⟠Summary: As a transwoman early in her transition, nothing is more terrifying to Victoire than starting a new job. Particularly, a new job somewhere as prestigious as the London National Art Gallery. Enter: Steven Grant of the Gift Shop.
⟠Warnings/Tags: Steven Grant x Original Female Character, Marc Spector x Original Female Character, Trans Female Character, fluff, mentions of transphobia and transphobic microaggressions, post-Moon Knight (2022)
Happy Pride Month!
â.Ë âŸâ.Ë
Victoire stepped over the entrance with a lump in her throat and her staff keycard clutched to her chest like a lifeline. Sheâd surreptitiously flashed the card at a member of security, hoping heâd take the hint â tell her where she was meant to be going for a start â but he breezed right over her, leaving her feeling like a right boob. At least she could still appreciate small victories.
Another minute or so of free roaming, and she finally caught a face she recognised: the woman from the interview, the woman whoâd introduced herself with a long list of titles. What was her name? Diane? Denise? She might as well have been named Jesus Christ, because Victoire made for her with relief singing in her heart. They were already charging towards one another, the woman scanning the hall through eyes unseeing.
She parted her lips to say something when, âHi, Victoire!â the woman said. Her gaze slid right over her; her voice missed the mark of any emotion. She steamrolled on, even brushing Victoireâs side as she went.
And Victoire stopped in her tracks. Hi? she repeated to herself. You what now?
It was only when a buggy tried to squeeze past that she recollected her surroundings. Did everyone around here just assume someone else was dealing with everything? âManagerâ, her arse. Murmuring an apology, she took chase, tracking the womanâs tawny blonde hair amidst the surge of visitors. Fortunately for her, the womanâs arm-pumping didnât seem to translate into speed, and so it didnât take long for her to catch up.
âHi, excuse me?â Victoire said.
The woman turned, looking at her like sheâd just caught her mid-bite into a sandwich. âYou alright?â
âSorry, yeah. I⊠Iâve just got here, and Iâm not really sure where I should be going.â She added a polite laugh, which the woman didnât reciprocate.
âStevie not in the shop?â
Resisting the urge to snap, âIâve literally just got here, babe. I donât have a clue who that is,â Victoire directed her smile into something self-deprecating. âOoh. I donât really know to be honest.â
âRight. Come with me.â
And she was off. Miraculously, the woman seemed to have figured out how to generate speed as she marched for the Egyptian exhibition. Victoire couldnât even feel annoyed, despite the fact she was trailing her like a lost dog. At least someone was actually bloody helping her. As they sped in silence, she thought about making a joke to get the woman on her side, but she got the distinct impression that she wasnât on anyoneâs.
As soon as they stepped into the gift shop, âStevie!â the woman barked.
Victoire jumped, as did the assembly of visitors being served, but the woman didnât seem to notice.
The dark-haired man at the till was trying his damndest to not look at her as, bagging up a girlâs items, âYes, Donna?â he said. He stretched out the words like a yawn. She would have smiled had her heart not been doing 160. He proffered one of his own as he handed over the bag, before dragging his gaze to his boss. And Victoire.
âRemember that little chat we had, yeah?â Donna glanced between the pairing. She had an odd look on her face, eyes widening, although to convey God knows what she could only guess. Â
âHiya,â Stevie said, which Victoire echoed.
âAlright.â Donna returned her attention, if you could call it that, to her. âStevieâll run you through bootcamp. Donât worry about asking too many questions. Loves a natter, this one.â Â
He made a small, âHmph,â accompanied by a close-lipped smile.
âIâll pop by see how youâre getting on. Ta-ra.â Â
As soon as Donna made herself scarce, Stevieâs listless expression evaporated, the clouds behind his eyes clearing. A customer had been patiently waiting to be served, and Stevie turned to Victoire. âIâm just gonna serve this person. Iâll be with you in two secs?â
âNo rush.â It was probably the most honest thing sheâd said in the last five minutes. She stepped back to take a breather and quickly found herself pivoting to absorb the contents of the shop floor.
Toys, teddies, cards, posters, jewellery, plastic artefacts⊠It was pretty standard stuff, really. She recognised a couple of faces, like Tutankhamun, and several gods and goddesses, although, if she was being completely honest, she hadnât the foggiest who most of them were â that was, beyond a lesson or two in primary school. She trailed a finger a centimetre from the bookshelf as she scanned the titles, not really reading. She turned to perusing the mugs, musing when she could cash in her staff discount. Sure, it was all tat. But she could appreciate good tat. For example, when she landed on a mug embellished with a mummy, a mummy with what looked like a parrot for a head, the pressure in her chest begun to unravel.
At last, Stevie waved his customer off with a âSee ya!â and smiled up at Victoire before coming around to her side. âSee anything you like?â he asked.
She nudged the parrot-mummy mug. âI like him.â
Stevie didnât respond, not even release a sound, and she glanced back at him. Only for him to be studying her with an all too familiar measure of curiosity and uncertainty. âWhâWhyâs that then?â
Warmth flushed into her cheeks. âI dunno. He just looks weird.â
âHeâs a member of the Ennead. The supergroup of Egyptian gods,â Stevie said slowly. âHis nameâs Khonshu, which means traveller. Heâs god of the moon, like the way the moon travels across the night sky.â
She tried her best to keep her voice level, like she hadnât noticed his shifting expression. âReally? No wonder I was drawn to him. I absolutely love the night. The quiet⊠When you get a nice, cool breeze⊠So youâre like an expert then?â
âWell, not an expert.â And just as it had on Donnaâs disappearance, whatever weighed on his brow lifted. âI like reading, thatâs all. I know the meanings of most hieroglyphics and whatnot, but a memory like a sieve, me. I wanted to ask, sorry, whatâs your name? Donna did tell me.â
âNah, no worries. Victoire,â she said, and it felt like handing over a piece of her soul. Someday, sheâd get used to that feeling. Â
âVictoire?â he repeated with a grin. âParlez-vous français?â
âErr⊠Je m'appelle Victoire?â
He chuckled. âJe m'appelle Steven.â
Now, it was her turn to repeat his name back at him.
âYep, I know, I know. Doesnât matter how many times I tell Donna. Itâll never bloody stick. Unbelievable, innit? Itâs like you tell âem one thing, then they hear a complete other.â
âYouâre telling me,â she said. Her heart took a nosedive. Being visibly trans was one thing, but addressing it? Even skirting the topic in public felt like stepping onto a minefield. Pulse pounding at the base of her throat, she scooped her hair over her shoulder.
But Steven hadnât seemed to notice.
âThe ancient Egyptians wouldnât be very happy. Like, in the Pyramid Texts, yeah? They really hammered in the value of names. They saw naming as kind of like creation, maintaining cosmic balance through expressing the personâs true nature. Super important. Without an adequate name, you couldnât even ensure your soulâs continued existence in the afterlife. So, to erase or obscure a personâs name was seen as, like, erasing their existence itself.â
By the time heâd finished his ramble, Victoireâs nervous system didnât know what was left from right â from dropping to her arse, her heart soared with gratitude. And he was smiling back, albeit at a slightly lower, more confused wattage. Either he wasnât used to people hearing him out, or he hadnât anticipated how much his words would mean to her.
Before she could respond, however, a woman rung the bell on the till, and Steven said, âShould I talk you through the checkout?âÂ
Thankfully, the woman turned out to be considerate even when Victoire cocked up the buttons. Steven turned out to be a great teacher, too. Every time he explained something, heâd run it back to ensure sheâd gotten the full grasp. If he thought any of her questions were obvious, he didnât show it. Typically, asking questions meant inviting scrutiny, a sensation sheâd grown to shelter herself from.
Whilst the pair walked circles around one another to tidy the shelves, sheâd sneak glances at the hollow circles beneath his eyes, the slackening of his features whenever he lost himself to the task. But when she asked a question, those eyes â a golden brown â would brighten like the sands set ablaze; his gaze washed over her, unapologetic, unreserved.
She suddenly wanted to know everything, if only he was willing to speak the words.
After a couple of hours, Donna resurfaced.
âAlright, you two rascals?â she said. Once again, her appearance had the impact of scattering any customers in a 5-metre radius. âTraining going well?â
Steven turned from plushing up the hippo teddies.
âYeah, great. Sheâs doing great.â
âLovely. Hey, I knew you twoâd get along. I said so, didnât I?â she said, looking between the pair. When her gaze landed on Victoire, she had to force herself to smile.
Her professional dickhead of a brother would say Victoire was as paranoid as she was woke. And yet, her ears couldnât help but prickle at the needle buried beneath Donnaâs pleasantries. People like her brother would never understand that feeling, but based on Stevenâs answers leaving something to be desired, she knew heâd sensed it too.
Around mid-day, the shop floor went chocker. Children flew here, there and everywhere; her and Stevenâs tidying went completely out the window. To make matters worse, a queue wound around the chaos: the second she served someone, two more joined the end. Steven kept raising his head in silent question, and she nodded her composure. Sheâd worked a few retail gigs in her day, so she sunk into the familiar mindset of âget shit doneâ. A welcome one at that: everything else retreated into obscurity. That was, until the next in line hadnât realised Victoire was open, and before she could open her mouthâ
âFor Godâs sake. Oi, go to that guy! Him on the end!â
âa man shouted.
She blinked down at the till. When the woman shuffled towards her, cradling a smiling hippo, she swallowed. And offered her best greeting. It felt like affixing her cheeks with washing pegs. She scarcely registered her words as own, not over the pounding of her brotherâs voice in both ears:
What do you expect?
âSheâs my favourite, she is,â another voice interjected.
Steven, still scanning his customerâs items whilst he made a show of ignoring the loudmouthed offender, leant towards her side of the till. Â
âShe is adorable,â the woman said.
âDo you know much about her? Taweret?â
âSheâs related to women and childbirth, is that right?â Â
âCorrect! Hippos were thought of as these big, dangerous creatures. But not females. Females are fiercely protective of their young,â Steven said, nodding, and those warm sands sifted over her. Before they returned to his customer, and turned scalding. âTaweret embodies protection of all women alike.â
The rest of rush-hour ran right through her fingers.
Victoire leant against the counter, staring at the floor, whilst Steven served their final customer.
âPhew! Pooped!â Steven said, mopping his brow. âYou alright?â Â
âYeah. Itâs just⊠a lot.â Â
âOh, I know. Sometimes I need a little something to take the edge off.â He shifted aside to indicate behind him. âLook at these bad boys. Tutankhamun wands. Unfortunately, the bubbles arenât Tut-shapedââ
âTit-shaped?â
Affronted, his limbs deflated. âI said Tut!â
Victoire rocked back with a laugh, and, trying to be as casual as possible like she was wiping away sleep, dragged a thumb under her eyes. âNo, no! Say no more. You keep your bubble-blowing to yourself.â
âOh for heavensâŠâ He feigned annoyance, but he couldnât deny his sneaking grin. âYouâre a right prick, you are.â A moment later, she saw the exact moment a lightbulb pinged inside his brain. âDo you mind me asking you a quick question?â
Sobering, âYeah?â she said.
âI just wanted to check, sorry if Iâm putting you on the spot, but when Donna finally bothers to make you a nametag, I could ask if sheâd add a little âshe/herâ. Only if you want! I donât know how youâd feel about it. I canât guarantee peopleâd notice.â Gesturing to his own, âEvidently, most people canât be arsed to read it anyway,â he said with a laugh. âBut it might be an idea?â
âNo, yeah, thatâd actually be really good.â
Their conversation soon became swept up in the next tide of customers. Except, this time, when the queue came to an abrupt stop, before anyone could raise their voice, âGo to her on the left please!â Steven called. âThank you!â
And at that exact moment, Victoire decided maybe this job wouldnât be so shit after all. She carried this feeling in her pocket, like a beam of sunlight, for the rest of the day, even when the sky had all but darkened. It was at closing that Steven said,
âIt was really lovely meeting you, Victoire. I hope today didnât inspire you to leg it too much.â
The opposite, actually. But she couldnât say why. Sure, sheâd only been here for a couple of hours, but already she envisioned the limited players sheâd met, and her piece shifting toward Stevenâs side of the board.
âNot at all. Thanks for showing me everything. You know, youâre a brilliant teacher. Youâre soâŠâ Enthusiastic. Kind. Funny. âYouâre so knowledgeable. Have you never wanted to go into being a tour guide, or something like that?â
He didnât respond straight away. âI canât lie, Iâve thought about it a tonne.â Something different edged his voice. Looking between his shoes, âBut Iâm not great at commitment,â he said. Â
âOh.â What was there to say to that? She tugged the strap of her purse. âThatâs a shame.â
âI really enjoyed working with you. Iâd better jog on, âcase I miss my bus, but Iâll see you another day!â
Without leaving time for a response, heâd already begun to make his way, and jumping to be heard, âYou too!â she called, but his farewell stirred within her an unprecedented ripple  of unease. âAnother dayâ, and not tomorrow? Before dread could pool into her stomach completely, she offered herself a reminder.
If tomorrow meant more shitiness, at least it meant a day closer to spending time with Steven.
And for that, she could endure whatever the world threw at her.
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