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“Ah, lads,” Steven says, backing up with his hands held placatingly in the air. The criminals squint at him like they are the recipients of his words, which they are mistaken about. Steven warily eyes the sharp edges of the blades in their hands. “Maybe, um, maybe one of you would like to take this one for me—”
Steven comes to with blood sticky on his fingers and a pile of bodies, throats slit like the hand that did so was bored. It ran down the columns of their throats like rain. “Right,” he coughs. “Thanks. I’m going to assume this was—”
Wasn’t me, Marc says in his ear, almost affronted.
“I wasn't gonna say your name,” Steven says, patiently so, “I was going to say it was our lovely third? If, um. He’d like to introduce himself? I know you're listening!”
He’s never gonna come out, Marc mutters. Hasn’t after all this time. Don't blame him. If he’s real.
Steven’s brows knit, and he waves his hand vaguely in dismissal, even if there’s nobody around to really see it. Marc can, though, which is what really matters. “Pssh. Maybe he’s just shy.”
Right, Marc says dryly, assumably staring at the bodies in a thoughtless, practiced pile. Never could be Steven’s handiwork, he couldn't manage that if he tried. And even more alarmingly, that type of brutal effectiveness goes beyond Marc as well. Marc didn't enjoy killing. Clearly this individual did.
Steven frowned, the suit fading away to look a bit more inconspicuous among the general public, rather than a cloud-white suit with glowing eyes. The blood is shucked off along with the dirty gloves, which is nice that it’ll replenish itself when he needs it again, but he’s still a bit horrified at all the red that sunk into his fingers like a sigil. “But he protected me,”
Of course he would. He’d be in here with us, too.
He melts into the crowd of Dubai actually quite seamlessly. Waves and waves of people pass by him without a glance, always either pointed or curious. Steven has to talk inside his head to keep up conversation with Marc so he won't get any odd looks for conversing with open air. He shoulders past a nameless man, and apologizes when he bumps another in the process.
Their headspace is cloudy. Like a figure shrouded in dust, but just a bit clearer if blown on to brush it all off. Surely Khonshu has met him?
He can feel Marc’s thoughtful frown. Most likely. I’d bet he’s met us while he was in control. We just don’t remember.
“Wait,” Steven stops mid-walk. It startles several street-goers in the vicinity. He avoids their strange looks. Piecing the dots together, Steven barks aloud, “Is he the bastard who replaced Gus?”
Er, no. That was me.
Steven glowers at the floor, moving his legs as fast as he can so he doesn't humiliate himself any longer. Marc probably knew he’d find out immediately - the replacement had two fins. You'd think he'd understand he knows his own pet fish. You arse.
Sorry.
He was my friend, you know, there’s a delicate, decorated mirror in a pop-up shop on the sidewalk. Marc is rubbing his arm awkwardly. Steven’s eye twitches.
I have another theory, Marc says, very much changing the subject. Marc must feel Steven’s irritation because he gets his words out quickly. The red sarcophagus. When we—
Died, yes. Right.
There was someone else there. Marc appears in another mirror, maybe a block down. He leans on the frame, rubbing a hand through his curled hair. I really didn't think much about it at the time. Probably my fault. I should've known right then.
Ahh. You couldn't have, Marc. We were both so… well. Separate bodies and everything. That was a tough time for both of us!
Not sharing a body was strange, Marc admitted.
Steven crosses the street. He keeps his head low. There isn’t much of a fuss around this side of town, if the lack of people have anything to show for it. Steven feels comfortable enough to murmur,
“So he’s probably listening right now? Can see everything I can see?”
Assumably. Go left here.
“Marc,” Steven mutters. “I know the way.”
Yeah, yeah.
“Seriously, though,” A crow squawks on a street light. Steven looks up at it, and waves. The crow tilts its head. “Surely you know when he.. was created.”
Nah. You know this. I black out, and when I wake up, I don’t remember. Neither do you.
You fools have work to do, you know.
Steven jumps, and summons the suit just out of habit. The white of his mask crawls over his face, the crescents of his eyes sharpening in a glare at the god now perched on the aforementioned street light. “Kh—onshu! You - dumb old bird.”
Khonshu’s cape sways behind himself like an endless drape. The soulless corvid’s skull stares at him, as if he was the grim reaper to a corpse. Steven places his hands on his hips and says like a frustrated parent: “You can't just sneak up on somebody like that, mate! Don’t ya remember the countless bloody times I’ve told ya so?”
“You two chatter on about stupid topics,” Khonshu grumbles, setting his crescent staff on his shoulder.
So he’s admitting we’ve got one more. Fucking—
“I can hear you, Marc,” Khonshu has decided he must declare, as if neither of them were aware of such.
Yeah, I know you can, dipshit- you know what, Steven, lemme out.
Steven’s shoulders reach his ears, squinting, teeth grinding like wheels on a road, and his suit folds over into Khonshu’s ceremonial clothing. Marc crosses his arms tight over his chest and says, bloodily, “I hope you've got a real good fuckin’ reason for not telling me.”
“What did you need to know it for,” Khonshu snorted. “We had a fine system set up already. He gets the job done better than you and that moron combined.”
“It is my business!”
He’s not feeling very friendly today, is he? The bugger. I mean, he isn’t normally, but—
“If he wanted you to know about him, he would've told you already.”
Marc mumbled under his breath, intended for Steven, even if Khonshu was in his head. “He’s lucky I don't just kill him myself,”
Who? Khonshu, or—
“Either works,” Marc sneers.
“You two would be dead without him,” Khonshu advised, which sounded like he was trying to be a mediator, but was most likely supposed to piss him off. “Why do you think Harrow is dead in the first place?”
Harrow is dead because he got greedy, that’s why. There’s no deep fucking existential reason for his timely departure, the guy was insane - and coming from Marc, who had thought all his life of the same thing, until now, anyway - case closed. The guy was totally off his rocker. Boom dead.
“He’s dead,” Khonshu corrects, sounding disappointed, his bird’s skull cocking with the emphasis. “Because of Jake Lockley,”
A name, Steven cheers, his potent satisfaction pooling in Marc’s ribcage. We have a name! Marc!
“Jake,” Marc tries. Then he scrunches his face up. “And he’s your favorite because, what, he kills easily?”
Khonshu made a grunt that felt like if the god had eyes, he’d be rolling them. “No,” Khonshu says shortly, just teetering on a guffaw. “Jake is practical. That is why I like him the most.”
Because the sod has no qualms with mindless killing, Steven huffed accurately. Right! Yes, of course. Well, I suppose it’s not a proper place of me to complain, considering how many times he has saved our arse—
Marc shrugged in agreement.
—with morals like those. In this line of work, I suppose you’d need to get your hands dirty every now and then.
“If you’ll excuse us,” Steven says, after Marc’s eyes roll up. “I still have a task I’d like to finish. If you’d possibly..”
Khonshu was gone by the time Steven looked up. How kind. “He’s gone,”
Figures. Dick.
“Right wanker, ain’t he,” Steven agreed, proceeding forward. “Feeling like he’s entitled to everybody,”
Marc rolled his tongue in his mouth, then replied: Never let him get in your head the way he wants.
“Isn’t he always in our head?”
Not what I meant.
“Right, right.”
It is.. a room full of mirrors.
What luck. Steven is only mildly put off by all the reflections of himself, or of Marc, more accurately. But he’s not gonna swap out - he knows he’s more than capable of doing these things by himself. He tugs up the cuff of his suit and says, “I've got this, don’t I, Marc?”
‘Course, one of Marc’s reflections says, looking at the room around himself.
Marc thinks about him - Jake. All those possible moments in which Jake was the one in control, not Steven, not Marc. And Marc had turned to Steven expectantly, slack-jawed at the carnage, and Steven’s reflection held his hands up in surrender. Jake only comes to the forefront when either of them need his help. When they're in trouble. Earlier, with the men with the machetes, Jake had taken over from Steven, woken from his slumber because of one of his counterpart’s distress. In the psych ward, with Harrow, Marc felt the tender, raw skin of his neck and asked, Did you tranquilise me? He wasn't entirely sure, because it hadn’t been Marc. It was Jake who had taken that burden.
In the van, when Steven and Marc’s lives had finally, penultimately collided in the Alps. Jake had taken over to drive backwards and to kill those men. In Cairo. Against Harrow and Ammit. It had always been him, but they’d never realized.
It’s hard to think of how Jake was first created. His mother was no mother at all. Her face curled with hate, words shot at him like bloody bullets, branding themselves in the matter of his brain. She had been driven by her own grief, which morphed into a bitter type of hatred since it had nowhere else to go. Steven doesn't remember being beaten by his mom. That’s why he was made, but - Jake?
Like a protective shield. Marc settles against the crests and cushions of his own mind and sets the fleshy bit of his palm flat against his forehead. Steven must feel his unrest, but doesn't say anything.
There is another reflection that does not belong to him. Steven stills, his hand frozen midair.
It’s their face, of course. Even if it always felt so different. But the dark glare of his eyes, the inward brows knit into a glare - it wasn’t Marc’s default expression. Not Steven’s. The only person that it could belong to was—
The mirrors split into threes. Always have - in the pyramid, too. Marc might throw up if he’s not careful. A third - when - when? How? All out of his control? Steven.
“What, Marc?” Steven whispers.
He’s real, Marc tells him, through a throat full of wool. Khonshu wasn’t screwing with him then, he was totally serious. When did I—?
He has brown leather gloves, the ugliest detective’s cap he’s ever seen. The expression is utterly unfamiliar, all in all. A calculated, subtle flicker in his eyes (one of them is red). Steven stares at him, bug-eyed. “You’re not Marc, are you,”
Jake’s jaw ticks, and he says, with a surprisingly thick Spanish, Brooklyn-like accent. Not quite.
One step closer to Jake’s mirror, Steven couldn't help but question, “Do you know us, mate?”
It was a silly question for a guy that lived in their head. Marc wanted to know the answer.
Jake ignored the question. You shouldn't be here.
Have you been working with Khonshu? Marc asks without giving himself permission to. The words spill out unbidden, and there’s not much he can do to take them back. All this time, he never—
A grin crossed Jake’s face that was so gritty and mean that Marc gaped. It’s my job, sweetheart.
The reflection flickered, and Jake was gone, and Steven gasped. “Um, hey, Marc, he’s—”
In their headspace, he could feel another presence. Marc turned clumsily to meet Jake's eyes, who was standing too close. The curve of his lips felt patronizing—cheeky and all-knowing. “All this time, you never even realized I was here.”
“Of course not,” Marc hissed, fingers webbed out. “You never made it easy, clearly.”
Outside of their body, Steven was turning from mirror to mirror to find one of them, coming up with nothing. He started to panic. “Marc? Marc! Hello? Jake—? Where did you guys go? I’ve got an issue!”
They were slowly being surrounded, odd, monstrous noises sounding out from behind the mirror maze. With all these reflections, Steven will never find his way out of here. It would be suicide to leave him alone at it, and Marc is just about to swap out with him before Jake interrupts.
“How about you go to sleep,” Jake suggests, not intended for Marc. “And I take care of it?”
Marc trembles, realizing Jake has dug his fingers into the sleeves of his jacket. Steven shakily shuts his eyes, like he’s left his own body, looking at it from the outside.
Steven groans, leaning up. He places his palms flat on the ground beside his hips. His body aches. Marc?
Sleeping.
Steven sits straight up in shock. Jake?
Steven.
Oh, bollocks. Alone with him, he wasn't sure what to say. He wasn't even used to Jake responding to him when Steven questioned him.
You’ve always been so loud about having me talk to you. Why be all quiet now?
“Oh, fuck me,” Steven mumbles aloud, and then croaks, “I never really expected an answer then, mate.”
Bloody hands, bloody suit, all over again. Steven sucks on his lip to keep from complaining about it. Jake is watching him intently in the cracked shards of a leftover mirror, his multicolored eyes trained on Steven like a missile tracker. He’s like the devil on his shoulder, crooning in his ear, Sorry about the mess.
“Ah,” Steven hesitates, flicking his hands repeatedly to toss the blood. “No, it’s fine. I bet those right tossers deserved it, yeah?”
You could say so.
“Right,” Steven agrees weakly. “Hey. What made you decide to.. to show yourself. After all this time.”
I’ve always been able to hear you, Jake told him, pointedly. The edge of his mouth ticked up into a sneer. Both of you. The two of you are too soft.
Steven’s eyes narrowed. Huh.
It’s a job somebody has to shoulder, Jake’s head cocked in the shards. I have no issues with it. Me and Khonshu get along for a reason.
Yeah, a new voice croaks, post-sleep rasp and all. We can tell.
“Marc!” Steven gasps, “You’re awake!”
Hey, man.
The walk back to their temporary place in Dubai is mostly quiet, surprisingly. Marc must be adjusting to have somebody else in their head while another is in control. Steven fiddles with the latches on his chest’s pockets. He already willed his suit away, his clothing underneath was some sort of military-grade level stuff. Whatever jazz Marc wore beneath his getup, with the big ol’ dramatic cape.
Don’t insult my suit.
“Woah,” Steven huffed, “I was making an observation. Arguably, Marc - it is dramatic, and a bit much? Hey, Jake—”
This is a useless conversation.
“What does your suit look like, Jake?” Steven ignores the eyes he gets on the sidewalk. He already looks like a guy you wouldn't wanna be around: sweaty, mussed hair, impressive eyebags, scratches, leftover blood. It’s not even his fault, but what can you do. “Do you have a cape? I didn’t get to see when you switched with me! I always—”
Oh, yes, Jake smirked in the window. Sure. Let me—
Don’t bother, Marc materialized beside him, scowling at Jake out of the corner of his eyes. Jake glanced at him in disinterest. What’s not to say he won’t just go on another killing spree?
Steven offered.
Steven, Marc emphasized, and Steven rolled his eyes. Seems to be ignoring that you don’t care about us.
Jake blinked in unexpected, furious surprise, and straightened. Are you so damn dense you’re going to say I don’t care about this body?
Just because you live in it doesn’t mean you give a shit.
“Woah, okay,” Steven snapped between them, turning to bodily face the shop’s window. “Marc, we already figured that Jake has been protecting us all this time - just like earlier, mate! Are you—?” He shook his head like that wasn't what he wanted to say. “Marc.. Marc, you know that Jake—”
Marc was already gone. His presence still remained in his mind, of course, but nothing from the window. Jake’s eyes flashed at Steven’s prying, and he went away, too.
The walk was quiet now. Not a word from either, and it made Steven feel lonely. He has another - or, one he is aware of - headmate, and that one won’t speak either. Marc is seething, which bleeds into both Steven as well as Jake, and Jake is giving them both the silent treatment.
He unlocks the door with little ceremony. It squeaks open, Steven averting his eyes from the full-length wall mirror, and lays flat on his back on the bed.
One of them must apologize first. Preferably Marc. Steven doesn't necessarily support what Jake has been doing, not to mention what Khonshu has done behind their backs with Jake, refusing to reveal his presence, though Jake has saved them time and time again. But Marc is struggling. With Khonshu’s.. lack of honesty, or Jake’s sudden presence. Steven can feel it.
“Lads,” Steven starts, then trails off pathetically. “I don’t know how long I can do this. Marc..?”
Marc sighs. Steven could cry in relief. I’m sorry.
“Oh, thank god,” Steven relaxes into the pillows. His content rolls over his stomach in waves, and hopefully that extends to both of the two men quietly listening. “You - both of you, knobbers, mate, I really didn't wanna argue with you boys, so, well - you,”
Yeah. I know.
Of course Marc could tell. Steven can’t complain - but he’d really like Jake to say something. “Marc,” Steven sighs, turning his head over. “If Jake is dangerous, so are we. It goes both ways.”
Marc is quiet.
“He saved us. Saves.”
Steven glances up, and it is Jake, not Marc, who rests in the mirror on the wall. He’s not wearing his hat. The deep frown he sports is considerate, clearly listening to he and Marc’s conversation. His ankles are folded over one another comfortably.
Khonshu never told me.
Surely, that’s the crux of all, too. Khonshu had every opportunity to tell Marc he had another living inside his own head, and he never did. Jake Lockley existed far from the knowledge of Steven Grant as well as Marc Spector. He let Marc stew in his own mistrust of his own self, his own psyche, his body and soul. He made Marc the Moon Knight in a time of vulnerability when Khonshu was the only option Marc ever had. Khonshu surely thinks of Marc as a troubled individual who needs him to survive.
“Of course, he didn't,” Steven scoffs. “That rusty pile of bird bones is a megalomaniac, controlling liar. And I hope he can hear me!”
He can, Jake adds. Steven perked up at the sound of his accented voice. A real cabrón, no?
A total piece of shit, more like, Marc corrected. Sometimes it escaped Steven that Marc understood Spanish. Unfortunately, Steven wasn't very familiar.
Jake settled against the frame of the mirror like it was an actual wall to lean up against. He looked at Steven. Best for you to just go to sleep. Those wounds will heal overnight. Since you aren’t in the suit.
Another of Khonshu’s curses.
Possibly.
“Right, sleep.” Steven agrees, “Both of you, hush.”
The mirror fogged with Jake’s dismissal. Steven got the idea Marc was rolling his eyes. Yeah, yeah.