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13868 days and counting…
“I’ve been going through something.”
They’d been arguing, they seem to do that a lot lately. He turns and hangs his head, burying it in his hands like gravity is too much for him to even hold it upright.
She reaches out, manages to brush her fingers along his shoulder. Then, he pulls away.
I know, she doesn’t get to say.
i. hombre de maíz
Sometimes, Layla wonders if she is married.
The ring, golden band with an inscription on the inside she hasn’t read in years but knows by heart, stays wrapped around her finger. Keeping the skin under the metal pale while the rest of her hand tans. Her title, Mrs. Their apartment, filled with his things. A pair of sneakers left neatly by the front door, his razor on the counter of the bathroom sink, his dog tags stuffed into his drawer, his body sleeping uneasily beside her. They are indicative of a married life, regardless of how happy or long.
But it’s when she watches him sleep — the rare nights that he somehow collapses from sheer exhaustion on the mattress, body sinking into the sheets he couldn’t bother, didn’t have the energy to throw over himself — that she wonders if her husband is dead.
Marc Spector, she means. The man who proposed to her on a busy Cairo street, bullets that we’re pushed out of him by the suit littered around them, his hand in hers, his eyes desperate behind a layer of adoration.
She wonders, watching him not respond to her or anything for 10 minutes, if he ever made it out of that temple alive. In one piece.
“Marc?” She snaps in front of his eyes, trying to get some sort reaction out of his scarily blank stare. All she gets is a twitch and slow swivel of his head in her direction. “What’s wrong?”
His eyebrows furrow, almost like he’s confused. “Marc…?“
Layla is used to abnormal, troubling behavior from him. It was one of the first things he warned her about.
[‘I’m not… easy to be with,’ he’d said, an apology perched on the tip of his tongue and his face filled with regret.
‘No one is.’]
So the nightmares and sudden cold sweats and sometimes panic attacks were part of life. They were something they handled together. Something she helped ease him out of, she knew what to do when it happened. This… staring, this nothingness, is not part of that. It isn’t frantic or desperate, it’s blank and unseeing.
Layla isn’t like Marc, she doesn’t need to constantly be in control or in the know of everything. But she’s gripping his hand tightly and trying to get him to see her, not past her and nothing is working and she doesn’t know what to do.
“That’s… your name, isn’t it?”
It’s not supposed to be a difficult question, but she can see the gears turning slowly behind his eyes as if it was. Then he’s blinking hard and fast and suddenly, his expression smooths. He quirks an eyebrow with an uptick of his lips in a way that she reads as casual but doesn’t feel like Marc. Not in the way she knows.
“Marc El-Faouly, right,” he says with a grin as he leans forward in the seat and lightly kisses her cheek, without any of the lingering tingle he usually leaves.
She frowns. “I don’t recall you changing your surname.”
“I didn’t? Big mistake on my part, then.” He winks, then gets up and saunters to the other side of the table, moving deceptively fast, and starts pulling things out of the paper grocery bags with great focus. “Got everything we needed?”
Layla watches him, playing with the ring on her finger and eyeing his. It doesn’t seem to fit him right. “I always do, unlike you I don’t forget everything when I’m shopping.”
Marc rolls his eyes and mumbles something that doesn’t sound like English under his breath. “Then why do you keep me around?” He asks, but it almost doesn’t sound like a joke. It isn’t a joke.
She stands and moves closer to him. He lifts her hand to touch his cheek, he tenses when she does. She doesn’t touch him, lets it hang there, then grazes her fingertips over the spot he kissed, the spot that feels like nothing.
“Because I love you, Marc.”
He stares, nods. “Right.” Then keeps unbagging food in silence.
Layla steps away. His shoulders drop when she does. She grinds her teeth together and quickly leaves to stand outside the apartment door, slamming it shut behind her and trying to catch her breath. She blinks hard and rubs furiously at her eyes, then winces when metal digs into her face.
The wedding ring gleams dim gold in the shitty hallway lights. She twists it halfway up her finger. Slides it back down.
She leaves.
A few hours later, Layla carefully enters the apartment, poking her head in first to make sure the coast is clear. The dinning table is empty, no bags left out like Marc usually does because he doesn’t like the way the paper feels on his fingers. Too dry, he’d told her and she wasn’t going to switch to plastic.
But the table is empty.
She places her keys in the bowl by the door and leaves her shoes on the rack where his still are — even if they had no reason to be missing she still had some feeling that she’d come home one day, that day, and it’d all be gone — then tiptoes to the living room where the light and tv are turned on. And there he is. Doing what looks like an impromptu stretching session while scoffing at whatever show is playing. Something with a little green man and similarly colored dog.
Somehow, he hears her over the obnoxious voices of the cartoon and he looks at her over his shoulder. He doesn’t smile when he sees her. Smiles are reserved for mornings or the mundane quiet that lingers between words and sentences. They’re rare, and Layla cherishes each one.
He doesn’t smile, but his eyes widen and crinkle at the corners.
“Hey,” Marc says, and she knows it’s Marc this time, her Marc, not an imposter wearing his face with uncanny accuracy, letting his arms fall to his sides and twisting to face her, “you were gone a while, where were you?”
She heaves in a breath and crosses the distance between them, then wraps him in a hug he obviously doesn’t expect because he never does but accepts regardless, like it’s the last one he’ll ever get.
“Where were you ?” She echoes.
“… here, all day.” He pauses. “Did you get the groceries?”
She lifts her head from his chest and stares incredulously at him. “You put them all away.”
“I couldn’t have, the bags—“
“Marc,” she interrupts, grabbing his hand and feeling the metal dig into her palm, “you put it all away.”
His mouth parts like he’s going to say something else, then snaps shut. He pulls his hand from her grip and backs away. He pales.
“I’m—“ he opens and closes his fists a few times, runs a hand down his face.
“Marc—“
“I—I’ve got to shower,” he mumbles, and brushes past her.
Layla watches him go, twisting her wedding band and reminding herself, reassuring herself, this wouldn’t be the last time she saw him. It couldn’t be. They’re married, after all.
They’re… married, she hopes.
ii. please be true
They need to talk. They really, really desperately need to talk. Maybe doing it in the tomb while Harrow was hot on their heels wasn’t a good idea, Layla will admit that (regret that until the day she dies because while they came back, very very alive, and Steven insisted their time in the Duat was actually good for their relationship that didn’t stop Layla from waking up in a panic and having to grasp at the sheets beside her to make sure he’s still there, pressing her palm against his chest to make sure he was still breathing and wasn’t dead and she wasn’t watching, thinking, knowing it was her fault —).
They need to talk, but Cairo needs Layla and Gus II, if he’s still alive, needs Steven, which also means Marc.
[‘A package deal,’ Steven had said with a cheeky grin that Marc would’ve rolled his eyes at and Layla found herself falling in love with.]
So their talk was put on hold. For about a month. There were phone calls of course and sometimes a Skype call, because they didn’t have an iPhone and Layla refused to use Zoom. Calls where Steven — almost always Steven except for the few times Marc would but in during a call and say a few stilted words to her before leaving again — would fill her in on his— their life.
[‘Gus II is doing great, and we just got another fish! It’s Marc’s, even if he doesn’t want to admit it, so I’m waiting for him to pick a name because I can’t think of anything else besides Gus III, and having three Gus’s in a row would be rather odd, wouldn’t it?’
And Layla would listen with a smile as she flew over rooftops and downed criminals.
‘Gus III isn’t too bad a name Steven,’ she’d answer, ignoring the mention of Marc, ‘I’d say go for it if it feels right.’
Then he’d hum and mumble and agree then disagree and argue and—
‘Layla.’
And she’d suck in a breath and steel herself. ‘Marc.’
‘When are you coming…’ home he didn’t say, ‘back?’
‘…sometime,’ she’d answer. Soon , she’d want to say.]
Then he’d fall silent until Steven came back and that was that.
(Except that wasn’t that. It couldn’t be, not when Marc is on another continent and Layla is the one keeping radio silent. And she doesn’t mean to, she answers all of Steven’s calls. She just… never calls first. And she doesn’t know—
She knows. Because she can’t call Steven without thinking of Marc, and she can’t think of Marc and sit under the Cairo sky without thinking of her father, and thinking of her father only reminds her that he’s dead, died in the sands, shot down and bled out and Layla’s been wondering, searching for answers for so long she doesn’t think she ever acknowledged that he’s gone.
Then it’d be real. As real as the bloodstained scarf that Marc handed to her. As real as the plot of land where his body sits. As real as two shots being fired and Marc falling, falling into the water and all Layla could do is sit and not scream, try not to cry, feel like everything in her life was falling apart again and all she can do was watch.
So, she doesn’t acknowledge it. That he’s gone, that for a while Marc was too. That for a bit, she wished she was.
She doesn’t call first. But she’ll always answer.)
A month later, Layla’s still in Cairo and her phone is ringing, surprisingly not when she’s out patrolling or on a mission. Time differences. She’s sitting in front of her laptop, an article on DID opened and her notes in front of her when it buzzes. The screen reads Marc, she needs to add Steven to that contact.
Her hand only hesitates for a moment before she answers.
“Hello?” She says, a bit more pep in her voice than usual because she’s expecting Steven’s perky response.
“Hey,” not Marc’s gruff voice.
She tightens her grip on the phone. “Marc, hi.”
“Yea. That’s me.”
“You’re…” she trails off and thinks over her words. “You want to talk?”
“Only if you do… if— that’s ok.”
The last part feels, weird. Apologetic, desperately so. Too vulnerable for the man who’d rather be possessed by an Egyptian god and run halfway across the world than talk about his feelings. She nods, then smiles ruefully.
“Yea that’s fine. What do you—“
“The divorce papers.”
“Ah, right.” She picks up her pen and mindlessly grips it. “Are you signing?”
“No.”
“Ok,” Layla replies. She exhales in relief and clicks the pen against the desk. “Did you ever plan on signing them?”
“No.”
“Then why did you send them?”
“Khon—“
“The real reason, Marc,” she hisses, then smashes the pen and breaks it. “I want to know why you resorted to divorce as the only way to ‘protect me’ or whatever the hell it was you were doing. You know, instead of talking about it like couples do.”
She can practically her Marc’s jaw tick. “You wouldn’t have understood.”
“Understood that you were making the dumbest fucking decision of your life?”
“Understood that I had no choice,” he snaps. “You never liked the way Khonshu— if you’d known that he wanted you as his avatar—“
“Then we could’ve worked something out. Just like we worked out the Harrow bullshit and everything else.” Layla realizes she’s practically shouting into the phone and reels herself back. “I wouldn’t have said yes.”
There’s a significant silence. “If you’d known —“
“We aren’t doing hypotheticals here Marc, because there are infinite outcomes and none of them end up with me as Moon Knight.”
And she means that. She would never serve Khonshu, not when he manipulated and used Marc for so long to enact his brand of vengeance that left her husband — or whatever they are now — with his head in his hands at the foot of their bed instead of lying next to her every night.
But, spilt milk. Layla rests her index and thumb on her eyelids for a second, then taps her book. “We need to talk.”
“We haven’t been?”
“No. And I don’t know why you called me to if you haven’t been.”
“Because I…” she listens to him take a shaky inhale, “I want to try. I want to… fix this.”
“This can mean a lot of things.”
“Please Layla, I…” his voice frays at the edges, cracking over the crackle of the phone. That’s not like Marc.
(It’s too much like the faraway look and glazed eyes he had in the tomb, when he swallowed too hard and blinked too fast.)
“Ok,” she says softly.
“O—ok?”
She runs her fingers between the keys. She wants to press more, about her father and Steven and why he decided the best course of action when put between a rock and and a hard place was to vanish off the face of the earth. But then… she doesn’t and won’t. Not now, with a phone and thousands of miles and too many walls between them.
Layla’s exhausted.
“Are you… coming back soon?” He asks, sounding as drained as she feels.
“… I don’t know,” she answers truthfully, looking out the window and feeling anxiety thrum through her again.
There’s a suspicious pause where all she can hear is heavy breathing and a sharp inhale, then his voice breaks when he hums, “M—Mhm?”
But she doesn’t notice. “Maybe in the next month but I… I don’t know. I haven’t been dealing with everything and I need to.”
Layla glances at the computer screen, her notes, the drawer where the scarf has been tucked away reverently into and hurts too much to open, the night sky that she’s been running around under until she can hardly stand or think then collapses on her bed because it’s easier than coming back to her empty hotel room and wishing she were somewhere else, with someone else. Wishing so many things were different and knowing she can make them change.
Then she’ll pick up the phone, finger hovering over the call button.
“Maybe,” she spins her ring, “I, I’m thinking I might talk to someone.” A grief counselor, therapist, she doesn’t know yet. Steven, Marc. Someone.
“That’s brilli— that’s good, Layla. You should.”
She smiles at his enthusiasm. It eases something in her chest, and she wipes her eyes, trying to keep her voice steady. “Yea? I hadn’t really thought of it before but learning about my father made me think that it’d be good to, I don’t know.”
“Talk things out?“
“Yea, yea and—“ she stops. Furrows her eyebrows, then realizes. “Steven?”
“…y—yes?”
Silence lapses between them. Layla pulls the phone away from her face to take a breath.
“Is Marc…?”
“He’s still here, listening,” Steven quickly assures, “He just, erm, needed a breather, I think.”
A breather. “Oh.”
“Is that ok? I’m sorry I pretended, I can— I can switch with him if you want, or you can hang up and I’ll have him give you a ring when—“
“No,” she interrupts before he can spiral even further, “I want to talk to you.”
“…really?”
“Yes Steven.” She smiles and wipes her face clean, then opens a tab for flights to London in the next month, “of course.”
The next time a phone rings, 2 days later, it’s Steven and Marc’s, with a call from Layla.
iii. בוקר טוב
She gets a voicemail on her way to work.
[‘Hey,’ he said, Marc had said breathlessly into the phone, ‘hey. I’m, uh, I’m just going to start with we’re ok. So, don’t panic. But. We’re losing time.’
Like in Cairo, she thought.
‘Like in Cairo,’ he’d said.]
The recording ends on her way to the museum. Work can wait.
She makes it there fast, stops at the desk to ask where he is, then heads to the back room, where Marc is rapidly shoving things into a locker and taking other things out, seemingly randomly. He’s strung tight, and judging by the minor indents he’s somehow leaving on the metal door without super strength, he’s ready to snap. Layla makes her steps audible and doesn’t get too close to him. But she’s just in reach, if he needs.
“How are you both?” She asks quietly, taking him in, the bags under his eyes and general anxiety that makes it impossible for him to unclench his hands.
He gives her a strained smile, pulling at the cuts and bruises littering his face. “Im fine. Just, coming down from whatever Steven was feeling.”
“Is he ok?”
Marc shrugs and slams the locker shut with more force than necessary. “Not counting the panic attack, yea he’ll be alright.”
Layla frowns and loosely grabs his arm to slow his mechanical movements of folding and unfolding his jacket until it’s military sharp. “Panic attack—?”
“Oi, Stevie!”
They both look to the doorway, where the coworker from before is standing and waving at him. “Barry and I are gonna go have a pint, wanna come?”
Marc licks his lips and slouches a bit, ducking his head slightly and forcing a timid looking smile onto his face as he shook his head.
“‘M alright, mate. Thanks for the invite. Sounds like a bloody lovely time, yea?”
And, oh god, his accent is awful. Totally, completely terrible, and Layla has to bury her face on his shoulder while slapping a hand over her mouth in her struggle to keep her shoulders from shaking with laughter. Marc pinches her side.
“…riiight. Catch you later then.”
Marc salutes. “L—laters, gaters,” he says, almost through gritted teeth. He waits until their gone to whirl to face her, glaring with no heat. “Stop laughing.”
Layla scrunches her nose. “I don’t think I will. That was horrendous .”
He rolls his eyes and grabs her under her arm, gently tugging her along with him out of the back room to outside the museum. “Like you could do better.”
That is a challenge she cannot let down (and won’t, because tension bleeds from his shoulders every time she speaks and laughs). She clears her throat. “Bloody hell Marc, you wanted to divorce Layla!? The goddess Layla! Are you absolutely mental bruv?!”
Marc scoffs to cover a smile. “…you’re annoying.”
“Thank you.”
They walk side by side, hands loosely by their sides, casual once the vestiges of panic have subsided from Marc’s body, leaving him with an exhaustion he knows far too intimately. She considers wrapping her pinky around his but… they aren’t there yet. Soon, though.
She starts, gingerly, “do you know what caused it?”
“Mhm. Coming to, standing in front of the museum feeling like someone but the body through a meat grinder probably did it.”
He’s casual about it, but she can see him continuously flicking his fingers on his other hand. He catches himself doing it and shoves his hand in his pocket.
“I’m fine, seriously.”
Layla slowly reaches out to cup her hand on his elbow, just for a moment. “It’s ok if you aren’t.” She lets her hand linger when he doesn’t protest, and continues when he says nothing else. “You’ve been losing time?”
“Yes.“
“For how long?”
His jaw shifts. “…few months now.”
“And you didn’t tell me?”
“No.” Marc stops abruptly and turns his head up to the sky, looking at the clouds furiously before turning to glare sharply at a nearby puddle. He finally sighs and rubs his forehead. “I— I didn’t want to pressure you into coming back, just because I— we had an issue. You were… going through your own thing. I didn’t want to put any more of my bullshit on top.”
“Telling me about this wouldn’t be pressure Marc, and it’s not bullshit either.”
“You sound like Steven now,” he mumbles.
“Because he’s right,” Layla says, “Just because I’m… grieving doesn’t mean I can’t help you too.”
Grieving. Putting that into words is weird. It feels easier when it’s just something nebulous but now Marc is looking at her weirdly, with this strange look of understanding that he shouldn’t have to wear.
“Right, sorry.”
Layla shoves back her thoughts and grins at him. “But thank you, for thinking of me.”
“Always.” He squints at nothing in the distance then shuts his eyes and—
“Yea, it’s a bit hard to think of anything else,” Steven says, voice a bit unsteady and his smile wobbly. Layla still can’t help but smile.
“Ah Steven, the apple of my eye.”
He melts at the praise and his voice loses the last bit of lingering anxiety. “Layla, my beloved—“
“That’s enough flirting,” Marc cuts in sourly, then links his arm with hers in a manner that’s so possessive she’s definitely not on the verge of pointing and screaming, ‘that’s my husband!’ “She’s still my wife.”
A sentence she never thought she’d head him say again. Not dead or alive. She twists her wedding band and dips her head to hide her blush. She isn’t 15.
“And you’re both يا قمر, So, tell me about these blackouts.”
iv. a dream, that I could speak to
“This is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done.”
Layla casts a glance at Steven, wearing the dorkiest shades and Marc’s precious Cubs hat and get up consisting of a jackets over a T-shirt and some jeans, but lacking the confidence and ‘completely done’ energy Marc constantly radiates. And, despite herself, she laughs.
“You said you wouldn’t laugh!” Steven frantically whispers while making sure no one is watching them.
“Sorry sorry I just,” she pauses to wipe her eyes and takes another look at Steven wringing his hands, “you look so strange.”
“Isn’t this what Marc usually wears?” Steven asks nervously, picking at a frayed end of the jacket. “I didn’t think it was too bad, I just raided his closet and— no I didn’t mess with— your clothes are— you have no sense of fashion anyway!”
Layla watches him have a conversation with Marc that she can’t hear as she instinctively moves his restless hands away and starts fixing his clothes. “You look fine Steven.”
He pauses his irritated rant about his patterned shirts and turns to her, a hopelessly hopeful expression on his face. “Really?”
She can’t resist leaning forward and planting a kiss on his cheek, then grinning when he turns red. “Really. Now,” she smooths some of the hair back from his forehead and pushes the hat firmly on his head, “I’m going to need your best Chicago accent, because people are coming.”
“Oh, shi—“
Steven cuts himself off with a smile as Layla drapes her arm in the crook of his and they both turn to face the couple they’ve been following all evening. A handsome pair and Layla would probably feel bad about stealing from them if the artifacts they purchased weren’t cursed with a soul sucking spell that no one knew about until Taweret so helpfully informed Layla of it in the middle of the night.
[‘Would you be a dear and prevent the deaths of hundreds? Thanks!’]
Not really sleeping material.
So no, Layla does not feel bad about sneaking into their function and dragging (more like wrangling because of how insistent he was on joining her) Marc along. Except she’s with Steven instead, because — while she loves her husband with every fiber of her being and wouldn’t trade him for the world — Steven’s expertise is greatly needed and appreciated on missions like these. Especially when Marc’s response to something that Layla asked was:
[‘I don’t know, I just found him in a sock office.’
‘A… what?’ She asked.
‘You know, a sock office? It’s,’ he made a rectangle in the air then took a bite of his protein bar, ‘like a coffin, but Egyptian. With little paintings on the sides and other shit.’
‘You mean… a sarcophagus?’
‘What the hell is that?’]
Steven was the obvious choice. Only issue is that they’ve met this couple before, and Steven is so incredibly British it’s almost unreal.
Layla does not have high hopes for this conversation.
“Mrs. El-Faouly!” the friendly looking lady in a pantsuit greeted, “and Mr. Spector, it’s a pleasure to see you both again after so long.”
Layla smiles back. “Yes it’s really—“
“Real damn pleasure,” Steven cuts in, loudly, in possibly the worst American accent Layla has ever had the displeasure of listening to. “Yea, super awesome place, really cool situation you’ve got going on. Loving the whole…” he waves his hand at the chandeliers, “décor.”
Her partner, more austere, narrows her eyes. “Are you feeling alright? You sound… unwell.”
Steven visibly stutters. “Uh—“
“He’s got a cold,” Layla supplies. She tightens her grip on his bicep and smiles. “Just got back from visiting his parents.”
He stiffens under her hold, but her quick glance at him only shows the same tight smile, maybe with a bit more under the surface.
And then, because he can’t help but dig his own grave, Steven adds, “You know, I’m from Chicago.”
“Ah, so am I!” The friendly one gasps, “Which part?”
“The…” he shoots layla a helpless look but she’s just as lost because the only state she’s been to is New York and the most she knows about American geography is the Great Lakes, “south?”
“East Side Hegewisch or South Deering?”
“…yes.”
To save their sinking ship of a conversation, Layla decides to subtly but not so subtly switch topics. “You know, my husband has recently gotten into Egyptology.”
Steven starts with an extremely British, extremely excited, “Oh my day—“ before schooling his accent back to ‘I’ve watched 2 movies that take place in Chicago and this is my best accent, which sounds like a mix of southern and surfer with some Italian thrown in, for good measure’, “oh my great America! Y—yea, I love Egypt and all, almost as much as I love the Cubs! And pizza. And um, bald eagles and, oh Ferris Buller’s—“
“We were hoping to see your collection?” She interrupts.
The couple share a look that she totally understands before the friendly one nods. “R—right, yes, of course. Right this way.”
A short battle ensues between Layla and a group of thieves who apparently had a similar plan to her of stealing the artifact, only with the purpose of killing some rival gang with it. She downs them pretty easily while Steven steals the artifact, wrapping it in tissue paper he had and tucking it into his bag, then they were off and are now sitting in a McDonalds booth after visiting the local vegan cafe, at 2 in the morning.
“That went so bad,” Steven sighs, the straw of his smoothie perched between his teeth.
Layla shrugs and grins over her milkshake. “I had fun.”
“Ah, then mission accomplished!”
She swallows quickly and laughs at his satisfied grin. “You’re something.”
“Something stupid,” Marc says, picking up his straw and stabbing at the drink before Steven comes back.
“Oi! Rude! I’m not the one who called a sarcophagus a coffin with little pictures on it.”
“Is that not what it is?”
“Didn’t you also once call the Great Pyramids of Giza ‘the giant fucking triangles in the desert’?” Layla asks cheekily. Marc glares at her then let’s Steven front and they both wait a few seconds before she speaks again. “… I think we’ve warded him off.”
Steven leans forward and whisper, “like a spirit?” Then he cocks his head and narrows his eyes in thought before they snap open and he beams. “Like a specter! Bloody hell, we’re geniuses aren’t we?”
That was all him, but Layla raises her drink and to knock it against his in celebration. He did an amazing job tonight, even if his impression of an American couldn’t be worse. “We sure as hell are.”
Steven Grant is a lot of things. Marc Spector is not one of them.
v. veinticinco años de soledad
Layla wakes up to an empty bed.
It isn’t the first time this has happened and she won’t delude herself to thinking it’ll be the last. Late night missions at the command of Khonshu, nightmares, then a several month disappearing act have trained her not to panic when she opens her eyes in the middle of the night to cold sheets beside her.
Trained her not to panic, though it hasn’t taught her not to go searching.
She gets out of bed, shrugs on a jacket and some sneakers, then tracks his phone. Which would be an invasion of privacy if Marc and Steven hadn’t promised to never do this again.
(He promised when they moved back in together and he’s a man of his word and yet he’s gone, again, and Layla thinks this is it, this is the last straw and they’d been trying so, so hard and things were working — struggling but working — and they were so close to something new, not like they had before because it could never be like that again but something close, maybe—)
She jimmies open the window of a boxing gym and slips through, then follows the grunts and sounds of a fight into the main area. Where Marc is, in the ring, shirtless and bloody and sweaty with his hands guarding his face while dodging blows from the other guy, who definitely looks worse, while some man who’s presumably the coach is on his phone in the corner of the room. Well, at least he’s winning, she thinks, smiling a little.
Until she remembers she’s angry, then stomps over to the edge.
“Marc,” she says normally at first, but when that doesn’t get his attention, she yells, “Marc!”
“Miércol—“ his head snaps to her and his eyes widen when he sees, “hey Layla.”
“What are you—” she waits for him to dance around another set of punches and runs around to where he ends up on the other side of the ring, “you box?”
Marc literally growls, then punches the guy a few times in his sides. “When I fucking feel like it yea—“
“Why?”
“To blow off some steam, look I’m trying to—“ he misses a right hook but ducks under a swipe aimed for his head, “focus here and you aren’t really—“ a punch to his jaw sends him back against the ropes, where he spits out blood to the side and levels a glare at her, “helping!”
Layla crosses her arms and rolls her eyes. “Maybe you’re just shit.”
The look Marc gives her has so much venom, she almost takes a step back. He doesn’t respond until he spins around at the last second, takes a hit in his ribs and slams his fist straight into the guy’s nose, probably breaking it. Definitely breaking it, if the blood gushing from his nostrils and fact that the other man was knocked out was anything. She looks on, shocked, until he turns back to her.
“Why don’t you try boxing with two other people living in your head, plus an oversized pigeon yammering and a wife I never even fucking married on my god damn ass, and you tell me how it goes, hm?” He jabs a finger in her direction and narrows his eyes. “So let me do what’s best, which right now is you letting me do what I need to do.”
“…Jake?”
She doesn’t mean to say it that way, with so much surprise. Almost with trepidation, that she regrets. But she does, because the name doesn’t roll easy off her tongue the same way Steven and Marc do. Not because it’s wrong, it just isn’t familiar.
Jake Lockley is an almost mythic figure, even and especially standing with the light shinning behind him, in the ring looming over her. Without a name at first, referred to first as ‘the blackouts’ then ‘the other one’ then ‘the alter.’ Like mentioning him is asking to be cursed.
But then, then, he had a name. Jake. And later, more recently, a last name to follow. Lockley.
[‘He only comes out at night,’ Steven had spoken lowly once, with the fish tank between them and hands spread on the glass, like he was telling a ghost story. ‘Only for a few hours, then he’s gone like the wind.’
‘He’s dangerous,’ Marc had said another time, pacing around the apartment while chewing on his nails and occasionally glancing at the mirror, ‘stay away from him.’]
Marc— Jake blinks and reels back, then huffs out a quiet, “Puta madre.”
She follows him to a retro styled restaurant a few blocks away — probably the only place that’s opened at 5 am on a Sunday — after he throws back on his outfit consisting of a jacket, gloves, and flat cap and cleans up a bit. A few bandages slapped on here and there. They sit next to each other at the bar.
“Hola Gena,” Jake greets when the hostess comes over to them.
“Heya Jake,” she says with a smile, pouring him a cup of coffee without him asking, completely black. She turns her expression to Layla. “Miss.”
“I’m Layla,” she offers, “nice to meet you.”
“Same to you.” Gena hands her a menu, then addresses Jake. “The usual?”
“The usual,” he sighs. She nods and disappears behind the door, leaving them alone in the diner, which Layla decides to take her chance at. But Jake beats her to it.
He whirls to face her, Spanish fury and a New York accent “Here’s what you’re going to do, mi amor, you’re going to not let out a peep about anything I said to the twins. You’re not going to tell them about me, or Moon Knight or Khonshu. ¿Intiendes?”
“Or you’ll kill me?” She challenges hotly.
His expression twists, oddly, then he rolls his eyes and downs some more coffee. “No joda, you’re a pain in the ass, aren’t you?“
“I happen to be when I’m being threatened. ”
“Honey, if you’re going to spend the night yellin’ at my customers, least you can do is eat a stack, hmm?” Gena places the plate of food in front of Jake, which he immediately dives into, and gives Layla an unimpressed look that he snickers at.
Layla dips her head. “Sorry, you’re right. I’ll have… what he’s having, minus the bacon.”
Gena hums in satisfaction and takes the menu before she leaves. “Make yourself comfortable.”
“Por favor no,” Jake mumbles.
Layla raises an eyebrow at his plate. “Bacon isn’t kosher.”
“Its turkey.”
“…can I try some?”
He hands her a piece. She takes a bite.
“It’s really good.”
“No shit.” He keeps eating.
“So you box.”
Jake picks at the bandages on his knuckles and nose before making some noise that sounds like agreement. “I dabble.”
She remembers what he said, about the pigeon god. And she tries not to freak out about it but it’s a bit hard to keep her emotions in check because she really fucking hates that bird. “And you still serve Khonshu.”
“…I dabble.”
She stabs her stack. “And you still kill people.”
He doesn’t notice her anger and exhales with a sharp grin. “What am I, the boogyman?” When she doesn’t respond, just stares hard at him, his grin drops and is replaced with… hurt? “…mierda.”
“There are, similarities.” She cuts her pancakes.
“What, I come out at night, I’m a monster that lurks under kids beds?”
“You’re not…” Layla grimaces and softens her expression and voice, which throws Jake off if his subtle flinch indicated that. She drops her volume. “I didn’t mean it that way.”
“But you sure as hell fucking implied it,” he snaps, “hija de—“
“You’re not a monster, Jake.”
[Mornings where Marc— or not Marc, woke up, inching away from her touch and her hand, but there’d be a plate of breakfast for two that Marc wouldn’t remember making.]
His jaw clenches. “And how would you know that?”
[Afternoons where she’d come home, exhausted, and she’d check the list of chores she had left for the day and they’d all be crossed out, finished.]
“We’ve met before.”
[Nights when she’d complain about the lightbulbs being too dim, go take a shower, and come out to them magically fixed and Marc none the wiser.]
“What, no we—“
“Yes, we have. Probably, more times than I know. We’ve met and… I’m still here, aren’t I?”
It’s like he doesn’t know how to process that. Because he opens and closes his mouth, and looks hopeful for one, blink and you’ll miss it moment. Then he’s scowling, back to normal.
“Hoo-fucking-ray. What you want a medal or something? ‘Most decent person’ award?” Jake shovels more food into his mouth and finishes off his scalding coffee, then pushes around the last bits of egg and quietly says, “…you won’t last.”
“What makes you say that?” He shoots her an incredulous look. Layla sighs. “I’ll always be here, Jake. For Marc and Steven. For you.”
He stares at her for longer than what’s normal, she stares back. Then he mumbles something that sounds like curses in Spanish, picks at his bandages some more, and says, “Shut the hell up and enjoy your fucking pancakes” with no heat, before yelling, “Gena! I’ll cover the bill.”
“On the house Jake!”
Jake groans loudly enough that Gena can hear and still pulls out a few pounds from his wallet that he hides under his plate. “Don’t know how you keep this place runnin’ if you’re always giving away free food.”
“The power of love, baby.” The woman sticks her head out and nods towards Layla. “Ask your girl, she’ll know what I mean.”
Jake sticks a thumb at her. “Not my girl.”
Layla shakes her head and says around a mouthful of absolutely spectacular pancakes, “Not his girl.”
+vi.تصبح على خير
There’s a sign on the bathroom door that reads ‘Midnight Mission.’ Layla cocks her head at it, eyebrow raised, then raises her hand to knock.
“Come in,” a voice — Marc’s but… not — says.
She pushes open the door slowly, poking her head in first and looking down. He’s sitting in the bathtub, wearing Steven’s suit with the mask and all, his sleeves rolled up to halfway up his arms and there are papers strewn about. Some in neat stacks off to the side, near the baseboards and on the counter of the sink. Others lying carelessly on the floor in front of where he’s leaning over the side of the bathtub, pouring over a document in his hands. He— they because she’s not so sure anymore, look up when she enters then straightens to sit upright.
“Layla,” they greet, “good evening, and welcome to the Midnight Mission…” they pause, then add, “the temporary location, at least.”
She leaves the door slightly cracked behind her as she steps over papers and makes her way in. She hesitantly asks, “Steven?”
They sigh.
“Jake?”
They shake their head.
“…Marc?” She finally tries.
“Not that,” they growl and it’s the first bit of any emotion she’s gotten out of them tonight. Their grip on the paper tightens to the point that it starts crumbling as she’s afraid they might rip it. They seem to realize that too, and loosen everything but their tone. “Never that. Not him.”
“Ok,” she soothes, and tucks away their apparent resentment for Marc for later. That probably means something. “Do you have any ideas what you’d like me to call you?”
They shake their head.
“Pronouns?” She asks.
They pause for a second, then keep flipping through. “He, him is fine.”
She nods and crouches in front of where he has papers laid out and glances between them and him. “What’s the Midnight Mission?”
“A sanctuary for the travelers of the night, or anyone who needs it.” He exhales and his shoulders slump slightly. “At least, that’s the idea.”
“It’s a good one,” Layla says, grinning reassuringly.
She doesn’t know how he reacts, mask and all, she gets the feeling he’s maybe pleased.
“What do you know about lycanthropy?” He asks suddenly, refocused on the documents before him.
“Werewolves?” She clarifies as she thinks and reads one of the papers.
Medical files on a Jake Gomez that she has no idea how he got, news articles on dead flocks of sheep in Ireland and Wales, reports of a hairy, two legged beast running around London like something straight out of the movies.
“Only what I’ve seen in movies. Silver, full moons, the works.”
“I suppose that’s all one really needs to know about them…” he murmurs, then quickly switches the paper he’s holding for a different one. “And blood curses?”
Layla adjusts her position so she’s sitting more comfortably, cross legged. “Familial or acquired?”
“Familial, ancient.”
“Hm, a bit more. And what I don’t know, I’m sure Taweret can answer.” She leans a little forward and studies his body language. “Or… Khonshu.”
She expects him to stiffen or snap at her or shutdown completely, but he doesn’t. He snorts.
“He likes to watch me struggle,” he says, pulling back his sleeve, “and I enjoy the challenge.”
Layla nods in understanding and decides to broach the next topic carefully. Well, the same way she’d approach any topic with someone she’s just met.
“You don’t need any help? From… someone who’s a bit more willing to not be a dickhead?”
He huffs a chuckle. “If you mean from the other two… no, this is my job, I’m capable of doing it on my own. Lockley, maybe...” he shrugs and says lightly, “anyway, I suppose I’ve had help already. And I wouldn’t mind if they stuck around.”
Layla doesn’t say anything else, just keeps reading the documents and helping him sort them into piles that make sense. There’s no system but they’ve got a wordless synergy that lets them fly through the work. And it’s nice, different but in the way that all of them are different. It’s not Steven’s enthusiastic descriptions or Marc’s blunt phrasing or Jake’s biting comments. He’s quiet and singularly focused and sometimes, she’ll feel his gaze linger on her before he’s adjusting his position in the bathtub and keeps reading.
Eventually, he sighs and runs his hand over the mask. His shoulders tense slightly for a moment.
“Mr. Knight,” he says as if he were answering a question, which she supposes he is. He tilts his head up but keeps his focus trained on the documents. “That will do.”
Layla bites her lip and nods, then squints at his face. “You don’t want to take that off.”
It isn’t a question, but his head snaps to hers and he responds, “no.”
She hums. “It’s not a mask.”
And somehow, even with the fabric covering his mouth, she knows he’s smiling.
“Clever.”
She smiles back.
13954 days… and then some
“I’ve been going through something.”
Marc pokes at the spaghetti with his fork, twisting and untwisting the noodles around his utensil. His other hand is clenched into a tight fist, tucked against his chest on the table. He looks uncomfortable and out of place, in the restaurant Steven picked out, wearing the suit Jake stole a while back, that usual troubled crease between his eyebrows Layla’s never given up on trying to smooth out.
She glances down at her own plate of food that’s going to get cold soon. She pushes it a little away from her and places her hand to the side, palm down. “Tell me about it.”
Marc lets the noodles unfurl and starts pushing around the meatballs. “Things are… fine. Good, really. Yea, Steven’s great and you’re— well, you’re you. ”
“Which is?”
“Amazing,” Marc breathes, lips twitching into an almost smile. “I… life isn’t so bad.
“But you’re going through something.”
He snorts, self-deprecatingly. “When am I not?”
“Marc.”
He bows his head. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be just… talk.”
He stops fiddling with his food and sets down the fork, taking to flicking his fingers under the table and frowning. “There’s Jake, and— and Khonshu and it’s all a lot but you’re still— you and Steven are—“ he trails off, face twisting, then hides behind his hands. “I don’t deserve this.”
“Why wouldn’t—“
“You don’t know me Layla.”
He whispers it and if she weren’t sitting right across from him in a dead silent restaurant, she wouldn’t have heard it. But she does, and it’s hard to not reach out and yank his hands away from his face to scream everything she wants to say at him, to beat him over the head with everything she wants him to know until the words are seared onto his brain.
She does reach out, but she doesn’t yank. She lays her hand over his and strokes his knuckles with her thumb, feeling his ring knock against hers.
“You’ve made that quite clear, Marc, I know.” Layla hesitates, then gently tugs his hand a little to the side so he can see her without her completely seeing him. “But I’d like to.”
He meets her gaze halfway, eye still mostly shielded but shining a little in the dim light. “Knowing me is an ordeal.”
“Loving you is easy,” she counters softly.
His hand starts to fall away. She slowly guides it to the table, held in her palm. “I— I don’t even like myself, Layla, how can I love you when I don’t even—“
“Because you’ll learn to. You will, Marc.”
Marc stares at her while he drags the other hand away from his face. She can see both his eyes. He chews on his lip. “I’ve been… going through something, for what feels like my whole fucking life.”
“I know,” she finally gets to say. “Let’s get through it.”
His lips quirk up in what’s the beginning of a grin and Layla thinks her heart stops.
“I think I’m in love with you.”
She raises her eyebrow. “You weren’t before?”
“Always am. Will you marry me?”
“Again?” She asks.
“Again.” He answers.
Layla smiles. “Again.”