to refill your water and asks if your friend is still coming.
You realize that Steven's forgetful, that he loses track of time, for days at a time even, but you didn't think he'd forget this.
An hour passes, an hour of you giving him the benefit of the doubt, and making excuses and subsequently eating alone.
You want to be angry, but find yourself concerned and worried most of all.
It's that worry that drives you to go to his apartment. You can hear movement inside as you stand outside the door. So he is alright.
You knock on the door. He doesn't answer.
You knock again, with more insistence this time.
He answers seconds later.
He's not the Steven you like. You know it immediately. He's also shirtless in only jeans, and bleeding from some wound on his ribs which he's holding a blood soaked gauze to with one hand. He looks at you with a furrowed brow and you know he's trying to figure out who the hell you are.
Then it dawns on him. His eyes widen a bit and he sighs heavily, his head dropping. "Shit. The date was tonight," he says looking up again. He actually looks apologetic.
"Yes, what happe-."
"He wanted to be there. He did. It's my fault," he offers in apology.
You're confused as hell. Confused and concerned because he's injured and referring to himself as if he's not Steven.
"He?" Is all you manage to get out in a confused mumble.
Steven, or not Steven?, nods. "He'll make it up to you. I'll make sure of it. He really does like you. Goodnight."
The door is closing rapidly in your face. A hand and a foot stopped it. Your hand and foot. Steven, or whoever the hell was wearing Stevens face, blinked in surprise. You push against the door until it opens all the way, knowing it's only because he allows you to, and step into the apartment.
"What the hell is going on? You do not get to just shut the door in my face and act like this entire situation isn't weird. Why are you acting like YOU aren't Steven?" You demand stepping further in and forcing him to step backward. "And why are you bleeding?"
To your surprise he smirks, chuckling softly to himself and points to the door. "Shut that will you."
You look between him and the open door, flustered and now irritated, but do as he asks turning to find him easing down in a seat at a work table where medical supplies and bloody gauze are strewn about. You see him pull a gun from the back of his jeans and set it on the table which makes your eyes widen. He pulls the bloody gauze away from his ribs, revealing a cut that's still weeping.
"Oh my god, Steven what happened to you?"
"Marc," he grunts, putting a clean piece of gauze against the wound. Red blooms across the material immediately.
"What?"
He speaks through clenched teeth, applying pressure to the wound. "Marc. My name...is Marc."
You can't begin to process that because your concern for him is outweighing the confusion. Instead of questioning him you stalk over to offer the help he clearly needs. You weren't that experienced when it came to medical concerns, but you knew how to clean a wound and bandage it. You knelt beside him, swatting his hand away and see the smirk return to his face. He doesn't fight you as you pull away the gauze. It's a clean cut, and isn't superficial, he probably needs stitches, but you get the feeling he isn't up for a hospital visit, whoever this 'Marc' guy is.
"Should I even ask how you got this?" you ask looking up at him with an arched eyebrow, picking up the alcohol and twisting off the cap.
"It's probably best if you don- FUCKING HELL WOMAN!" He recoils as you put an alcohol soaked gauze against the wound.
You put clean gauze on the wound again and apply pressure to stop the bleeding, ignoring his winces and curses.
"Be. Still." You order firmly with a pointed look.
Marc does as he's told, sitting tensely, but still in the chair and looking down at you with a mix of admiration and irritation. It's then you notice what Steven- Marc- has been hiding beneath his loose t-shirts and jackets. He's all lean, firm muscle. His torso has a litany of scars some small and some quite large and you look up at him with a questioning eyebrow. The look he returns says 'don't ask'.
He's quiet for the time that it takes you to stop the bleeding, use the medical grade skin glue he has (and you do not want to know how or why he has it) and bandage the wound with clean gauze and tape. When you finish up, the irritation is gone from his face and only the admiration remains. He's impressed.
You toss the waste in the garbage and straighten, looking around until you notice the bathroom and go to wash your hands.
You take in the many bookshelves he has, scattered stacks of books, the cramped but cozy feel of his studio, the large fish tank with the single one finned goldfish inside, the taped up postcards that surround it and finally his unmade bed. His bed with a ring of sand around it. A ring of sand with a footprint in it.
Just when you think this situation can't get any weirder...
Marc has cleaned up the medical supplies when you return, all the items are out of sight and only the gun remains on the table. He's pulling hidden liquor from a hole in the wall, a hole that you assume is usually hidden by the hanging piece of wood beside it.
What the...
He grabs two glasses from the kitchenette and pours the dark liquid into both. "Least I can do is offer you a drink."
"Is this some kind of...weird twin thing?" you question crossing your arms.
Marc huffs a laugh and offers you a glass. "Excuse me?"
"You're his twin brother right? You live together and swap lives or something for fun? I assume you're a...policeman?" You glance at the gun. His eyes follow, his grin returns. He takes the gun and hides it in the hole, the same one he pulled the liquor from. He puts the liquor back as well and covers the hole with the wood. You continue your questioning. "Is that what this is? Where is Steven?"
You've got it all figured out you think. It's the only explanation. They're identical twins, Steven the mild mannered quirky gift shop worker, and Marc the... dangerous daring cop?
He takes a long drink until the glass is empty and he's setting it on the table. He shakes his head. "That's not what this is."
Against your better judgment you follow his actions, downing the contents of the glass and setting it down just as he did, fighting the gag that wells in your throat as the strong alcohol burns down your throat.
"Then explain to me what is going on, Not Steven."
Marc doesn't answer, only stares at you with an unnerving intensity that makes you want to squirm. It gives you plenty of time to take in all those differences from Steven that you've been noticing since you'd first met him. The way that he has a quiet intensity, the darkness that's in his eyes. He even holds himself different from Steven, his back straight, his shoulders squared where Steven slightly slouches. He's sure of himself and his presence is domineering.
You realize rather suddenly that where you find Steven adorable and cute, you find Marc handsome and sexy.
That's a problem.
"I can see why he likes you," Marc says, his eyes travel slowly down your body in appraisal. When he looks into your eyes again there's something there that wasn't seconds ago. Something thrilling and terrifying all at once. He steps closer to you and you feel something rush through you, heat .
You swallow and shift your stance. Marc notices, one eyebrow arching.
"Are you going to explain to me what the hell is-?"
He clears the space between you in two long strides, brings your body to his by taking hold of your hips and finds your lips with his. You're too stunned to do anything other than kiss back. You'd imagined how your first kiss with Steven might go, a kiss that was sweet, tender and shy, probably a little clumsy. This kiss was nothing like that, there was nothing clumsy about it, it was a kiss filled with fire and passion that had you breathless and wet and clinging to him with a surprising desperation.
You don't know you're moving until you're suddenly on the table after he's picked you up like you weighed nothing and sat your body on it. His mouth is on your throat now, kissing and licking and sucking a mark into your skin. You struggle for your brain to catch up with your frantic body, all the questions and confusion having slipped away to be replaced with pure unbridled lust. You arch into his touch and let your head fall back to grant him further access to your throat, instead of wondering if sleeping with Stevens not twin brother is a good idea.
"Is this what you came here for?" He asks huskily between open mouth kisses along your throat. "Is this what you wanted him to do to you?" His hand is abruptly between your legs, you can feel the heat and heaviness even with your tights and panties creating a barrier. "Is this what you want?"
You're ashamed of the way the questions thrill you. You couldn't imagine Steven taking control like this or being so firm with you. It's not what you came for, you had come out of concern for Steven , but you can't find any part of yourself that wants to stop him or the feelings rolling through you.
His hand finds your hair, his fingers twirling through the strands at the root to firmly grasp and hold your head in place to look into your eyes. "Answer me."
You're frozen by the intensity of his gaze. You can barely get the words out. "Yes, Marc, I want it."
He smiles at that and claims your mouth again, his tongue moves with precision, dominating and dancing with yours until he's had his fill and he's pulling back just a breath to look into your eyes again and share air. His eyes have somehow gone darker, pupils wide with lust and his nose grazes yours.
"I bet you taste good," he breathes into your lips.
You whimper in answer.
He grabs the skirt of your dress by the handful, pushing the material out of the way as he sinks to his knees and spreads your thighs to fit his shoulders. You brace yourself on your hands, struggling to catch your breath and control the arousal rolling through you. You wait for him to pull your tights off your legs, ready to lift your hips to assist, but gasp when he grabs the material at your crotch and rips through it as easily as wet paper.
You're too shocked to be angry, too fascinated to protest. He lets out a breathy sigh and leans in, mouthing and licking along your panties sending shockwaves throughout your body. It's too much and not enough all at once, you crave skin to skin contact, though even through the barrier the pleasure is overwhelming. There's the sound of ripping material and a harsh tug, that's just the right side of painful, against your skin and then you can feel the entirety of his tongue slipping inside of you.
"Oh my go-." Your exclamation is cut off by your own moan when his hands cup your ass and yank you closer so that he can close his mouth over everything.
He's like a man starved, licking and sucking and digging his fingers into your hips, pleased moans rumbling from his throat enhancing the sensations. His tongue seeks out your clit, laving and swirling over it before sucking, a combination that has you panting and moaning. He repeats this combo while you grip the table for dear life, dancing along the edge of orgasm, your toes curling and eyes rolling. You spread your legs wider, willing him closer though you know it's impossible and Marc groans.
"Yes, open up for me," he growls, going back to the task with renewed enthusiasm.
It's that command and enthusiasm that has you unraveling at the next swipe of his tongue, your body shattering into a million pleasurable pieces. Your brain short circuits and for several blissful pleasure filled seconds the world goes dark and you're floating, until you come back to yourself and realize he hasn't stopped. He's not stopping.
He slips two fingers into you with ease, pushing and pulling in time with his steady combo of licking and sucking at your sensitive clit. Your hand finds its way to his hair to anchor yourself, fingers taking a firm hold of his curls, unsure if you want to push him away or bring him closer. The orgasm sneaks up on you this time, unlike the slow build of the first, rushing you fast and hard, striking every cell in your body, sending your back into an arch, making your muscles go taut.
Marc gives you no time to recover, rising back to his feet, pulling you back into a deep kiss, sharing your taste with you. He lifts you at the waist, your arms and legs wrapping around him instinctively letting him carry you to his bed. The bed with the ring of sand around it.
Not Steven is crawling over you, that hungry look still in his eye and for a moment you're seized by panic. You still have no idea who this guy really is or any understanding of the situation at all. He could be a serial killer for all you know. (A serial killer who is amazing at going down on women, but that is besides the point). And you had come here to find Steven, not this-.
He cuts your rampant thoughts off with a kiss, settling himself between your legs, kissing the breath right out of you. He's grinding his hips into yours, allowing you to feel just how much he wants this too. You tremble with nerves and impatience, letting your hands roam over the muscular expanse of his back and into his curls.
"God, Marc," you moan when he latches onto your throat again, kissing eagerly.
"You still want this?" he breathes into your throat, teeth teasing, accenting the question with a well timed thrust of his hips.
You're too involved in the movements, the pleasure and anticipation that you forget to answer and turn your head to steal a kiss. He obliges you for a moment, your thighs tightening around him, grinding up into his seeking hips. And then he's withdrawing leaving you wanting.
He says your name forcing you to open your eyes and look into his, seeing how he's hovered over you. "I asked you a question."
You blink. Had he?
"Consent, I want to know that you consent," he elaborates.
You nod in answer, watching him sit back and pull at your dress until you sit up and allow him to take it off, starting to push your ripped tights down your legs and kicking them off.
"Words, Sweetheart. I need words," he says, tossing your dress over his shoulder and leaning over the side of the bed, when he straightens, he's holding a gold foiled condom. One he's retrieved from under the bed apparently.
He's pushing his jeans down his own hips while he waits for your verbal consent, but you're too distracted by what he's revealing to form words. He's larger than anything you've seen or had before and that panic you'd pushed away is suddenly back. He rips open the condom with his teeth and rolls it on smoothly, then pauses, looking at you with an arched eyebrow. Still waiting.
You force your lip from between your teeth and finally answer. Though you think by now it should be obvious. "I consent."
That's all he needs, before he's pushing you onto your back, resettling between your thighs and pulling your leg up against his side. With one thrust of his hips he's in you, fitting perfectly, like he's coming home. You moan in unison and then he's moving, movements sure, deliberate, purposeful, experienced. He's surrounding you, making you feel almost caged in, cheek to cheek, one hand digging his fingers into your thigh, the in your hair. You're so full, the stretch and drag, the feel of his flesh on yours igniting a fire in your belly. You struggle to maintain a steady breath and heart rate.
You're already close in what seems no time at all, and he feels it. He sits on his haunches, holding your thighs open so you're trapped and can do nothing but take it. He quickly finds your spot and zeroes in on it, thrusting at it repeatedly pushing you until you're coming again, shivering and moaning out his praises and curses.
"That's it," he says with a borderline arrogant confidence while you're trying to come back into your own body, to regain your senses. "Give me more."
He's relentless now that he's figured it out, that he's found that spot. One hand lands heavily onto your stomach, sliding upwards leaving a trail of fire, stopping at your throat where he hesitates. Theres a silent question in his eyes, the arch of an eyebrow, his lips parting. You nod in answer, grabbing his wrist and pressing it against you, just enough to show him what you want, feeling his fingers flex and apply pressure to make your breath catch. It doesn't steal all your breath just lets your brain fog, let's the pleasure to spike. You eagerly try to match his rhythm, craving another, wanting to give him more just as he asked. It takes you a moment, but you find his rhythm, rolling your hips up to meet his thrusts each time, which pulls a heated moan from his throat. His eyes flutter closed and he groans deeply when you're moving in sync, and you're sure you've never been this turned on in your life.
His other hand moves down your thigh, stopping where you meet to circle your clit in time with your movement and a blinding flash of pleasure causes your rhythm to falter. You fall out of sync, gripping the sheets beneath you.
"Marc...Marc.." You pant. "I-Fuck."
"I know," he grunts back, doubling his efforts. "Come with me."
He leans in, surrounding you again, his lips are on yours again, muffling the sounds echoing from your throat. His smooth rhythm is starting to stutter and he pulls away from your kiss to curse low and gravelly, when your walls start to do a frantic combo of clench and flutter as your orgasm washes over you. He follows after you, thrusting hard and deep one last time before succumbing to his own release. He collapses on top of you, breathing heavily into the crook of your neck, your hearts beating rapidly at each other.
Your mind swims from the afterglow and no doubt the alcohol and you tell yourself you'll give him five minutes to recover and then he will explain himself.
Yeah. Five minutes.
You wake up the next morning because Marc is sitting up in bed behind you, screaming and shouting "NO!". You move to sit up, startling him further, his head whipping around to see you. He screams again, throwing himself from the bed, nearly colliding with the wooden pillar nearby. He realizes he's naked and covers himself with his hands where he had no shame last night, reaching over to snatch the pillow he'd been laying on and use it as a shield.
It only takes one look at him, frantic, confused and flustered on the floor with sunken eyes, for you to realize you've woken up next to Steven.
Not Marc.
It becomes frighteningly clear what is going on.
Sure you've heard of the disorder, had seen it portrayed in movies and shows, and even read about it in your psychology class. But this...this was real.
You sit up slowly, clutching the sheet to your naked chest, trying to keep the realization from your face.
"Are you okay?" you ask softly.
Steven's eyes are darting all around, brow furrowed, no doubt trying to remember the events that would lead to you being naked in his bed with him.
"We...we had our date?" he asks, looking at the clothes, yours and his strewn across the floor.
You can only nod, because you realize then that he truly doesn't know .
The missed time. The confusion. The injuries.
He doesn't know that there's another man inside of him.
Marc.
That he and Marc are two sides of the same coin.
And you aren't sure what to do with that information.
"Yeah...Right... I... we... must have had a bit to drink at our date?" He laughs. His brow is still furrowed, still trying to pick up the pieces and put them together.
"Yeah, a bit..." It's not technically a lie.
You won't be the one to tell him. You wouldn't even know where to begin.
"I-I don't normally drink," he admits.
That explained the hidden liquor.
"You mentioned that," you lied, hoping it might somehow make him feel better.
Steven gets to his feet slowly, eyes on you, as if he is trying not to startle you and he rejoins you in the bed, covering himself with the sheet. He's all nerves and anxiety. The usual Steven. The one you find adorable and cute. The one you like.
"Was it... was I-... I was good to you, yeah?" He asks, looking down at your body and back up to your eyes. "It's been quite a bit of time since I've..." he trails off laughing nervously again.
The pity you feel for him is shocking. The guilt at what you did with Marc following right after it. You push both feelings back down within yourself and instead lean in to him, he tenses in surprise, eyes widening but doesn't recoil. You kiss him softly, that sweet tender kiss that you'd pictured. He practically melts the moment you touch him, body relaxing and his lips parting eagerly. You deepen the kiss for him, all the control in your hands unlike your experience with Marc. When you pull away he's panting again and visibly aroused.
"You were really good to me," you assure, caressing his cheek.
You know that he would have been. That he would have been sweet and gentle.
He looks relieved, smiling and nodding. "Yeah... yeah right..."
You surprise him by straddling him, his eyes scanning your naked flesh in long sweeps. He's trembling as you take his hands that have remained flat at his side respectfully and put them on your hips. He swallows audibly.
You want to give him the experience he should have had, after the date you should have had.
"Will you let me be good to you, Steven?" You ask, putting your hands on his chest to lean in again.
He blinks up at you, licking his lips and nodding. "Y-Yeah."
You kiss him again, tongue licking into his mouth to taste him and he moans heatedly. You feel him relax again, eyes fluttering closed and surrendering control to you.