Writing Wednesday May 18, 2022 (Patreon)

Date: May 18, 2022

What did I work on? A one-shot based on my Marvel OC fitting into the Moon Knight part of the MCU universe

How much time was allotted: Initially was going to give 10 mins it turned into like 48 XD oops hope I am not tired at work Thursday!

Thoughts and Feelings: hell yeah!

Word count (if known): 1202

What was written: (not a completed "scene" persay but this is as far as I allowed myself to go before admitting I needed to get to bed)

Steven Grant worked at the British Museum -which is where I met him.

His mild-mannered enthusiasm as I picked out a trinket from the gift shop caught my attention almost immediately. Normally, I feel a bit impatient with people who I logically know are only doing their jobs when they interrupt my browsing or shopping time but in this particular instance his comment of interruption was not “finding everything okay?” or one of the other standard retail greetings. It was a piece of trivia: “That pen sarcophagus isn’t entirely accurate, actually.”

I looked up from the pen I’d chosen that was housed in a small box shaped like an Egyptian burial casket and raised my eyebrows. “Oh?”

“All those symbols they’ve got there -the hieroglyphics- equate to gibberish. The real sarcophagus didn’t have those. And the colouring is wrong too.”

I couldn’t help my small smile at his nerdy outburst that he looked a bit shy to have made once all was said out loud. “So, what you’re saying is my pen is being buried in a fake tomb? Er- I mean the wrong sort of… Basically I’m buying a knock-off?” I managed to conclude, feeling foolish for fumbling over my words. I had wanted to be funny and light-hearted but it had been so long since I’d been any of those things with total strangers.

“Yeah, and I hate to have ta tell ya this but…the pen is a knock-off as well. Sorry.”

I feigned disbelief despite my grin growing wider. I lowered my voice to a stage-whisper, “You mean to tell me they didn’t use these in ancient times!?”

He let out a soft, silent laugh at our banter and I continued, feeling more confident now that I felt successful at making conversation with another human being, “So it really is true that The British Museum is completely untrustworthy! Knock-offs! I should have guessed! And, let me guess the Roman tiles I saw upstairs are purchased from Home Depot and caked in mud and clay from Michaels crafts…”

He looked minorly confused but then I filled him in, “Ah, hardware store and craft store back in North America,” and his face lit up a little then he laughed at my joke.

“I’m afraid I wouldn’t know. I work down ’ere and besides I like the Egyptian history best. Don’t know much else about the upstairs galleries.”

“Ah,” I responded, sympathetic, and gave a nod.

There was a beat of semi-awkward silence as I saw this had cut down our conversation flow and we were both struggling to figure out what to say next. I broke the silence,

“So is it even worth it to spend the seven pounds on this?” I held up the now closed Egyptian not-so-accurate replica pen case.

“Oh the pen writes lovely but if you’re going for some’in’ authentic then I’m afraid not.”

I gave a warm smile at his honesty and the comforting feeling his accent brought me. He didn’t sound posh and uptight. He sounded like a down-to-earth Londoner. One who seemed kind and trustworthy.

“Well then I’ll spend the seven pounds. I love a good pen and the inside joke of having this awful interpretation of an Egyptian artifact will give me small pleasures every time I open it to get the pen,” I told him. “Do you make commission on this?”

He raised his eyebrows and rushed to assure me, “Oh, no, no, no. Not a’tall. S-Sorry. Actually my manager sometimes says I should be paid less coz I can’t keep my bloomin’ mouth shut and I keep scaring off customers and sales,” he admitted. “You’re not being paid to bother them, Steven. I don’t pay you to talk I pay you to take their money and keep your mouth shut while you do it,” he mimed then grimaced that he’d just done that in front of a customer.

It was my turn to assure him. “I worked retail once upon a time. I know how you feel. Same drill, same awful situation. But don’t worry, I’m going to put in a good word about you out there in the comment box. Say how helpful you were, say how much I decided to buy because I felt so comfortable in here and so inspired by the relics of history!”

“Aw you don’t have ta do that,” he dismissed.

“Oh I want to. Steven, is it? I would be delighted to. Besides, I’m not lying. You have been helpful and you have inspired me. And, I am going to spend a minimum of seven pounds here this afternoon.”

We both smiled and he moved to the till to allow me to pay. “Thanks again, Steven. It’s been a pleasure to meet you. I’m Brittany. Brittany Ro- Brittany Marie,” I stammered, slipping up and almost giving him my full real name. I had been so swept away in the warmth and naturalness of our conversation that I’d forgotten I was supposed to be using an alias right now -considering I was a wanted fugitive. A wanted international fugitive.

“Pleasure to meet you, I’m Steven.” He paused then squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head with embarrassment, “You knew that. I’m Steven Grant,” he amended in attempts to save the awkward response no doubt.

But I snapped my head up. “S-Sorry did you say Steven…Grant?” Was he sincere? Did he recognize me? Surely, he was meaning to get my attention. Shit, I’d screwed up really bad. G’dangit.

“Yeah, Steven Grant,” he stated holding out a hand then withdrawing it when I didn’t shake it. He looked uncomfortable.

“Do you… You’re being honest?” I asked quietly.

“Y-Yeah. W-Why?” He had a look of dread on his face. “Did I do something to somebody you know? Did I… Eh, never mind. I just… Why’re you looking at me like that?” I didn’t know it at the time, but Steven had problems with sleepwalking where he’d wake up and find out he’d been out doing things he couldn’t remember doing.

“It’s just… I know someone with that name,” I began slowly, not offering up that it was my husband with that name, “Well, I’ve heard of someone with that name,” I amended in attempts to distance myself further, “someone from North America.”

“Oh really? That’s bonkers, innit?” He looked genuinely amused and surprised.

“Oh so you’ve not heard of Captain America?”

“Eh, yeah I have. Rogers though, innit?”

“Steven Grant Rogers,” I replied without thinking I was still keeping too close to all this.

“You’ve gotta be jokin’? Honestly?”

“Y-Yeah. I read it at the museum in D.C. a few years ago. Dunno why the full name stuck with me -I guess I was just surprised that he was born “Steven” not “Steve” as most people quote him as,” I lied plausibly.

The Steven Grant in front of me looked genuinely interested and not at all like he’d already known any of this. Either, he was genuinely playing his part well or, as I wanted to believe most, he actually had no idea and had indeed not recognized me whatsoever.

“Wot a mad world,” he muttered, shaking his head with what appeared to be genuine disbelief.