Chapter Text
For years, Marc has gone through life refusing to make any connections. He cut contact with his immediate and extended family at seventeen, he ghosted all his old military companions, he kept all his work acquaintances at arm's length. Khonshu, for all his never-ending demands for vengeance and vituperative attack, had been the only consistent figure since his old C.O.
Well, that and Frenchie, although why Frenchie still insists on their friendship is beyond him.
But Layla’s different. His thoughts–normally those of neverending torment–are now blissful wishes of what could be. Warmth and security. Marc dreams of quiet afternoons with her resting her head on his lap, of cooking her favorite meals, of going on missions and working together. The thought that he’ll never be enough for her still lingers in his head, but he wants to try.
Once the two finish their bottle of champagne, Marc calls a cab to drive them home. When they reach Layla’s flat, Marc offers to walk her up to her door, her arms wrapped around his. Blush spread across her cheeks and the tip of her nose. Marc notices how she shivers ever so slightly as the cold blows through them.
“Are you cold?” Marc asks.
“I’m Egyptian,” she jokes.
“Haven’t you lived here since college?”
“Shut up, I’m a sensitive creature,” she scrunches her nose as they reach her front door. “Do you… want to come inside?”
“I ah– I’d like to but… don’t want to mess this up,” he says. “Tonight was the first time I’ve celebrated my birthday since I was a kid. It was wonderful, thank you for planning it.” Sliding his hands up, holding onto her arms, touching his forehead against hers.
“Of course.” She smiles and his heart speeds up. “You’ll call me.”
“Yeah.” He plants a kiss on the head before breaking away. The taste of raspberries still lingering on his lips.
That night he dreams of the universe.
He’s floating; he can see earth on one side, the moon on the other, and a shuttle just above. Every direction is littered with stars and plants, and the scent of berries fill his senses.
‘Are you in love?’ his partner asks over the radio.
‘I think so,’ he replies into the microphone.
‘What is love?’ the other voice asks.
‘I… don’t know,’ Marc says earnestly.
‘That’s ok, as long as you’re happy… We’ll figure it out,’ he hears, looking up towards his shuttle.
Marc bolts up from his bed before sunrise, invigorated with devotion. But before anything, Marc needs to prove to Layla, to himself, that he is worthy.
He’s going to find the Golden Scarab.
He opens up his work laptop, the one he stole from his time working under —----. Clicking on the secure browser, passing through all the required encryptions, he types out a message to one of his information guys, asking if he knew anyone who specialized in historical artifacts or if has any information about the Golden Scarab. Too jittery to wait for a reply, Marc figures he can do some of his own research in the meantime.
So Marc starts his search in the same place everyone does; Wikipedia. Maliciously reading each section for any grain of useful information, following down the trail of related articles, books, and researchers.
Click. Between 1896 and 1907, archaeologists discovered… Click. Part of the private collection… Click. A safe room had been built for it in 1924… Click. temporarily loaned to the Penn Museum… Click. disappeared in 1942…
The next couple of days pass in a blur, countless hours of research only interrupted by protein bars and coffee breaks and the occasional jogs around the neighborhood. He even takes a brief break to take his frustration out on a punching bag when his informant finally messaged him back, telling him it’s a lost cause.
All the related links turned purple, and the pile of books grew smaller, but Marc was no closer to finding a lead to where the scarab could be.
‘What are you even looking for?’ someone asks.
I don’t know.
‘It won’t be online,’ they follow up.
Make sense. I’ll buy a ticket to Egypt tomo– ‘Nope. Go to sleep.’
No, give me– Marc can’t even finish that thought before his vision starts to tunnel, the edges getting fuzzier and fuzzier as his head feels too heavy to hold up. He tries to blink, to focus, but it all fades to black. Floating in an aimless void, devoid of thoughts.
Marc doesn’t come to the next day at 3:24 pm, a toothbrush sticking out of his mouth. He stares back at the mirror, expecting to see a distorted reflection staring back at him, that of a scared child with a blue tint, water dripping down his face. Instead, he just sees himself–freshly washed hair, clean shaved face. Somehow this reflection is even more unfamiliar, more disorientating. But he doesn’t hate it.
After a full night's rest, a warm cup of instant coffee, and an actual meal, Marc finally comes to his senses that he’s not going to be able to find the scarab over the course of a couple of days. Dr. El-Faouly dedicated his life’s research, and Layla picked up his work where he left off. The thing is likely buried in the middle of the Sahara, right beside his mental stability. If he can do anything, it’ll be letting her take the lead and work with her. As equals, as she said.
Time for plan B. Expect there is no plan B. He could buy her flowers? No, that’s generic and cheap. Buy her some nice jewelry? No, she hates the diamond industry. A full-string quartet? No, that’s stupid.
‘Or you can tell her how you feel,’ he faintly hears.
Don’t be dumb.
“Hi,” Layla says bluntly, lips firmly pressed together, as soon as Marc opens the front door. Layla, looking as beautiful as ever despite her tired eyes, still shining just as bright.
“Layla, hi,” Marc greets, eyes wide with shock, not expecting anyone over at this hour, much less her. Silently thankful that Steven had the forefront to clean up the body earlier.
“Are you avoiding me?” She says with no hesitation.
“No, of course not. Why would you think that?” he asks, tripping over his words.
“I’ve been texting you?” she says, drawing out the vowels.
“Oh,” Shit. Marc wants to slap himself, he hadn’t plugged his phone in to charge since Sunday. “I’m sorry, I forgot to check my phone. I was really distracted…” he explained, pressing his forehead against the front door, “Do you want to come in? Actually, do you want to go up on the roof? It's a nice night tonight.”
“It’s chilly. I don’t have a jacket.”
“You can borrow one of mine?” he offers, nodding towards his flat.
“Ok,” she says, following him into the living room. Marc hurries to the bedroom, grabbing the nicest jacket he sees. A nice brown jacket lined with tan fleece hides in the back. He hands it to Layla, amused at how comically large it hung off of her. Still, she looks warm. Like a little bear.
Marc leads her to the stairwell, plops open the access hatch and leads Layla to the rooftop. He unfolds the fleece blanket he brought up from his flat, feeling Layla’s stare drilling into him.
“What are you doing?” she asks as he’s taking a seat on top of the sheet.
“Laying out a blanket? The ground is cold,” he says matter of factly, patting the ground next to him.
“You can’t keep doing this to me.” She throws her hands up before crossing them against her chest.
“Doing what?” he asks, squinting his eyes.
“You can’t keep doing these sweet romantic gestures, and then ignore me. I’m not some lovesick teenager. I need you to be honest with me,” she cries, running her hands through her hair in baffling frustration.
“You’re right, I’m sorry,” he says, reaching for her touch. But despite her stern expression and exacerbated sighs, she meets his hand, and joins him on the blanket. “I’ve been meaning to tell you– Ah– I've been thinking about you since I first met you…
“First, I thought you were a badass for being able to break into a highly guarded building without even breaking a sweat. Then, I saw your passion for your country and helping people; how you always speak your mind. How you always seek to improve yourself. And finally, I noticed your kindness and compassion. I’m… not used to that. But no matter what I did to push you away, you always held out your hand. I’m really thankful for that,” he confesses, and he feels like he’s floating, no longer tethered by gravity, by Earth. Free from his burden because for the first time, wondering if this is what honesty feels like.
“I was planning on doing some big dumb romantic gesture to prove to you that I’m worth it.” But there is nothing in this universe fit for someone as celestial as Layla. With city lights bouncing off her hair and reflecting off her skin like the aurora borealis; she’s a breathtaking sight Marc will carve into his heart. “I know it sounds dumb. In my defense, I was on two days of no sleep, and it seemed like a really good idea. I think I really tried to prove to myself that I was worth it.”
“You’re such a dork. I just thought you had a nice ass,” Layla says with a wistful laugh, bringing her hands up to cover her face. She wipes her tears off the jacket sleeves, before resting her head on his shoulder.
“I really care for you, Layla. I want to be better for you,” he vows to the moon. “You inspire me to be better. I want to help you, to go on adventures, to protect you, for you to accomplish all your dreams.”
“Only if you let me help you too, ok?” Layla says softly, snuggling close against his side. Looking up towards the moon as well. “I want to protect you too.”
And sitting there, on some roof in the middle of London, beneath the stars and moons and planets, Marc isn’t afraid of what the sunrise will bring.
“Okay.” Marc whispers, just loud enough for his whole world to hear.
