Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Three months after Moon Knight’s critically acclaimed “death”, tell Stephen Strange why, then, is the man alive? Donning a different suit, all black, instead of white?

Two months after the vampiric invasion caused by Varnae, one month after New York was finally rebuilt after Doom’s treachery, two weeks after Strange donned the mantle of Sorcerer Supreme once again: Why is the man in his house?

Sitting there, in his chair, legs crossed, a stark white suit, sipping too-bitter smelling tea, and smiling towards his wife? 

Arragant mother fuck—

If Strange had no morals, he would kill this man, and only this man, in cold blood. Perhaps, then he could forgo the resentment boiling in his stomach and rising into his chest—when the man was six feet under again, he could take a breath—he could close his eyes and not notice how Moon Knight’s posture is lax in comparison to his typical tense stature. He could open his door, walk through his house, and not be able to smell the faint odor of sewer, mothballs, and blood that he carries—because the man would be dead. There would be blood on the sorcerer's hands, but he and his wife would live their lives in peace and prosperity. The killer of Moon Knight would certainly be a title to behold.

Strange continues to stand in the doorway in a stand-still, teeth clenched. His typical work clothes are already adorned: Deep blue robes with bright blue accents, yellow gloves, and his rightfully earned Cloak of Levitation. 

The clock to the left of him shows the time as 7:30 AM; he was about to offer coffee for Clea, then take Bats out for a walk with her, but as he notes, someone else already beat him to it. 

That someone else was talking to his wife. In his kitchen. In his place of peace. 

The room falls into silence as Strange realizes all too quickly that the three are staring at him with confused, yet worried gazes. He feels as though his head is going to explode. 

Instead, he clears his throat and waltzes into the room, palms open in peace. The room stirs when Bats scrambles off of Moon Knight’s lap and onto the ground, leash dragging behind him.

If the kitchen wasn’t gorgeous, with hardwood flooring, beams supporting the ceiling, intricate swirls that look akin to old, ancient spells carved into the walls, with marble countertops to boot, he would have banished the three of them to another dimension and left them all for dead.

Maybe he wouldn’t have done that to Clea. Or to Bats. Just Moon Knight, who clears his throat, gets up with one swift motion, makes a quick goodbye to Clea, and strides out of the room. His white shoes, caked in mud, clack against the ground as if he has tap shoes on. Clea heads off with him, attempting to give the man an actual goodbye. 

He doesn’t hear the words exchanged, for he feels as if his world is underwater. He feels like he is drowning.

Maybe that was the breaking point for Strange. He could handle Moon Knight coming in here after his working hours, nice clothes, not getting anything dirty. However, to come in caked in mud was revolting to him. Maybe other factors fed into his building rise of tension, ready to snap: Waking up on the wrong side of the bed, the oddly good relationship between someone he hates and his wife, and the fatherly relationship he’s garnered with Bats.

With Bats. His dog that he saved, mind you, from Loki Goddamn Laufeyson.

“You look like you’re going to explode, doc.” Bats scratches at his leg, rousing Strange from his stupor. 

“No, not at all, Bats.” He shakes his head and forces a smile. To Bats, it looks eerie and inhuman. “Have you already been walked this morning?”

“Yeah, but I wouldn’t mind goin’ again.” Bats woofs, planting himself down in front of the sorcerer. When Strange doesn’t respond, and begins to breathe deeply, he backs away, tail tucked between his legs. 

“No, no.” He raises his hand, spinning around on his heel. “I have something to do first.”

╚══ ☾•°◉°•☽ ══╝

Marc hadn’t had one of these in a long time: A good morning .

It’s been two months since Khonshu had been broken out of prison—or when he was pieced together, bit by bit, by the unlawful G-d. He still remembers when his flesh and sinew were forced to wrap around his bones again—when his neurons had to reconnect—how everything felt. How it still feels: Wrong. Violating.  

It’s been one month since New York came back, fully rebuilt, after the invasion and Doctor Doom's Sorcerer Supreme reign. Homes that were torn down are now back up. The streets are missing the fear of stragglers from the vampiric invasion; nobody is scared of Doom, for he has fled back to rule Latvia; Reed Richards is alive.

It’s been two weeks since Stephen Strange gained his rightful mantle as Sorcerer Supreme of Earth once again. Marc believes within his entire heart that nobody can do as well as he can in the role. Others disagree, yet their counter arguments are held up by frail strings.

He’s certainly not biased… If you don’t look at how, upon Clea’s request, Strange had Khonshu placed back into Asgardian prison by being termed a Threat to the Balance of the Vishanti. 

After Doom, and the re-incarceration of Khonshu, Clea had invited him to tea during the mornings. Slowly it became a routine: Marc would work, clean himself up enough to be presentable, and have tea until he’s sent to bed by Clea. 

Marc loves the Sanctum as much as he loves Clea—platonically, of course. He admires and respects the nature of both of them; the ever moving parts. Every week, something changes: chairs are replaced, plants appear and disappear from the windows, Clea wears new dresses and robes, more circles are carved into the wooden walls, and Bats joins them from time to time. 

This morning was nothing different, either than the pep in Marc’s step and the sharp crisp in the air. The breeze smells of bitter urine and cigarettes, but he can feel an underlying message being carried through the wind: Summer is approaching, pollen is flowing, and everything is alive. 

Maybe that's why he asked if Bats wanted to go on a walk. Maybe that's why he made the tea this time, adding cream for Clea and nothing for him. Maybe that’s why the three of them ran back after the weather shifted suddenly, and began to pour on them. Maybe if he knew that he had forgotten to slip off his shoes, or knew that the creaking above them was Strange shuffling around his room, he would have left when he returned to the Sanctum. Instead, he allowed the warmth of Clea’s smile and eagerness of Bats’ demeanor to wrap him into a sense of comfortability. 

As Strange rounds the corner and pauses in the doorway of the kitchen, staring, Marc suddenly remembers that he’s been wrapped into his own delusions. The bitterness of his tea finally sinks into his stomach, bubbling acid down his esophagus, and the room goes cold. Bats, who was once stretched over him, retracts and slips to the ground. 

Seeing the que of Strange waking up, red in the face, Marc drags himself out of the lazy comfort of the Sanctum, and out into the bustling streets of New York. Clea follows him out, barely being able to attempt an apology before Marc disappears into the crowded street, chest tight and heart racing.

╚══ ☾•°◉°•☽ ══╝

“Holy shit! It’s mother fuckin’ Doctor—” 

Moon Knight should have known this was going to happen. Once again, he let himself get too comfortable. Dr. Strange floats to the ground in front of him, halting a drug dealer in their tracks. The criminal, who yelled such expletives, is swiftly wound in bright orange bands and placed to the side, against the alley wall. Moon Knight takes a step back, raising his worn batons. 

The criminal gets the que to stay quiet—Thank G-d.

Strange opens his hands, palms up to the vigilante. Moon Knight rapidly speeds through a protection prayer—Hashkiveinu—“Shield and shelter us beneath the shadow of Your wings. Defend us against enemies, illness, war, famine and sorrow”— in preparation for what the sorcerer’s presence demands.

“You are not welcome in the Sanctum Sanctorum any longer, Moon Knight.”

He lowers his weapons and takes a pause. Even the criminal seems confused, eyebrows raised, and eyes darting back and forth.  Strange crosses his arms and frowns. He taps his foot and cocks an eyebrow at the suddenly stumped Moon Knight.

“Excuse me?” Moon Knight blurts out. He’s more confused than angry. Did he overstep boundaries?

“Excuse me ? Seriously, you thought after this morning's stunt, you wouldn’t be kicked out?” Strange huffs, shaking his head. “I want the Sanctum to be me, my wife, my dog, and whoever Wong brings in. That is all I want. I don’t want it to be me, my wife, my dog, Wong, and a random rat that lives in the walls.”

…From the corner of his eye, Moon Knight swears the dealer leans in, as if it’s world-renowned gossip and they’re the gossip queen. It takes all of his might not to knock them out then and there.

“Did you seriously compare me to a rat because I have tea with Clea from time to time?” Moon Knight stammers. If anyone in the system was at full attention, and well, if Marc allowed anyone else to get closer to the front, Moon Knight swears the entire system would be dying of laughter. Instead, the laughter that would be there is replaced with simmering anger. “I’m not doing anything with your wife , Strange. Hell, Greer—and by extent the entire Mission, including you—would kill me in cold blood.”

A pause. All Moon Knight hears is his heart beat and the fluttering of both of their capes. He feels as if he’s holding on for dear life at the edge of a cliff—the edge of having a safe place either than his home—and his grip is about to slip. 

“I just—” Strange sighs. “I just want time with my wife. I feel as though every morning it’s not Stephen and Clea, it’s you and Clea. I want my house to be my house.”

“I’m not taking that away from you—”

“Spector, I do not care what you have to say.” He cuts in, voice low and demanding. He jabs his finger towards Moon Knight, digging it into his armor. “I have had enough of you. You can have tea anywhere else but in my home. Until you actually have a reason for me to allow you into my house, then you are not allowed anywhere near it, understood?”

The air is tense and the alley is silent, only the sounds of breathing fills the space. It’s as if the world has stopped to listen. Moon Knight raises his hands and steps away, nodding. The bitterness of his tea from the morning has now corroded his stomach, making it ache—hurt. He itches to grab at his stomach and curl up into a ball.

“I understand, Doctor.” Moon Knight pulls his cowl over his armor, bowing his head. 

He has fallen off of the cliff. He is going to die.

“Good,” Strange growls, spinning around and promptly disappearing through a portal—it’s all too fast—it’s all too sudden. Once Strange leaves, the weight in the air slowly dissipates; all that is left is a pit in Moon Knight’s stomach.

He got too comfortable.

“Goddamn!! M.K, you gonna let that son ofa’ bitch let you dog-walk ya’ like that?” The criminal spits out, eyes wide. “Seriously, didn’t know the doc was on some high-horse type a’ shit. Is he always like this?”

The vigilante only sighs and wobbles next to the person, falling to the ground beside them. Now next to the criminal, he brings his legs up and cradles them, resting his chin on his kneecaps. The world is suddenly too loud, too bright, and too much all at the same time. He feels like he’s crashing, and he doesn’t know where he’s going to land. The water is coming closer—it smells salty; it smells bitter.

“You don’t know half of it. What drug were you dealing with?”

“I think it’s an off brand of cocaine. They say it’s dust straight from the moon, man—” A eureka moment for the criminal happens, as seen from their face lighting up. “Hey! You’re a moon guy—you want our main supplier? I’ll exchange it if you give me dirt on that old hag.” They smirk, kicking their feet. 

He cannot believe that he—well, Strange—caught a top-notch gossip girl.

“You’re deplorable.” The Knight scoffs, rubbing his forehead. “Fine. What do you know?”

╚══ ☾•°◉°•☽ ══╝

When Marc reads “SECRET INSIDER: ‘DOCTOR STRANGE IS A SCUMBAG AND HERE’S WHY…’” as a Daily Bugle article, on the front page of all places, he nearly spits out his coffee. 

Does he scan the article and figure out it's everything he spilled to the criminal a few days ago? Yes, yes he does. Does he tack it to his board of notes, alongside what he figured out from the criminal—an odd moon gang, a string of drug deals, and planned museum break ins across the globe? Again, yes—why wouldn’t he? 

He also figures out that, from an interview with Electro of all people, that Clea had scolded him over recent events so badly that he sulked in the Bar with No Name. Marc knows her wrath first hand. He smirks a bit too wide at the thought of Strange being yelled at. 

He may be Moon Knight, stoic and brutal, but he is also Marc Spector, Steven Grant, and Jake Lockley: The three most pettiest men in the world. 

As he shuffles through the rest of the mail the Mission received, having been long forgotten when he sprinted to his room to tack the article to his board, he picks up a bill. 

Now, a bill wouldn’t be odd if the Mission wasn’t technically deemed a religious institution, and thus paid no taxes (courtesy from Steven). However, opening it up reveals a large Damage Control bill, totalling over two thousand dollars cited to:

MOON KNIGHT AND THE RED DINOSAUR.

Chapter Text

“I have an issue,” Mr. Knight begins, placing his tented fingers level to his eyes. He leans closer to Dr. Sterman, resting his elbows on his knees. “Someone is billing us thousands of dollars in property damage that we did not commit.”

“Have you considered calling the organization billing you?” Sterman questions, squinting her eyes. “This seems like a very easy problem for you.” She readjusts her glasses and taps her fingers against her clipboard. 

“You see, I have, and it is . I know who is billing me. The issue is who it is.” He lays backwards, shifting his position to be more open—crossed legs and open arms. “Moon Girl and Devil Dinosaur. It was obvious that Damage Control assumed us to be correlated… On top of the fact that they added ‘and Red Dinosaur’ to the bill. However, their assumptions are costing me thousands.”

“Mr. Knight, flowery language, remember.” Sterman frowns, shifting back, mimicking Mr. Knight’s demeanor.  

Mr. Knight, Knight, Knight—Marc opened up to her about him being an alter a few weeks ago, once he accepted that, yes , his mind sometimes blurs the line between the differentiation of alters. Right now, it was just Mr. Knight in the session with Sterman, but while they worked, he and Marc would become interwoven as one . It was strangely intimate, the way they worked together, played into each other's styles, and emerged as: Mr. Knight, Pathfinder for the Travelers of the Night.

He hunches over, resting his chin on his palms, and allowing himself the pleasure to bask in the contentment of being recognized.

“Yes, apologies.” He tilts his head, pausing—More accurately, rearranging his words. He, as a person, commonly beats around the bush in order to emphasize points. It was a part of him, a part of his flair—his style whenever he fought those he was sent to deal with. Sterman had made that clear that she did not enjoy the aspect of him. “Moon Girl is a child. Nine years old, to be exact. She does not have the money to cover any of the Damage Control bills. I do not know how to go about a child who is fraudulently putting my name on a bill, as we no longer have enough money to fund these bills either.”

After a pause, filled in by the background vibrations of the Mission, and curtains dancing in the night's wind, Sterman hums, smiling. She places her pencil on her cheek, allowing it to press against the side of her face. “You understand that the system will have to work together for this?”

Mr. Knight sighs, pulling back and assuming his typical, closed off position. This was the egregious response he knew was coming, but didn’t want to accept it. In the system, he was the beacon of stability and civility. He was something to look to when things got shaky, aiding in ways that would weave a path back to safety. 

Anything surrounding the system working together was not going to end well. 

Sterman only smiles brighter.

╚══ ☾•°◉°•☽ ══╝

Steven Grant is a simple man. All he ever wants are things to go as planned and to follow their patterns. Him being left to deal with philanthropy and the Midnight Mission’s finances is nothing new. It follows the pattern. 

What doesn’t follow the pattern is the type of event he is forced to undertake: A charity event. A charity event to pay off their crippling Damage Control debt by a certain nine year old. A nine year old. 

If Steven was not already setting up the event, streamers, balloons, and even a banner for the “rebuilding of New York infrastructure”—he was left to handle this alone, and thus he will use his own diction, thank you very much —he would have cancelled the entire event and sued Damage Control for their faulty rules. Thus, shutting down the company for inadequate practices. It was dreadfully easy to do with his lawyers—Nelson, Murdock, and even Anne Weying on the West Coast. He had done it before to gain control in the business sector, and to him, Damage Control was another pawn in the great web of Capitalistic control, as he is as well.

He finishes setting up the final string of balloons on the outside of the Mission when both Spider-Men finally show up, the thwips of their webs preceding their appearance. The street has been shut down, food trucks line the opposite side of the road, a DJ is already set up in the middle of the street, and the two extremely popular, hard not to spot, Spider-Men were supposed to be there to set up with him. 

Steven can feel flames coming out of his ears. He steps off the ladder he’s on and twists his expression into a ghostly smile.

“Sorry, sorry—I know! I know! Please don’t kill me, blame it on the kid here—”

“Excuse me?” The kid—Kid Arachnid? Spider-Man? Steven doesn’t know what the Hell he goes by, and neither does he care—stammers. He places his palms on his chest in exasperation and scoffs. “You offered Five Guys! You’re the one to blame—”

“If the two of you do not help by either A, putting up streamers, B, doing the banners, or C, checking if the police are fully informed and here , then Hashem forbid, leave. ” Steven points at the both of them, asserting his point as he shoves a bundle of blown up balloons into the Kid’s hands. “Are we clear?”

“Yes sir!” Spider-Man salutes him, placing his hand on the kid's shoulder. “We’ll handle the rest of decorating!”

“The rest? ” The Kid mumbles, his big, bug-eyed sockets squinting. The red marks on his black suit follow his eyes. Steven can’t help but note the intricacies of his suit as a controversial fashion choice in a competitive industry.  Black and red would likely make kids more scared—very bold colors with darker tones—if he wasn’t associated with Spider-Man—

Steven pulls himself away from diving deep into business analysis, rubbing his temples. His anger has simmered deep into his muscles, woven into the structure of his body like a web.

Spider webs… Spiders… Spider-Men. Right. The two Spiders are staring at him as if he’s ready to pop. Their eyes are unnaturally wide in comparison to regular humans, and Spider-Man has stepped in front of the kid.

“We can handle the rest!” Spider-Man elbows the kid in the side. “You, uh, lower your blood pressure—take a chill pill. You look like you’re going to die, Grant.”

Grant. Not Steven. Grant. He bites his tongue and nods, stepping away from the two. He briefly looks back in a passing glance to see them take a sigh of relief together. 

He’s not going to spiral into how he’s been rendered just as a god damned business man and that. Is. It. He’s not going to. He is not going to.

He takes a breath and looks at the event as a whole, attempting to pull himself back together. The people waiting outside of the boundaries make him prideful of what he’s done. A part of Steven wishes that he could do events such as these consistently—yet perhaps that’s the movie producer inside of him. He likes big, flashy events for the community that defy expectations. 

However, his smile falls into a frown. He’s alone. He’s been pushed to put on an event that, deep down, he wishes would be him, Jake, and Marc doing this together—like the past: The three working together in unison. Where did that go? Where did the times go where they, all three of them, looked at Khonshu and reasserted their position as human beings? 

The system had always been an isolated mess—a maze of walls, and deep, winding caverns. It’s easy to get lost. It’s even harder to work together to get out . It never happens. 

He shouldn’t get his hopes up.

What does get his hopes up is the vibrations he feels under his feet. Loud thuds, the scraping of talons, and dragging of animalistic limbs. They’re coming, as they were invited: The nine year old and her pet dinosaur. 

It was all according to plan; according to a pattern. Invitation, bright colors, gifts, and a good time. Things people enjoyed, they would come to make patterns—connections. 

It’s what Capitalist pigs call: Influential algorithms. 

╚══ ☾•°◉°•☽ ══╝

Locating and figuring out what Moon Girl and her Clifford the Big Red Dinosaur could do was relatively easy. For Jake, it meant for early morning coffee with William and Greer, then heading out along the Lower East Side and waiting.

Alone. In his cab. For days. At the same spot.

Okay, so maybe he was sick and tired of being the guy who’s always on the streets waiting. Maybe he was tired of wringing his hands in anxiety when the day of recon came inconclusive, only to stand out of his cab for a smoke break and watch the two of them whiz by in his peripheral vision. 

Kids these days, he sighs. 

On the fifth day of the week, as Steven points out: Their patterns change. Instead of zipping down the same street—where Jake waits every night—they take a side street, a different alley, or hide in a random apartment until he pulls the cab away. They’ve figured out that he’s on their trail. 

Normally, that wouldn’t be a problem, until Soldier points out a big, red glowing mechanical tracker latched onto the underside of his cab. 

Now, coming back to the present predicament: Taking the tracker off with 8-Ball’s help without his poor baby—yes, the cab, don’t judge him—getting hurt.

Jake taps his foot against the pavement, watching 8-Ball—Jeff? It feels odd calling him 8-Ball to Jake, no matter what Marc says—pry off the tracker with a wrench. Thankfully, after a few seconds of banging, the machine breaks off without a hitch, and only leaves a few scratches that Jake can buffer out later. 

When Jeff comes out from under the cab, tracker in hand, oil grease all over him, and fear flashing across his eyes at the cab-driver, Jake swears he could kiss him right then in there. Jeff looks terrible —not his type, goodness no—but he just saved his baby from a possible tracker that could— Jake doesn’t know —explode? Cause his cab to shit the bed? Pop his tires? Hell no. Not on his turf. 

“Uh… Here’s the tracker?” Jeff, with all of his glory, fumbles with the tracker before handing it off to Jake. He pockets it, and without warning, claps Jeff on the shoulder. The poor man—bless his heart for even dealing with Marc this long while being so terrified of them—only begins to breathe again when Jake bursts out a string of laughs.

“Ay, Absalomle, lighten up! You barely even made a scratch!” Jake barks, grinning. “I can buffer out the imperfections, and she’ll work as good as new.”

“What are you doing with the tracker? Our plan was to—”

“Plan shlan. I got my own plan, Hagees—”

“—it’s 8-Ball, Jake—”

“—Semantics, Hagees. I want Moon Girl to be led to us. It’s the only way we can talk to her: Forceful interaction. Perfect, yeah?” Jake slides out of Jeff’s bubble, planting his hands on his hips. The man in front of him looks like a ghost. He rolls his eyes and readjusts his old, worn cap on his head. “Take a picture, it’ll last longer, Jeff.”

“Ah—Sorry! It’s just…” He scratches the back of his head. It’s a miracle he isn’t wearing his giant pool-ball head piece, and for that reason, Jake manages to catch the ginger's cheeks fading into a bright, fierce red. He raises his eyebrows as Jeff’s head bows lower, similar to a cowering dog. “Great idea, boss! I think—I think I’m going to go inside. Now. Right now.”

Jake leans against the cab's trunk, watching the man scurry inside, hands holding his burning cheeks. He chuckles to himself, noticing through the windows the way his shoulders slump upon re-entry, and the way Reese points at him, then begins to cackle, head pulled back.

It’s as if life was normal. However, the fact that Steven isn’t there, lounging on the cab beside him—or Marc isn’t telling him to knock it off around Jeff—is odd. Weird. Unnatural. He doesn’t enjoy the silence that follows Jeff’s leave. 

Whatever. They’ve got a nine year old girl and a beast from the Jurassic ages to scold tonight. Jake can deal with his thoughts later when he’s back to being secluded into his boxing rings and bars—like a caged animal—locked up.  

╚══ ☾•°◉°•☽ ══╝

Moon Knight rolls off from the Mission’s rooftop and onto the next, sliding his baton from his thigh, extending it, and shooting the attached hook onto a fire escape from the other side of the street. He flips through the air, soaring from building to building, the Moon illuminating his every step. 

The tracker, attached to his hip, continues to beep steadily. The red glow from the circular light contrasts his monochrome suit.

Following days of not being able to work after Jake’s recon, it was nice to stretch their legs—being able to slip into the rhythmic beat of footsteps against the hard pavement. It was familiar, soothing, and something they could easily lose themself to the wind whipping against their cape, the honking of horns, and the background chatter from groups mingling on the streets.

Their city. Their turf. Their home. 

They stop themself once they’ve reached the Lower East Side, the typical chill coming from the harbor becoming more apparent as he stands and shivers. If the red beast, already poking its snout against the edge of the roof is any indication, they’ve followed their plan perfectly.

As Steven always says: Patterns are key. It just takes a keen observer, someone like Jake, to point out habits. 

The two always work so well together. Moon Knight wishes they could fit into the puzzle better—Well, they didn’t really care—Marc desired deeply to slide himself into the puzzle, right beside the two. 

Moon Knight—the Defender of the Travelers of Night—did not care in the slightest. He worked to enact the duty imposed onto the system by Khonshu. Marc, on the other hand, ignored the feeling of loneliness eating him inside. Moon Knight considered it weak of him to feel so human. For all of them to be so human.

Were they envious? No. A Knight such as himself is not able to feel in said manner. It would be ridiculous. Once they dawn the suit, it becomes hard to distinguish one’s emotions from one another. That’s all. It’s all on Marc.

“Hey! Moon dude! Whatcha doin’ stalking us all day, huh?” Moon-Girl zips up, jetpack whirring, allowing her to float in the air. Moon Knight cocks their head, squinting. They lift the tracker from their belt and offer it to her.

“You have billed us thousands of dollars by lying to Damage Control.” The Knight begins, allowing her to take the machine from their hands. They slip under their cloak, allowing it to fully encase them, now turning their head to the moon. “We, nor you, have the funds to pay such a bill, Moon Girl.”

“OhohohoooomygodDevilwegotta— ” Moon Knight whips his head back to the flying girl, noting her suddenly horrified expression. Dammit. They’re getting sloppy. They should have realized sooner. 

They blame Marc and his odd trait to slip into the comfortable habits of assuming people will trust them—they blame the Midnight Mission. They blame Sterman—G-ddamnit . 

They raise their arms up, inadvertently bringing their batons up as well. “Wait, no, we’re just trying to—”

“DEVIL WE GOTTA—”

“Wait!” They outstretch their hands, trying to grab onto—well, nothing truly, but it would have been goddamn useful to grab onto Moon Girl’s boot, or anything, before her partner in crime squealed, ran down the street, with her in tow. In seconds. Too fast. Too sudden.

Not enough time to say ‘hey, I’ll defer all the bills to be tax exempt if you “work” to make things you love—machines, AI, anything—Hell, Mission can even offer a room to fit Devil comfortably—it’s a win, win!’

Instead, as always, they’re left alone on the roof top. Diplomatic conversations never suited the Knight well. It never turned out as expected; this being no different. Everyone always leaves too fast—too sudden. It’s as if they feel caged around him and they have to escape. 

They’re scared. They always will be scared.

As long as they’re scared: They will always be alone.

Chapter Text

The breeze through Kamala’s hair, the lack of typical New York stench, and her favorite little guy—Jeff the Landshark—on a leash, waddling in front of her, was all that she needed in life. Forget vigilante, mutant nonsense, her life was perfect in the present moment: Walking along the streets of the Lower East Side, waiting for Gwen to pick Jeff up.

Kamala sighs, stopping in her tracks. She checks her phone, pursing her lips—Gwen was never late. Something must have held her up—maybe something dangerous—maybe she could—

Jeff brushes beside her leg, making her pause. Kamala shrugs and pockets her phone. Waiting wouldn’t hurt before the two of them likely had to go off and save Gwen.

“Gwen is just a bit late, that’s all.” She crouches down and smiles, scratching the underside of his chin. “If she’s not here, we’ll go looking for her in say… ten minutes?” Jeff lets out a purr, and Kamala can’t help but feel her heart melt. “Alright! Good plan.” 

She plops down on the street corner, and surprisingly, sitting next to Jeff wasn’t too bad. The worst thing his energetically small body does is stomp his feet around in circles.

Sitting there, she feels the exhaustion from her bones seep into her muscles, similar to how sunlight brushes across the horizon—silky, warm, and tender. Every second of each day was spent either fighting for a plethora of things—ranging from world ending disasters or cats in an alley—or sleeping. There was little time for the inbetween, which was now, sitting along the edge of a bustling street, Corlears Park against her back, and the lights above the both of them.

She takes a breath and checks her phone. Nothing yet from Gwen. Five minutes have already passed, sitting along the edge with Jeff. He’s getting antsy, trailing around Kamala as she calms her nerves.

Another five minutes pass. She checks her phone again. Nothing. Jeff has resorted to biting on the bark of the nearby trees. Kamala doesn’t have the will, nor the strength to pry him off without any collateral damage. She only closes her eyes and prays to one of the Gods that he stops without her intervention.

Another five minutes pass. Kamala has Jeff tucked under her arm, running away from the park. Animal control is hot on their trail all because she accidentally dozed off for a second. Who can blame a girl for getting a bit of shut eye? Well, supposedly animal control. 

Another five minutes pass, and then another as Kamala finds a remote alley, away from the blaring sirens chasing the two of them. They slip into the darkness, crouching behind a dumpster. With a sigh of relief and her heart beginning to beat again, she lets Jeff wriggle out from underneath her arm. 

“Mrrrp!!” Jeff pouts, tilting his head, butt planted on the ground. Kamala groans, palms pushing her forehead back.

“Don’t give me that look! You were the one who started eating the trees—”

“Mrp! Mrrrrrr… Mrrp! Mrra!” The shark spins around, back to Kamala. Thank goodness his feet kicks and his pout were as adorable as he was, or else she would have made him into taxidermy by now.

“Ok, look, let’s compromise. I am sorry I didn’t give you all the attention that you—” She shakes her head, slumping against the wall. “—needed. What are you sorry for?”

Jeff looks one way, and then the other. He huffs and doesn’t say anything. Kamala feels as though she could explode, smoke finally pouring out of her ears.

“Jeff, you starting eating trees in a PUBLIC PARK—”

“Mrrp! Mrrp! Grr!”

“Oh, so you’re giving me that attitude? You son of a shar—”

BANG!

Kamala screeches, reeling back from the dumpster, the sudden crash going off right beside her ear. She scrambles to her feet, dragging Jeff into her arms again, and staring at the, now shaking, big, green, leaking dumpster. 

“Jeff, if we both die, I am very sorry that I yelled at you, my sweet sweet angel baby cakes.” She murmurs, laying kisses alongside his fin. Jeff squirms, watching as a hand pushes the dumpster cover open once again.

A black and white hand… Which connects to a black and white suit. Kamala’s face pales at the sight. Moon Knight, in all of his glory, is hunched over the edge of the dumpster. His eyes are half lidded, and he doesn’t flinch when the dumpster cover hits him directly on the back, flipping back down.

Now, they’ve worked together before. They’ve fought robots and collaborated… but she’s never talked to the guy out of costume. She scrunches up, feeling vulnerable in front of him, as if she’s naked in a public area with no cape or spandex to hide under.

Through the commotion, Jeff slips through her arms, rushes up to the dumpster, and claws at the side of it. Kamala sits and stares, not knowing how to handle the situation. Clearly, she should get herself and Jeff away as fast as possible, but she should probably tell Gwen that Jeff is about to die by Moon Knight’s, clad in red and black, hands. 

“Aw… You ain’t so bad, huh buddy?” The Knight slurs, lending out a hand toward the curious shark. Jeff sniffs, grimacing after a second and pulling away. “Oh… Oh, budddyyyy… No I didn’t—”

“Hey! Moon guy!” Kamala yells before she thinks of what she’s trying to do— curse her lack of foresight. “Uh… What—I uh… What are you doing in this… dumpster?”

“Hnng.” Moon Knight blinks, twisting his head around. The cover of the dumpster pushes his hood further down, obscuring his eyes. “Mmm… Don’t matter. Nothing really does in the grand scheme of things, kid. Ya should—hic—uh… You…”

Kamala blinks, brows furrowing in confusion. “Are you drunk?! Why are you flying around if you’re intoxicated? Isn’t that against the law?”

“M’not drunk. You should see the other guy.” Moon Knight jabs his thumb towards the end of the alley, snickering to himself as if he told the best joke in the entire world.

“... Alright,” she steps forwards, keeping a good distance between her and the vigilante. Jeff begins clawing at the dumpster again. “Jeff, stop clawing at the dumpster. He’s drunk.”

“Nah, little guy is ok… He’s not hurtin’—hic—anyone. Got the shpilkes, huh ki… Kiele ? No… no, du… hmm…” Kamala is surprised to see his eyes scrunch up. He gives up with a groan, going limp against the dumpster, head banging against the outside. She doesn’t know whether to help or…

“Mrp!” Jeff finally enacts his end goal. Kamala should have known it was ridden in mischief. He bites down on the pearly, iridescent fabric of Moon Knight’s cowl and tugs. Surprisingly, it comes off easily, and Jeff bolts down the street, white cloth dragging behind him.

Kamala stands there in shock. Moon Knight slowly reaches towards his head, patting his now barren head. He blinks, then slinks back down into his original position. 

“Are you… Are you going to get up and help me grab it… or?”

“Imma rot.” The vigilante points at the dumpster, “in here. Away from everyone. You’re on ‘ma property. Gonna get ya, ooooga booga it’s the—” he hiccups, head swaying. “Scary monster man—gonna tear ‘ya face off real good.”

“Without your cowl?” Kamala bites her lip, stepping away from him. Moon Knight hums in confirmation. “Well, you know what—whatever . I don’t have time for this.” She crosses her arms, shaking her head. “Are you seriously just going to stay there?”

“If you wanna join,” Moon Knight grumbles, kicking open the top of the dumpster. It instantly flips back down again, and she cringes at the way he’s unfazed when it hits him on the head. “Plentah of room.”

Ok… Kamala sighs. “Do you need me to call the Mission?”

“Mmmm… Mission…” The man hums; she’s pretty sure he’s close to puking from the way he curls his body further around the edge. “You know—I love that house. Have I ever told you that? I think—” He lets out a sob, banging his hands on the dumpster. His hands are flailing now. She watches in morbid amusement. “Libe! Oh G-d—Not you, fack —”

The vigilante then, as prophesied by Kamala, hurls through his mask. It drips out in clumps, splattering against the ground, being mostly caught by the kevlar suit. He pulls the mask off, gasping and rolling straight into the dumpster. She only catches a brief glimpse of brown hair and tired eyes before the cover closes him in.

The sirens start again on the street. Kamala can faintly hear people screaming about a shark. She huffs, stepping around vomit and pulling the cover of the dumpster open. Inside, Moon Knight is face up, eyes closed, snoring softly against the black bags. She blinks and rubs her temples. He looks like a mess: Purple bags under his eyes, messy stubble, and a broken nose.

Before she can even think of calling the Mission, a car swivels to the side of the street. She looks up, watching as Gwen miraculously avoids multiple car accidents in the span of thirty seconds. The car gets parked sideways on the street, and at the same time, her friend runs out of the car, shooting Kamala an expression of hellfire before running off.

She takes a breath and stalks away from the dumpster, leaving the cover closed. Kamala looks between the commotion and the man, hidden in the dumpster. 

She chooses the commotion.

╚══ ☾•°◉°•☽ ══╝

The next day brings plenty of sun streaming through the apartment windows and a good breakfast to kick it off. Gwen made it as an apology for being so worked up and late for the pick up. Kamala has learned to do what she now does best: Shrug it off and don’t think too hard about it.

It isn’t until they both kick up their feet, Jeff in the middle of them, that she is painfully reminded of Moon Knight. Gwen flicks on the news channel by pure accident—clicking the wrong numbers—and there he is: Random strangers pulling him out of the dumpster on live television, his face blurred in post production.

“Wait—we were just there last night!” Gwen tilts her head, cocking an eyebrow up at Kamala. She turns away, shaking her head. “Did Jeff steal his cowl?”

Ah. The cowl. The cowl that had been torn in half and thrown into the trash upon their arrival to their apartment. If only Kamala could forget about it.

“Yeah, well…” Kamala trails off, her eyes glued to the screen. 

If only she could forget about the sour taste in her mouth when the news reporter laughs and shakes his head. If only she could forget the anger, bubbling inside of her, when he shrugs and continues on with his predetermined speech: “Well folks, is it something to be taken seriously? Or to be laughed at?” If only she could shrug it off—to forget how the camera cut off from him, to then showcase a montage of social media posts—memes, joking about the condition she found him in.

The condition which she knows doesn’t stem from something good happening. The condition that could kill a man—the condition that she chose the overall fight on the outside for, and not the fight on the inside.

“I want to rot here. Away from everyone.”

“Sources say: most likely laughed at.”

“I’m going to buy him a new one—” She claims, suddenly. Gwen looks between her and the TV, confusion and worry mixed across her face. “...or do something. Something better than a stupid cowl.” Kamala crosses her arms as the news station switches to commercials, staring at the screen with newfound ferocity. “Something better.”

Chapter Text

They’ve fallen back into their regularly scheduled groove, with a few differences. Every other day, at 1800 hours, the system—mainly Marc, as Jake and Steven swore up and down that they were sane enough without her help… even though the doctor disagreed—would meet with Dr. Sterman to keep their thoughts on track. Every day where she’s not seeing him, she would see someone else in the Mission. He believes wholeheartedly that the Mission has a small room for her hidden amongst the maze of halls and its darkest shadows. 

As usual, she sits on her velvet red chair, a tea cup in her hands. Marc is strung across a loveseat, made for two, yet barely fits him on his back. His feet are kicked in the air, and in contrast, his hands lay carefully against his chest. He taps the couch to let Mission know of his discomfort, but he can feel the house—a small set of vibrations and hums—slither further away from the room. 

“What do you wish to discuss?” Sterman begins the session as the clock strikes six, placing the teacup on the short table next to her. She rests her fingertips on the wooden top, tracing the intricately painted design. She turns to the couch—torn to shreds, moldy in parts, and reeking of bodily fluids—then back to the table—soft, elegant, and shimmering in the pale moonlight pouring in from outside. “Have you wronged Mission?”

The question draws her patient out of his stupor, and he cranes his neck to look at the doctor in the eyes. He’s tired, she surmises, as he blinks slowly and frowns. “Me and Badr had a disagreement. Mission is being petty and taking neither side.”

“How does it make you feel? Disagreeing with Badr after such a long time of seeing eye to eye?” Sterman leans forward, striking her signature head tilt and masked cocky smile. “Is it unusual for you two to fight? Did the system help you out of it?” She pauses. “Well, of course, that’s not how you do things, yes?”

Marc sighs, letting his feet finally sway in the air limply, giving up the strong, tensed demeanor. She knew to teeter on the line of guilt tripping and logical reasoning, forcing him through his own guilt to see his fallacies. 

She always drew things out of him, and it horrified him to the end of the Earth how well she did so.

“It’s not unusual, it was just… A particularly bad fight, is all.” Marc shrugs, turning back around to face the ceiling, closing his eyes. “It was about Khonshu, again.”

Dr. Sterman draws herself back, taking her teacup into her hands. Her patient cradles his own, as if muscle memory had pulled him to nurse an invisible cup in his own hands. The movement makes her note on her clipboard how his skin, from what she can see, is wholly woven in bandages. She’ll ask him about it later.

“Why don’t you give me the full story? What happened before this?”

╚══ ☾•°◉°•☽ ══╝

Light streams from the towering chandeliers like waves crashing onto bright, sparkling sand. The three of them: Marc, Greer, and William—who rides Marc’s shoulders as if he’s his own personal steed—quickly pivot their steps, slinking back into a side room, away from a large, noisy tour group. Before them are a set of horses, similar to merry-go round ones, adorned in multicolored leather armor. On the wall are people holding each other up, fists high in the air.

It makes Marc’s stomach churn, being in this Museum. The Jewish History Museum of all places. Greer suggested they go for an afternoon so that William could learn Marc’s history and his (un)followed rituals. 

All of it would make his father have another heart attack even though he was dead.

The two stand there, side by side, Greer’s hand gently placed on Marc’s forearm. It’s obvious she can hear how his heart has been racing the entire time they’ve been wandering along the halls, mind going mach twenty—as fast as Greer’s ears flicking to and fro—as he, albeit purposefully, shoves them from room to room. He knows his grandparents’ history; he knows his mother and fathers’ hymns and prayers; he was a good kid when he was able to be a kid. 

“Marc! Marc! Why are there horses?” William leans down to whisper into his ear. He had finally gotten the kid to calm down to realize that this type of museum was not one to be yelling in. “They’re like the ones in the big parks!”

“Yes, they are, dear.” Greer swoops in, swiping her kid off of his shoulders. She cradles him, teasing his hair with her fingers. “Why don’t you read up on what they are and report back to us?”

“Eye-Eye!” Will calls out and scrambles out of Greer’s grasp. He scurries around, unintentionally leaving thin claw marks on the nicely stained floor. The sight makes both adults cringe, and Greer's tail, always unintentionally over-expressive, curls around her leg. 

“He’s going to be the death of me,” Marc exhales, breathing for the first time in the afternoon. “I mean, he can’t just—well, he can ask about anything—but—”

“But you’re not ready to handle those questions…” She pulls his hands up, making his body twist towards hers. He squirms under her gaze, always unmoving and painfully soft. “I didn’t realize how conflicted you were about…” She waves her hand around, and then sighs. “Everything. Is it him?”

“Will?” Marc gasps, eyes wide. Greer's face breaks into a smile as she coughs to cover her laughter.

“No, no, Khonshu! Is it Khonshu, Marc?” She giggles, her hands sliding up to his shoulders. They rock back and forth, breathing in tandem as he nods, face blank and a shade of pink—her laughter is as sweet as honey to him. 

“It’s the whole father thing, Greer.” Her tail proceeds to uncurl from her leg, and wrap around his. Marc’s chest tightens. “I know what you were trying to do, and I respect it, but—”

I fled from a caring G-d, Greer. 

Or, I thought my enemy was my father—my faith—my life, and through that hunger and desire for safety, I only found war.

Or, I don’t know if Hashem will ever let me back into his embrace. 

Or—

“I don’t know.” He coughs up, pulling away from her arms. He crosses his own and looks back at the horses behind them. “It’s just a reminder of everything.”

”And, Judaism is more than just history. It’s community.” He catches himself; he sounds just like his father.

“I’m sorry.” She steps up to him, bumping shoulders. “Tell me, anytime. When you’re ready, we can always—”

“Mom! Marc!” Will calls out, and the two of them jolt, heads snapping to the kid full to the brim of joy. He grins wickedly, his cheeks of blubber force his eyes up as he points behind him. “‘Challa and big man!”

Greer and Marc pause simultaneously, looking up to where he’s pointing, blood going cold. Outside of the room, across the hall, is the ex-king himself, adorning sunglasses and wrapped in a black suit with golden patterning. He leans against the wall, picking at the underside of his inhumanly sharp fingernails. Beside him is the God of Thunder himself… In a pink polo with blue birds across it. 

The plan. The plan was right in front of him. 

Marc’s heart drops into his stomach, and he lets it burn in the acid. The lights get dimmer as the two Avengers look up, gaze meeting theirs. Marc can feel the entire system stand and stare around him, requiring a minute to reboot as if they all were robots.

Greer is going to kill me.

“Well, isn’t that fantastic?” Greer bends down, pressing a hand against Will’s ear. As if it’s a secret, she whispers to him: “Go tackle him, big guy! We’ll be right behind you as backup.”

As Greer stands back up, hand now wrapped around Marc’s arm—When did that happen?—Will goes for the attack, running straight towards T’Challa. He looks up from his hand, smiling at the kid running towards him. He drops down, extends his arms out, and scoops him into a hug. William squeals, now being tossed and spun around by T’Challa, shining brighter than the sun. 

On the other side of the hall, Marc can’t believe his eyes. Greer leaves his side, abandoning him with a squeeze as he stares, etching the big smile and bright eyes of T’Challa into his memory. He’s never seen him act like it in his life. When ex-king sets him down, Marc takes it as his cue to step up to the group. The rest of the system tiptoes close behind him, as if waiting for an attack.

“Boys,” Greer begins. “Why do I owe the pleasure to greet you two here?” 

“Lady Greer!” Thor laughs, voice booming. Greer takes a breath and gives him a carefully constructed smile.

From behind her, Marc scoops William up, placing him on his shoulders once again. The kid tugs at his hair, ratatouille style, and makes small beeping sounds as if he’s driving a robot. The sight of T’Challa’s face dropping and eyes returning to their natural—or unnatural, Marc doesn’t know—darkened hues makes him feel like one.

“And the Knight of the Moon!”

“It's Marc—”

“It’s Maaarrcc! He’s not working right now!!” Will reciprocates his sentiment, and in turn, Jake barks out a laugh. Marc bites his cheek as both the cab driver and the business man lean on his shoulders—albeit, Marc believes they do, as they beam proudly.

He can’t feel their bodies touching him—there’s no sensory input when they’re co-con—but he has imagination, and imagination, well, it never bode well for him. His can feel himself begin to sweat heavier, the room suddenly feeling like the scorching surface of the sun.

Hey, hotshot, you good with us—

Thor is strikingly taken aback, hands going up, yet he continues to laugh. It brings Marc back to the world and away from the embarrassment of—well, whatever the hell that was.

Steven and Jake back off, their chatter now hushed whispers. Marc feels thankful.

“Oh, by Odin’s blood, thee got a cute kid! Say, I have not met the boy yet! I am the Mighty Thor, King of Asgard, and the God of Thunder!” He puts his hand out. William leaves Marc’s hair to grab hold of his fingers, comparing his own to the Gods’. 

“Will! Or William! Uhhh…” He wavers, thinking. When he gets his words together, he lets out a small gasp, and Marc swears he can see Thor’s heart melt out of his chest. “Son of New York! And the Tigers! And the Moon!” He puffs out his chest, shaking Thor’s hand—more or less fingers —with a cocky attitude. 

“Ah! Tigers and the Moon! Fierce, aren’t you?” The God grins, finally letting go of William’s hand and stealing him from Marc’s shoulders. He throws him up onto his arm, and lets the kid dangle from his body. Marc is thankful they were in a zone of peace, one of remembrance, as he would have fought Thor, then and there, just like—

Before, he pauses. A headache pulses from under his temples and he grits his teeth. Was there one before? 

“We require the Midnight Mission’s aid,” T’Challa cuts into the comfortable chatter. Greer’s face drops, and Marc holds in his laughter at the sight of the two, a God and a lonesome king, taking a step back from her.

“You couldn’t have waited for a few hours?” She snaps, turning to Marc, and then to William. “You had to follow us?! This is ridiculous and low for you, T’Challa.”

“You of all people understand that I respect time with family. However, we don’t have time. There are thieves—possibly even smugglers—that are stealing deadly artifacts, specifically those pertaining to the Moon.” T’Challa pulls out a pamphlet, opening it up. On the paper, too shiny to be an inexpensive brand, is an organized list of stolen artifacts, as well as those with a high probability to be stolen. “These are all across the globe. We believe that they are attacking Athens tonight. We need aid. We need the pathfinders.”

Greer yells. T’Challa quips back. Thor takes the kid. He—

He can see the conversation continue, but he’s not there. But, he is there. He feels like he’s trapped in a statue. He—

He doesn’t want this—doesn’t want the argument. He’ll go, Greer will stop yelling, everyone will be happy, he’ll just—

A push on his shoulder brings Marc out of his trance, and slowly back into reality. Sand whips at the edges of his feet as he turns around, blinking at Jake and Steven. Both of their arms are crossed, and they look between each other knowingly. 

The world is dark around them, the only light around them is from the LEDs in the towering, glass skyscraper, and flickering candles scattered throughout the street. A synagogue lays two blocks behind the group; an old mosque is to the west.

Remember the goal you set for yourself? Jake opens up, and Steven shakes his head. What? You remind him about the plan!

What are you two… Marc hesitates, then looks between the two men, and back at the two Avengers… that aren’t there; he’s burning holes into a brick building with his stare.

Parallels, is all I’m saying. Steven hushes his thoughts, stepping closer to Marc. He tilts his head at the businessman readjusting his loose tie. The two that are asking for our help are two who we have wronged tenfold. Follow the parallels, but do something different.

In other words: Don’t be a dick and help them. Could apologize afterwards as well, you know, like we planned to happen someday.  Jake shrugs, following next to Steven, as if they were bound together by handcuffs. He slings an arm on the other’s shoulder, and Marc turns away from the two of them in order to not see their smug grins.

Fine. I’ll see if it’ll work, but— He points a finger at the two. I don’t want either of you around this mission. Got it? 

10-4, hotshot. Jake salutes him and Steven frowns.

This is a PR nightmare, Spector. Good luck dealing with it yourself.

Marc fades back in—a jarring slow shift into the outer world—at Greer’s large, drawn out groan as she rubs her temples. He mimics the gesture, a headache blooming along his forehead. “Hunter's Moon is still working.”

“He will have to close for the day.”

“T’Challa,” Marc can see Greer’s hair starting to stick up, and talons getting sharper in the light. Thor is oblivious, continuing to play with William in the background, having taken him away from the tussle of words between the two. “You are a part of the Avengers. Go find them."

“I can go—” Marc butts in, and is cut off by Greer’s finger spinning towards him.

Well, I tried. He supplies as Jake and Steven’s protests interrupt his own loathing.

Instead of listening to Greer scolding him—her eyes piercing and sharp, similar to a blade—he takes her hands in his and leans close, skin brushing fur. 

“Greer, if it’s dangerous, I need to help them.” He leans closer, and he can hear her silent purrs as he rests his chin on her shoulder. “I’ll make up for it later… I could take us out for the day? See if Coney Island is open this late in the season? Will enjoyed the look of the horses, at least.”

“You better promise it then,” she pulls back, frowning. However, she turns to Thor and her kid, then turns back, slowly registering his offer. It clicks, and she brings her hands down, resting them on her hips. “Alright, alright, but under one stipulation…”

“That is?” He inquires, stepping back. Jake and Steven push him back towards her as she looks at him with an unimpressed glare. 

“Go; grab your brother and get out of here.” She pecks a kiss on his cheek and Marc flushes, blood rushing to his face. 

…Jake’s wolfwhistle from behind him doesn’t help his blood rushing from his brain and to other places.

As she pulls back, she leaves her hand on his jaw, a calm smile breaking through her tensed grimace. “But you have to walk me and Will out first. You can’t leave me all alone with a hungry, weirdly energized, God of Moontigers.”

“Moon and tigers,” Marc corrects, slipping his hand into hers, pulling it from his jaw. It swings in the air, connected, wrapped together. He turns to T’Challa, faltering at the sight of his closed off demeanor—arms crossed, face flat. He composes himself, sets his posture straight, and holds his tongue. “Me and my brother will help you.”

╚══ ☾•°◉°•☽ ══╝

Marc hadn’t been out of the country in years. Ever since Khonshu took over New York, he wasn’t allowed—Avengers mandated parole, or something akin to that. He remembers tossing away the letter as quickly as he finished off a bottle of tequila that night: Fast and filled to the brim with anger.

He almost forgot the differences between everywhere else and New York. The tree’s tower above cottage buildings, with moss and vines taking them over. Small birds jump from branch to branch, alive under moonlight, and masked under the shadows. Marc curses under his breath as a cat skitters next to his feet and into a bush, flanking a bird hidden in the large spiraling foliage. The air is different—cleaner, and he feels as though he’s cruising above the oceans waves, bouncing his hands along the smooth edges.

Missing the ocean? Steven quips from the back of his head. Marc promptly ignores him, pulling his eyes away from his surroundings, and carrying himself back to reality.

Thor is in front of the group, one hand on his hip and the other on his hammer, staring at the gated off entrance in front of them. Moon Knight and Hunter’s Moon are in the middle, side by side—their brother is shaking his head, exasperated, as always. T’Challa carries the end of the group, back turned to the three, ensuring all sides are watched.

“The Hunter and the Knight of the Moon,” Thor spins around, hair curling against the slight breeze. 

(His stoic face, broad muscles, and serious tone does not make Marc’s blood rush to an undisclosed location. He blames it on Jake—Marc swears he can feel someone puke in their mouth.)

“We are not to go in with full force. We are to go in as light as feathers, observe, and if anything goes wrong: Retreat.” He points at Moon Knight, eyes narrowed. They jolt to attention as if they were in the Army once more, hearing the yells of his commander. “There will be no demise. No honor to be fought for.” He points at Hunter’s Moon, tone softening. “Reliable fist, keep him in order. You are the frame and foundation. Do not let this mission, this house, collapse.”

Moon Knight looks at Hunter's Moon, eyebrow cocked upwards. He looks back at them smugly.

“We will meet back up when Khepri carries us into a new day.” Thor spins around, now proceeding to unlock the gate. His hands work diligently, yet after a minute, he becomes impatient and breaks the lock in his hands, broken metal falling onto the stones below.

On que, T’Challa leaves his post behind the group, joining Thor in the front, pointing at the two. “If you find any of the thieves, detain them. This is an informational visit, not a violent one. Danvers’ orders.”

After T’Challa’s reprimand—which leaves Moon Knight unknowingly scrunched up behind their brother—Thor pushes open the gate with one hand, and spins his hammer up onto his shoulder. He strides in, T’Challa tailing behind him, leaving the two Avatars alone at the entrance, moonlight beaming down from above.

They pause for a moment, hesitant to begin. After a minute, Hunter’s Moon goes in first, following the trail of moon dust and feathers their father left for them—they are the pathfinders, of course, as Hunter's Moon always reminded them—and Moon Knight slowly starts their way in.

Marc purposefully steps on the trail, trying to stomp out the glimmering sand leading them to the artifact. He despised working alongside Khonshu—religious conflictions aside. They could have found the artifact by themselves.

Looking up from the path, the temple is overgrown, with long, spiralling white pillars, and broken marble tossed about. Moss crawls from the cracks of the marble, as if its blood gushing from its body. Decayed rooms are scattered across the grounds, large and imposing, yet massive walls of vines and roses keep each hallway contained into its own section.

It’s peaceful. Reminds them of the old synagogues' community garden—

Randall, beside him, shoving dirt in his face; he would always push back, snickering as his brother would get a face full of mud in retaliation. Their mother always had to break up the fight, as their father, Rabbi Spector, was tending to the people. She was never as good as their father at tearing them from each other, always stammering angrily over her words as they fell onto her, staining her silk, lavender dress.

Marc trips over his feet, managing to catch himself on the wall. His hand goes through thorns and roses, peeling them from the bush, and leaving them dead on the ground. 

How long had it been since he thought about the garden? How long had it been since he, Randall, and his mother would plant seeds every spring? How long had it been since he—

“Father, where do you lead us?” Hunter’s Moon calls to the peanut gallery above, addressing the sky. Marc feels his hair bristle, anger slowly building up in his stomach. “Give us a sign, greatest of great—”

His father would always hold his hands through the process of watering the plants each Friday. He would sometimes pull him early from school so that they could spend a few hours together, watering the garden, and humming softly to tunes.

His father would always hold his hands as he bled out, gushing out onto cold pavement. He pulled him away from families and friends to spend the nights together, washing New York in a filter of red. He became only three colors: Black, white, and blood.

That’s not—he’s not like that. He loves us. Love’s me.

The small voice shocks him back into his body and into the real world, with grass flowing under his feet and fireflies flickering. The smell of gas is suddenly pungent, but he makes no mind of it. He attributes it to the fire burning his throat.

“Greatest of great G-ds, we get it.” Marc cuts into his speech, storming past his brother. It earns him a blank look as he plods off, wringing his hands. 

The day had been rough; the museum tossed him off of his game. He didn’t want to hear any of his brother’s pandering to Khonshu. He just wants to go back to his synagogue, reading dusty books on fake kings and queens, and forget.

Maybe, we could go back? A voice calls from behind. Marc judders and looks back. No one but him and his brother are in the desecrated hall of dirt and vine.

“Perhaps he would listen if you asked?” Badr hurries behind him, tailing the cape dragging behind Marc. His cape carries the long forgotten roses that they’ve torn up. “It would be nice to hear from his other son from time to time, brother.”

Marc halts. He balls his hands into fists, body tensing up. “I am not his son.” 

Both fathers always looked at him with pity as they held his head in their arms, cradling their broken child.

“I am no one’s son. We’re finding this artifact on our own terms.”

“Brother,” Hunter's Moon steps up to him, and as Marc goes to walk away, he presses a foot on Marc’s cape, forcing him to come to a standstill. His brother takes a breath, and his shoulders sag a bit. “May I ask what has gotten you so riled up?” 

“That’s a Sterman line.”

“Yes, yes it is.”

They stare at each other. Marc’s eyes narrow while Badr’s open up, staring at his brother with pity. Just like his father—just like Khonshu .

“He is not my father.” Marc hisses, fire escaping out from his mouth, burning the vines around the two of them. “That is the end of this conversation. He should not be your father either.” Marc points his finger at him as he attempts to step away, but Badr continues to press on his cape. 

“Your anger is displaced, Spector.” The bigger man scolds, shaking his head. “He is my father, as our job is inherently holy. You of all people should understand that.”

“Holy? Khonshu told you to kill my daughter. Nothing is holy if your G-d is pressuring you to kill kids.”

“He wanted to punish you for being defective, but I do not believe in mass punishment.” Badr huffs, continuing over Marc’s rebuttal. “I was the defect with my original father, compared to everyone else. It was always: ‘Oh, Astaghfirullah, have you been practicing your rak’ah’s? Your recitations? ’ And: ‘Please, it’s Allahu Akbar, Yehya. Are you not grateful?’ ”

He trails off, brows furrowed. Marc starts to tug on his cape as Badr becomes larger, a looming, inescapable figure. “I used to have faith in my original father, but he has long abandoned me. However, you had it all. You have no right to dictate who is my father or not, run away.”

Badr crosses his arms, puffing his chest out. The starting of a tear begins to scatter across his cloak. “Do you think, after all this time, Hashem thinks of you as his son?”

“You abandoned your G-d, just as I did.” Marc pulls harder, his cape is almost fully torn. He looks up at Badr in the eyes, frowning. “Hashem has never wronged me, not like Khonshu. Your new father put you in debt, made you run away from your family, and then what? Forced you through a life of war? Would Allah ever do so? Would Allah believe in your life after everything?”

“You call Khonshu the greatest of great G-ds, and yet, isn’t there no G-d greater than Allah?’’ Marc points out, tone becoming sharp, following in Badr’s steps. “Have you made your pilgrimage yet? Or, is that when you ran away from your life in Luxor, and put all the blame of your failure onto him ?”

He breathes heavily—gas burning his nostrils—and even though Badr’s demeanor tells him otherwise, the fire continues to rage, and so does he. 

“You are a failure, Badr. You destroyed your life. You are the run away.”

Marc and Badr’s eyes meet. His face has fallen and the fire has engulfed him. 

Marc—Stop— Jake coughs out, trying to pull at his shoulders. Marc proceeds to tug on his cloak harder, mimicking his motions. The grass reeks of oil, as if it’s leaking into the ground water, and being sucked into the plants around them.

“I could say the same to you! Hypocrite!” Marc flinches away Badr’s strong, furious gestures. “Do you think Hashem is waiting for you? Waiting for you to come crawling back to him, war stricken, and with values against everything he believes in? You are the one who has killed hundreds. You are the one who has killed friends—family. I have embraced—I have loved, have cared for, and still have a world to live in.” Badr howls, his words as sharp as glass. Marc does not answer, looking away from his brother's pain stricken face. “Khonshu has given you purpose. He has given you a family. He has given you life. You went along, in your martyr ways, and destroyed all of it.”

He pauses, mind retracing its steps, his voice now shaky. “...Are we not family?”

“We are, Badr—”

“You cannot have faith in two things, Marc Spector.”

The world stops spinning. He feels as though the moon has finally captured them in a standstill—freezing them in time. Marc stares up at his brother's masked face; his heart drops.

“Badr—” His voice drops, whispering. “I—”

Badr steps off of his cape and Marc falls directly onto the ground, breath escaping from his lungs. His brother steps back, arms going to his side, back turned to him. The area has gotten warmer— too warm. 

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧



✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

“You have no right to say anything. You abandoned Hashem and ran to Khonshu. You abandoned Khonshu and locked him up. Where does that leave you?” He looks back to him, moonlight capturing his scornful features. 

A pause. The night is silent as Badr stalks away, the known sentiment hanging in the air. Marc allows him to go, his brain catching up to reality. 

Marc goes to stand, to extend his hand out—to say sorry, I didn’t mean—

However, as if the world has it out for him, a loud, inescapable screech ricochets across the hall. It stabs through his mind, wraps around it, and brings him to the ground. Moon Knight claws at his ears, curling into himself. He can faintly see Hunter's Moon crumble to the ground, doing the same action. They reach out—begging—praying—

Silence, darkness, pain: All interwoven together in one monogamous amalgamation.

And then: Nothing.

╚══ ☾•°◉°•☽ ══╝

From his dreams, he can briefly remember a fight of lasers, yelling, and fire. He remembers the smell of smoke clogging his lungs as he yells out, trying to escape from the smog. He knows he ends up cradling his brother he fought so recently—shaking him—he can’t have another die—

Randall appears beneath him, in their old, hide away room under the main floor in their synagogue. The carpet still smells of a 30 year old cleaner, the wood is musty from the humidity, and the two are covered in bruises and grass stains. They just finished school for the day, and while they wait for their father to finish his derasha, they tussle—roll around—claw at each other—

The fires around them come back, and his muscles scream at him to stop pulling—to stop trying to get at his brother—he’s right there. He’s right there. He’s right there. He’s sweaty and covered with grass stains. He can feel the ash fall onto his face, at the same rate that—

His eyes flicker open, being greeted by blinding, white light. He covers them as quickly as he opened them, protecting himself from the painful outer world. The familiar smell of alcohol wafts into his nose and he suppresses the urge to cough.

Two taps on his arm alert him to another presence. The light up top flicks off as he struggles to open his eyes.

Thor’s face comes into view and Marc scrambles to sit up, regretting the decision as Thor presses him down, shushing him. He groans and wriggles from underneath him, but ultimately gives up under the heavy force of the God of Thunder.

“Knight, calm yourself. Thy brother is beside thee.” Thor shushes him, now pressing both palms on his chest, and if a thud against the metal floor is any indication, he dropped his hammer to keep him still. “You are in the jet. We are on course back to New York. The mission was a drastic failure.”

“You are a failure.”

“What—” Marc croaks, coughing. He turns his head to the side, ignoring his world swaying, and noting Badr breathing shallowly on the cot across the room. His suit is covered in burns and blood. However, his exposed skin is already patched up, and he’s snoring softly, a calm expression across his once contrary face. “What happened?”

“An artifact ended up compromising the two of you,” T’Challa—Marc about jumps out of his skin at the sight of him, battered and bruised, in the doorway. He looks like utter shit: His shield is dented in multiple places alongside his suit being torn to shreds. He has a long T-Shirt on with bright letters saying: I SURVIVED NEW YORK. “The thieves were clever, having been there the entire time. They surrounded the temple in flames and proceeded to try to kidnap the two of you.”

“We did not retrieve the artifacts…” Thor sighed, holding the bridge of his nose. “Nor did we catch sight of these thieves' faces. However, we now understand that they wear a uniform outfit.”

“Is Badr alright?”

Thor chuckles, leaning back in his chair beside him. The two Avengers look at each other, as if they anticipated this question.

Why is he stationed beside us? Jake huffs, tired, and suddenly sitting at his feet. His cap is tilted down, masking his face, and Marc can see the way his head falls down, falling into the grasp of sleep, then jerks back up in a surprised, and awake, stupor. 

“Noble knight, thee fought valiantly. You did as all brothers would have done: Shield kin from the flames.” He pauses, gritting his teeth. At T’Challa’s nod, he continues. “...We almost didn’t recognize you at first. You should draw up some mead for the next few days.”

At this odd remark, and Thor’s worried eyes, Marc looks down at himself. His entire body is bandaged under a yellow shirt with the same lettering as T’Challa’s.

Huh. It’s like my first fight with Zodiac.

It’s worse, Steven supplies, bent against the side of their cot. His face is uncovered, and darkened eyebags accentuate his skull under his skin. It’s been a nightmare of a night, but realistically… He points to the two Avengers. Now is your only chance.  

It’s the only reason why we dragged our asses through the mud tonight, Marc. 

On the contrary, Marc points out. I said you two were not to be here.

Marc, I am tired. We’re only here to push you to do shit, so if not, I am going to bag your ass in the next five seconds—

“‘M sorry.” He blurts out, throat clogging. Jake gestures to him to say more, and Steven bites his tongue to keep from yelling at Marc. “‘Bout everything. I suppose.”

“Did you cause the ambush?” T’Challa perks up from the door, the sudden shift in conversation having brought him back to the door. Marc cranes his neck around to look at him.

“No, just—about everything else.” He drops his head on the pillow, exhaling slowly. It’s too tiring to keep his head up, and even more so attempting to formulate a good apology; his eyes are already slipping closed, weightless and a million pounds at the same time. “Kidnapping you, T’Challa, and attacking you, Thor.”

A pause. The two of them look at each other, looking around. The only sound is the whizz of the jet flying.

“Worse things have happened, Knight,” Thor shrugs. T’Challa sighs, and he gets the notion to continue. “...Although , being the king of Asgard, the All-Father, has taught me that you are always in control of your actions.” He leans forwards, clasping his hands together, still on Marc’s chest. “Actions are malleable, just like mortals. Thy can do anything. I can as well, and therefore, I am thy mighty Thor! The God of Thunder!” 

A grin breaks across his calm face, his own boasting making him shake his head. “I am not the God of stories, no, so let me put it in a way that a mortal would understand…” 

Thor clears his throat and brings up his hammer, setting it beside their body. 

“I am worthy. Many mortals are. However, do you understand what it means to be worthy?”

“Being a good, honest person?” Marc sighs, closing his eyes. He lets his hand slip onto Mjolnir, feeling the beat of Uru pulse through his body. “That—that wasn’t me.” He frowns, taking stalk of who’s still up. He can’t tell, and gives up quickly, submitting to the sensation of floating under warm, tepid seas. “It’s… blendy, right now. Apologies.”

“None needed.” The thunder God assures; they could imagine the warm, soft smile that accompanied the sentiment. “More than that. I am the God of Thunder, and yet, I am also the one who holds a storm back. I am one who tames lightning and humbles the greatest hurricanes.”

He presses his own hand against Marc’s on the hammer, humming softly. “I have learned that I need to be careful of my actions. I have to understand that not everything can be handled with might, or with valor. If I may have a name, as did my father, I must be willing to be restrained—to be compassionate —to be worthy.”

He breathes, taking a moment to ponder before starting again. Marc prepares for the worst.

“During that battle, one which even bested my own strength at a point, you chose the wrong action, as you had done for years past. It is difficult for you mortals, and I understand that. You have so much to have faith in. You have to have faith in yourself, in your Gods, in your world—It becomes difficult to distinguish your own actions and those caused not by you, but by your faith .” 

He falters, face falling flat, as his tone shifts into melancholy. “Your world spins so slowly, yet time moves so fast—I could sleep, and a hundred years would pass. I cannot imagine living for so long, but for so short at the same time.”  

T’Challa steps up beside him, arms crossed. “Your actions have neither been righteous, nor by yourself. We, as all people, understand that—I have been the Avatar to Khonshu’s step-sibling, and Thor is a God.” T’Challa purses his lips, looking at Thor, and then looking at Marc. “But, even so, you have waited too long for forgiveness. It’s difficult to trust you, as you have terrorized the world, not just us. Your own hands have caused war.”

Marc looks back to Thor, and the God scratches the back of his head, taking the hammer out of his hands. 

“You’ve thrown tens of Moons at me during that battle, Knight. It was a tremendous sight! Yet…” 

“Ach—What?!” Jake blurts out, and Marc covers his mouth. He ignores the odd looks he receives while his heart relearns how to beat.

Jake, you can’t do that.

Marc, do any of us remember doing that? Jake quips back, now rubbing his eyes. That’s a valid thing to be concerned about!

“You don’t…?” Thor falters, frowning as he rearranges his thoughts back into order. 

“...Either way, you’ve attacked the Avengers, and other innocent mortals in the name of honor.” He clears his throat, his words seem hard to get out. “We’ve imprisoned Khonshu twice, and yet, you only now ask for forgiveness… I apologize, but I agree with T’Challa. You’ve had almost half a decade, and as I’ve learned, that is a long time in mortal years.”

“And yet, it is hard for me to understand this situation, as a God. It is complex. I apologize that I cannot see it through your eyes." He quickly tacks on, eyes running away from Marc's, solemnly.

“I—I understand.” He fiddles with his fingers, yet straightens his shoulders, biting his tongue. “I should be the only one apologizing, Thor.”

“I am not done, Knight. Actions speak louder than words.” He pauses, now resting his hands in his lap. “I hope that you’ll find what you’re looking for, Marc. Everywhere, not just here.”

╚══ ☾•°◉°•☽ ══╝

“So,” Dr. Sterman clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “What are you thinking of doing about it? The rejection?”

Marc sips from his tea, now being offered something from the Mission. He takes a breath and furrows his brows, focusing more on the way the tea makes him warm—safe from the world and the reality of his own injuries—than his overall disaster of a plan.

“Any suggestions?”

“I believe that you should talk to someone in the field. Who could you contact that would provide you an unbiased opinion?”

“Reese—” Jake glares at him from on the top of the couch, or at least where he imagines him at. Everyone in the system had joined him during his retelling of the night. Marc dreads the massive headache and the high likeliness of everything being blurry again from their prolonged co-fronting. “Well, no, maybe—” Steven shakes his head, cutting him off.

“What about Wong?” Sterman tosses into his thoughts. She looks at the clock on the wall, the minute hand ticking close to the end of the session, and then looks back up at him. “You’ve mentioned him before. It would be a safe space—the Sanctum—and although you have a mutual rivalry…” She takes a sip of her own tea, sweet and honey crisp—while still tasting like the bottom of the barrel to tell her that her time is up for the day. “It could be fruitful for all of you to open up, and to connect with someone outside the Mission… To discuss rejection.”

She quickly adds, as she sets her cup onto the silver tea plate in the middle of them: “I am proud of this new goal of building trust, Marc. It showcases growth, and a resilience from wallowing in your own loathing.” She smiles, standing from her seat, gathering her personal things. “I am pleased that you are learning, or attempting, to understand that you not only need allies, you need friends.”

Marc frowns and ignores the warmth, no longer from the tea, but from his own heart at the praise. He buries his mouth into his wrapped palms, and mutters a thank you. Ignoring the doctors authentic smile, soft and caring, as he looks between Jake and Steven. They look between each other, and Mr. Knight, from the doorframe, nods curtly. 

Damn. Guess they're going to the Sanctum.

Chapter Text

The night fades into day, and as fast as the moon sets, the sun rises high into the air. Marc pulls down the strings of his jacket further, tightening his fur hood around his face. He sweats profusely under the oppressive summer sun. The rest of the system are hot on his heels in the back of his mind, practically dragging him towards the Sanctum Sanctorum through their protests and chatter.

You have to do this, Marc. Jake chastices—Marc’s shoes skid across the pavement, tripping over his own feet. His face twists into disgust, squirming away from his presence. He’s distracting.

Shut up. I’m going, I’m going. Marc hisses, scurrying away from Jake and Steven. However, it’s futile, as he can barely block out their overwhelming objections. 

Mr. Knight leads the pack upfront, as always, carving a way through the bustling street. He’s the only one projecting himself enough to be seen. And don’t treat me like a child, Lockley. We’re adult men.

Well, you’re acting like one. Steven quips back. Marc’s eyes bore holes into the concrete pavement as he pulls his head down, betrayal flashing across his face. What? We’re the ones pushing you to make your life better. Sterman praised us for it.

Sterman praised me for going through with the plan. Marc points out, looking back up to chase after with the white silhouette in front of them. Sterman didn’t say shit to you.

I also remember differently. “Got hot dir geholfn, zol zayn mit glik!” Jake squeals, putting on a fake, high-pitched voice. “You both have done wonderful things! If only Marc listened to you more! Yemakh shmoy ve-zikhroy!”

Enough, Mr. Knight demands, his low voice booming over the three. Marc skids to a stop, turning on his heel back to look at the vacant street. Mr. Knight is gone. Your bickering is helping no one. Sterman gave us a mission. We are to follow through, understand?

Buzzkill.

That’s what we’ve been saying…

Silence. We are here. Mr. Knight briefly brings the body's eyes to the intricate wood paneling and carriage shingles. The windows are covered by heavy, pale silk curtains, protecting the inside from the sun's scorching rays. Marc feels a pit grow in his stomach, sight blotting through the unprompted blending between the two.

However, Jake, always taking initiative and not ever a hint, tugs at their arm, bringing it up, and pounds against the looming door. Marc lurches back, scrambling to keep his footing placed on the burning, street pavement. 

What in the hell, Lockley?! Don’t do that shit—

—What? You weren’t going to do it!

The door creaks open, slowly, and loud. Marc’s blood goes cold against the New York heat.

There, stands Wong, in his typical green robes. He holds a snack plate—croissants, muffins, scones, flan, macarons, and berries lining the outer edges; it makes Marc’s mouth water, reminding him dutifully that they forgot to eat—in his hands. Bats weaves between his legs, trying to get at the plate. Wong’s expression is sharp and disappointed, staring at Marc’s tired, heavy face.

“Clea is not in right now”, “I need your help”, and “Boss! You’re back!” are blurted out in synchrony. The three blink at each other, and Bats takes the clue to stop nipping at Wong’s legs. 

“Ahem.” Wong clears his throat, filtering through their shouted out remarks. “What do you need my assistance for? Are there issues with the House of Shadows?”

“Mission—” Marc grumbles, but continues either way. “It’s… Private.”

“Very well, we shall discuss in private.” He twists around and reenters the Sanctum, retreating into its waxed floors and warm light. “Bats, if Clea or Stephen return early, stall them for us, yes?”

“Only if I get a scone in return!”

“You shall get your wish.” Wong looks back at Marc, who stands still in the doorway, uncertainty rushing through his system like a freight train. His brows furrow, “you’re letting the heat inside, Spector. Close the door or leave.”

Marc hastily does as he’s told and slips into the oasis of crisp air and smooth, safe walls. Bats rubs against his legs as he heads for the closed door, plopping down in front of it. Wong ushers the two of them into a backroom under the stairs.

He’s never been inside of the small, quaint room that Wong brings him into. A fireplace sits in the middle, actively aflame, with two red armchairs across from each other. Taxidermied animals—ones that Marc does not recognize, and which he deduces are not from Earth—line the walls, staring at the two of them with pained faces. Old paintings of areas full of sparkling towers and large, colorful crowds, scatter the in-between space. 

A fur carpet is on the ground, and Wong slips off his black flats before relaxing on one of the velvet armchairs. Marc does the same, and comes to understand why, as the carpet sinks underneath him like clouds under his feet. He fails to keep his dreamy sigh inside as he flops against the doughy cushions of the chair across from Wong.

“Understand this, Spector.” Wong begins, setting down the snack plate on a glass coffee table in the middle. “I am not helping you because I am your friend.”

“I know, Wong.” He slouches further into the velvet, closing his eyes and breathing deeply.

“Good,” he takes a scone from the plate and bites into it. “I am helping you because you’ve given Clea peace…” He pauses, hesitantly adding on his last comment. “And you’ve allowed Stephen to rest. As much as we have had bad blood with each other before, I am still his disciple—his shield. I am his blade to protect him. I provide him the breath that is needed to continue his fight. We are tied together, my Sorcerer Supreme and his disciple, me.” 

“It is… pleasant to know that the nights are now guarded by you and your mission. It has been decades since either of us have been able to sleep peacefully without those being curse-ridden, haunted by the extraterrestrial, or anything unknown knocking on our door.”

Marc refuses to acknowledge the way his heart melts and a soft smile breaks over his face.

“What do you need help with? Issues with the Midnight Mission?”

“Well—” Marc sits up, biting his cheek. Time for their new plan.  “It’s not with the Mission. It’s with everything else…” 

A lull, he swallows his fears and holds his breath. “How do you make people trust you? After doing terrible things?”

Another break in the conversation; confusion falls upon Wong's demeanor.

“Is this truly what you’ve come to me for? No supernatural nonsense? Just… Advice?”

“Yes,” Marc groans, head dropping into his hands. “Our no-so-therapist-but-therapist gave us the idea. You think I’m insane, worthless, whatever. I get that, but you’re objective. Pragmatic. I need someone like that—like you to be honest with me.”

Wong pulls back, his thoughts halting. After a moment of long, dragged out silence, he takes out a piece of paper and a pen from his pocket, tucked away in his robe. He slides the plate of snacks towards Marc, then places the paper onto the table. 

He writes at the top: WHAT MAKES TRUST?

“I’ll try my best, but everything requires effort and time. None of this happens overnight.” Wong writes that down as well, small, and in the corner. Marc’s face flushes in embarrassment.

“Yeah, I’ve figured that out real fast.”

“Tell me what you’ve been trying to do so far, Spector.” Wong looks up at the sweaty man, still suffering from the blazing, summer heat. He gives him a pointed look when he doesn’t respond right away. “Marc.”

“I’ve tried to communicate with people, but they keep on running away.” The vigilante exhales, dropping his head onto the back of the armchair. He crosses his arms and hides in his fur hood. “I’ve saved New York from disasters, I’ve worked with people, I’ve tried to do shit that are considered ‘hero’ things, but I’m still the guy who tears people's faces off.” 

He slings a pillow from behind him against his chest and huffs, burrowing into the armchair further. “The news laughs at us, Wong. Jake got shitfaced for a night, and we were laughed at. We slept in a dumpster for an entire night.”

Wong sucks in a breath, gritting his teeth, attempting to not have his face fall into an amused expression. Marc glares at the sorcerer.

“Well, I apologize. Let's start from the top.” Wong hums, writing under the top edge of the paper: COMMUNICATION.

“You need to do more than communicate. You need to connect, embrace, and encourage. You need to set boundaries—” He writes that down: BOUNDARIES. “—It’s dehumanizing to have no boundaries. It makes every relationship shaky, which ends up in a fallout.”

“Wont they just continue to run away if I become stingy?” Marc asks, frowning as Wong continues to write his notes. When he puts his pencil down, he pushes the plate closer to the man. “Do you want me to have something?”

“I want you to calm down. You’re beat red.” Wong shakes his head, brows raising. “And take off your jacket. You’re wearing fur in a New York summer heat wave.” 

Marc snatches a croissant and shoves it down his throat. It tastes of powdered sugar, vanilla, and sweet berries. Wong continues on as Marc peels his jacket off, another croissant which he hazily remembers grabbing is already held between his teeth. “And, on the contrary, having boundaries is not being stingy . It’s explaining to someone what you do and do not enjoy. You have a therapist, have you had this spiel yet?”

“Haven’t gotten to that point yet.” He mutters, grabbing another pastry from the plate, scoffing that one down in seconds. Wong smiles at the sight, confused, yet warm, comforting, and cocky all at the same time, as if he’s saying: “I told you so.”

“You’re your own person, yes? What do you want to establish first?”

Marc thinks for a second, before it clicks in his head. It’s sad, and yet all too easy to know. He leans back and looks at Wong worryingly. 

“...I don’t like being called insane. Or crazy.” He coughs up, heart picking up in pace. However, Wong’s face does not falter from his lazy, calm expression, so he continues. “It seems as though people say it because I have DID, or that they don’t believe what has happened to me in the past. Or, even worse, they don’t believe that Khonshu is real, but he took over New York. Everyone has seen him. I’m not crazy.”

“Does it feel uncomfortable?”

“I’ve adapted to it.” Marc shrugs, watching as Wong writes the words: ADAPTATION = UNCOMFORTABILITY under the first bullet point. “You’re writing that down.”

“Adaptation does not mean that it does not hurt you. It only hurts you worse if you repress your feelings surrounding it.” He looks up, staring at the man, practically folded in half by the armchair's cushions, in the eyes. “I apologize for calling you as such.”

Marc waits a moment before asking: “You’ll stop?”

“Yes, Spector. That is what boundaries are and what they do.” He marks a second bullet point; Marc unconsciously scoops a handful of fruit from the side of the plate. “Now, the second point: You mentioned trying to help people already. Have you apologized?”

“I’ve tried for a few people—” A few days ago was left unsaid, caught in his throat. “—They said that I needed to make my actions parallel my words.”

“Well, I agree. You need to rebrand yourself. Become less violent, and delve into the Embracer aspect of an Avatar of Khonshu.” Wong smirks, writing that down. 

“What do you mean by that? I already do that.”

“Marc, you do not embrace anything. You push things away. The only time I’ve only seen you not push someone away is Clea.” He flicks his pencil around, writing down Clea’s name as an example. “However, being an embracer does not just mean being nice, it means helping with menial tasks.”

He sits back up. Marc feels as though he’s being examined on an operating table with the way Wong peers down at him. 

“Your brother does this well. He runs a clinic and protects, as well as embraces, through his medical fortitude.” The sorcerer explains, calmly placing his hands on his lap. “Although it seems meaningless, another example is Spiderman. Every one of the Spider-people does this spectacularly. It's how the entirety of the world has grown to love them all.”

“He saves cats from trees…”

“And your entire shtick is working under an Egyptian God. Care for the stray cats around town. Goodness, the city would appreciate someone taking them in.” Wong butts in, cutting into his own loathing. “Do you understand what I’m saying, Spector?”

“Sadly, yes.” He grunts, crunching into the berries in his hands. “But, from a reputation angle, I need criminals to be afraid of me. It’s how I do my whole shtick. They see me coming, clad in white, and run away.”

“You can have two relationships with the public, Spector.” The sorcerer continues to write on the paper. Marc refuses to look at what he’s writing with his illegible cursive. “Clea does it. Stephen does it. I do it. Spiderman does it… When he doesn’t make jokes, of course. It’s simple.”

“Yeah well…” He finishes off his berries and goes for another pastry. Wong looks perturbed at the mass amount of things he’s consumed. “Anything else?”

“As always, of course I do.” For the last bullet point, he writes down: RECEIVING HELP. “To connect, you need to ask for help. You will give and allow yourself to have others give to you. You cannot only just help others. It’s unsustainable.”

Marc rolls his eyes. Right. 

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

“It’s the truth.” Wong slips the paper from the table and into Marc’s, albeit closed, hands. It balls up into his palms as he pouts behind his half eaten macaroon. “I have no other advice to give either than to not hide under your mask. You must be human, as we all are.”

“Well, thank you, but I’d better get going.” Marc shrugs—typical, cryptic “I have no other advice” Wong—but before he can clamber sluggishly off from the springy chair, Wong snaps his fingers, and something sounds as if it breaks beside the chair. It jitters underneath Marc, and the back snaps open, making him jump out of his skin. “What? ”

“It’s early, or well, late for you.” Wong shrugs, a smirk creeping onto his face. “You’re all bandaged up. It looks like you need the rest.”

“The Mission is a twenty minute walk away—”

“Do you remember number three on the list?”

Marc looks down. Number three is: RECEIVING HELP. He grumbles and flops down, body surprisingly heavy against the sofa. Wong arises from his seat, slips his flats back on, and turns to leave the room.

“Did you plan this?”

Wong wavers, looking over his shoulder, guilty eyes staring back at him. “Do not be angry, but I forgot that I had someone make these pastries from another world. Your body isn’t accustomed to it. A natural reaction is sluggishness.”

“So, you accidentally sedated me. Thanks Wong.” Marc yawns, sinking further into the couch, barely listening to the sorcerer’s continued apologies. “You win. Whatever.” He swipes at Wong as he goes for the door again. “Could you let Bats in?”

“You can admit you miss the dog, Spector. You haven’t been in for a few weeks.” The sorcerer chuckles curtly. “Have a good rest.” 

And just like that, the sorcerer is gone, leaving a tray of food, a small flame still burning, and an already half-asleep vigilante in the room alone. Wong keeps his promise, keeping the door cracked open enough for the old hound to slip through.

Marc refuses to acknowledge the way his eyes flutter close, his body warm and his limbs heavy. He blames the pastries and fruit, settling in his stomach pleasantly, and turning his brain into a pile of exhausted mush at the same time. 

He also refuses to acknowledge that, as he slowly dips back into their combined headspace, he can see Jake and Steven lounging together on a couch away from him, with Mr. Knight splayed on the floor, cradling a blanket.

Safe. Comfortable.

He doesn’t recognize that he somehow fell asleep until he opens his half awake eyes to Clea cooing at him and Bats curled together, with the two rambunctious snakes Strange quietly scolds wrapped around his shoulders. 

However, it doesn’t register as something embarrassing, or something that he should run from anymore. Perhaps Wong’s words finally got it through his thick skull for the day. Or maybe it was the pastries... Pastries from a different world.

He’s not letting Wong live that down anytime soon. 

Either way, he falls back into his comfortable, dark world. A hand wraps around his, and he can feel arms placed against the top of the arm chair, rocking it slowly, back and forth. Bats’ snout digs further against his chest, and he can hear his snoring, combined with the dogs, outside of his own mind.

Chapter Text

The sound of thwips and pained cries alert him to the scene, and like a humming bird addicted to its nectar, he swoops in to take a bite.

The scene is a disaster, a large scale bank heist with block wide diversions across the entire city. Moon Knight—or, Marc and Jake; Jake, who tagged along after chatting with his poker buddies for hours too long—lands behind a thrown over car. He pulls out a few darts, keeps them close to his chest, and peeks around the barrier.

Two burglars, in a typical black suit with cut out eyesocket garb, flank his right, oblivious to the knight, clad in white, waiting for them. Three are on the left, presumably attempting to book it into the bank. In front of the bank is Spiderman, his suit torn, with squinted eyes, and a crowd of webbed-up burglars beside him.

Do you think they understand that most things are funneled through Stark Tech nowadays? Jake scoffs, and Marc can imagine his face twisting into a disappointed look, eyes heavy. Putz’s. All of ‘em.

Do they have a hacker on hand? Marc pulls away from his spot, snapping his darts out to the right. They slice through their skin, and all of the crescents lodge into their chests. They yelp, pulling their guns from their hostlers, pointing them at him. He dodges the shoddily fired off bullets with ease, only having to block one with his forearm.  

Spiderman waves from the top of the bank stairs, acknowledging Moon Knight’s existence, before flipping into the air and sticking another burglar to the ground.

Could be why Spiderman is blocking the entrance. Marc offers, sliding onto the ground for the three on the left. They tumble over one another as he kicks in their shins, landing into a large clump on the hard pavement. You’re not convinced.

It’s too large scale, Marc. They wouldn’t just have a few goons blocking the entrance. Jake points out, and Marc, ever observant, gestures to the ones Spiderman already webbed up. 

As if the spider read their mind, he lands in front of them, and ties the three up into a large ball of limbs and groans.

“Hey, Moony! Nice seein’ you here!” The spider salutes, eyes going back to their regular enormity. “It’s not every day you see a bank heist not being done by a regular, huh?”

He ignores both his and Jake’s shiver of deep, unbridled disgust at the nickname. Bile climbs up the body’s throat, tenderizing the insides.

“Exactly.” Moon Knight huffs, kicking at the clump of burglars. They squirm around under his boot. “Are there more inside?”

“That’s the weird thing! There’s no one inside. It’s as if the heist already happened, and we’re here picking up the stragglers.” A finger goes up to where his lips would be. He pauses to think before extending the offer out to the Knight. “We could do another scan. Maybe look into the systems this time? The burglars may have finally adapted to the new technology being introduced to banks, but I doubt it.”

“You’d be surprised.” Moon Knight mumbles, heading off towards the entrance. He clutches his cape, bringing it up a few inches in order to not get caught in the web gunk across the ground. Spiderman trails close behind, blabbering off about whatever he’s talking about. Marc doesn’t have the care in the world to listen. He’s too busy acknowledging the odd stares, wide eyes, and large grins targeted towards him that the burglars have, all of a sudden, put on.

Everything considered, the spider wasn’t lying. The inside of the bank has its average pristine marble walls, no broken glass, waxed checkered floors, and all to shiny, golden bank teller lines. He brings up a hand, pointing at it.

“Where did everyone go?” Marc asks the universe, and it’s only Spiderman who responds. He rolls his eyes.

“That’s what I was saying! Were you not paying attention? Everyone up and vanished!” Spiderman sighs, slipping under the glass barriers attached to the teller line. He lands in the back, shrugging. “I’ve looked everywhere available, but I can’t afford damage control on my back haggling me to pay for marble, gold, and everything else. You could, though, if you want to pay millions.”

“You don’t hear or sense anything out of the ordinary?” Marc follows him, flipping under the windows as well. He lands in a crouched position, looking under the teller stations. The red buttons underneath each one are pressed in, but it seems as though the connection to the alarm had, somehow, been severed.

“No, nothing. It’s kind of creepy.” 

“The buttons are pressed in.” Marc gets to his feet, dusting off his knees. “How would a connection between the alarms be severed?”

They continue forwards; the hallway behind the teller line expands into multiple closed off rooms, normally all masked behind towering, intricately carved, folded doors. Spiderman webs open the side rooms, and as they pass by, they peer into them, attempting to gain any other information.

“If the alarms are connected through the bank’s servers, the system could have been compromised by a hacker. However, if that’s the case, that means Manhattan burglars are adapting, and I haven’t seen any regular, nor D-Lister, adapt in years.”

“Humor me. What would that mean if they were adapting?”

“That would mean…” They reach the end of the hallway. They stand in front of an elevator, its reflection exposes how on edge the two of them look: Their legs bounce in unison, and their hands are unclenching and clenching, as if preparing for an attack at any moment. “That would mean that none of this matters. It’s already done.”

“The burglary?” Marc inquires, pressing the elevator button. The doors open with a ding, and they’re greeted with a sickly, white light. “Or the people?”

“The burglary, but there still could be people.” Spiderman is the first to step in. Marc hesitantly brings himself to stand beside him. They click a floor up and the doors close. 

“Or it’s a trap,” Marc supplies, and Spiderman groans in response. 

“Or it’s a trap.” He reciprocates, and as the doors open, the two of them get their answer: At least twenty armed, masked individuals, holding bank tellers up to the butts of their guns. 

Save the people, Jake reminds. 

Marc squints his eyes, locking onto his first group of civilians to grab. I know. People first, burglars last. As a treat.

A treat? Seriously, Marc?

I’ll let you get a few punches in, Marc looks at Spiderman; they both are still, but he, in all of his Spiderman mischief, raises his hands in surrender. You can play dirty, as you always do.

Says you, and even though his voice is rough, attempting to be mad, he can still hear the large smirk through his supposed ire. Damn. Fine. You got me.

“Pals, buddies, amigos even, why don’t you drop your weapons, and we can all go home peacefully, yes?” Spiderman attempts to reason with them. In response, they shoot off a round into the ceiling, and the tellers shriek.

Marc pulls a few darts from his side, giving a look to the spider beside him. He shakes his head, putting on a tired facade. 

“In a few seconds, we will have the money in order to topple each and every single one of you!” The leader—Marc guesses he’s the leader, as he has a large, golden circle on his chest—yells out, cocking his gun towards the two of them. “Especially you—” He tilts the barrel to Marc’s chest. “—you rodent. You can’t stop us, and you—”

“Seriously? A big, super villain speech? Alright, you asked for it!” Spiderman, instead of waiting a few more seconds for any intel, flies off, knocking into the burglars. Moon Knight takes the cue and rushes into action, sliding onto the ground, pushing tellers from their positions, and ushering them towards the elevator.

As the first group is dispatched to the elevator, going down, Moon Knight takes the time to kick down a burglar, take the gun, and shoot off a few clips into the ground. The screams of the tellers, the chaos that Spiderman is providing by his grating teasing, as well as the massive gun fire, buys him the time to shove the civilians to the ground. At the same time, he gets back up to knock a burglar, who saw the fake death of all the tellers, out with the butt of his gun. They fall to the ground with a thud, and Moon Knight kicks him to a corner of the room. 

“You, and all of your pesky friends, will finally bow under our leader!” The leader of the group, ever so boisterous and ignorant, gets knocked down by Spiderman. He, once again, gives Moon Knight enough time, making the goons attempt to save their leader, for him to crack open vials of emergency blood for Reese and Soldier, and splatter it across the floor. The blood splatters on the freshly stained floors, and the sweaty, teary eyed bank tellers. If he didn’t know better, he would assume that they were all dead.

“Hey! Up here!” Spiderman calls out, and Moon Knight takes out a burglar aimed to shoot directly at his back. The spider swings out, knocks a group into a pile, and webs away their guns. Moon Knight kicks their webbed guns away, piling them up into a corner. 

I’ll get this last group out and you can play dirty. Marc hums, slinging a group of tellers over his shoulders and transporting them to the elevator. 

Just like the ol’ boxing days, Jake sighs dreamily, and Marc can’t help but grin. That’s one thing they always had in common: Boxing , and of course, being addicted to the thrill of beating the shit out of each other.

Your boxing days? You mean mine. Marc picks up another group, repeating the process. However, he has to pull a risky move, headbutting a burglar while taking the barrel of a gun digging into his abdomen. Once the guy is down, he kicks the gun away in one swift motion, ignoring the new dose of adrenaline pulsing through his veins.

I had my era!

I did all the work for our body, Marc drops the tellers off, gauging whoever is left in the room. Bulking, exercising, everything. You reaped the benefits.

Who, in question, gave us food to bulk?

Marc, after counting no tellers left, and doing a swift sweep of the ground, knocking out a few burglars in the process, rushes back to the elevator, only to order it to the ground floor, and step out.

Our mameshi, Jake.

Ha! Jake, having switched into the front—albeit with some difficulty, Spiderman must’ve been wondering why they were just standing there—cracks his knuckles. Really? Mameshi, Marc?

Jake runs into the fray, pulling his hands up to guard his face, as he cracks down on the last burglars, jabbing them in the neck.

What? I call her that—

He grabs hold of a man’s arm, twisting it around, listening to the pop of his shoulder before flipping them to the ground. Right after, as if it’s a dance, Jake slips past another jab from the side, and uppercuts another man in the chin. They cough up blood onto his fist, and the cab driver delivers a punch to the face in response. They stagger back, flopping to the ground.

No, no you don’t. You haven’t called her that in thirty years, Marc.

A hit to the back of his head brings him to his next fight. He promptly turns on his heel, blocks an upcoming punch, and kicks the guy in the crotch. His hands go to his pelvis, and Jake takes the initiative to knee him in the face. He goes down like a sack of rocks.

Also, your pronunciation is shoddy. Work on that if you’re going to use our tongue.

Spiderman’s web takes his next target, and before he knows it, it hits him that that was the last one. He takes a step back, shaking his hands in the air to get his nerves out.

Didn’t know you were so g-ddamn critical, Lockley.

Don’t fucking “Lockley” me you kvetch. Jake grumbles, and as expected, he attempts to move, but it’s no longer him moving. His actions have no meaning anymore. He watches as Marc, ever so coyly, readjust his cowl and look around at the brutal scene. Could have warned a guy.

We had a deal.

There shouldn’t have to be a deal to front all of the fucking time.

“Hey!” A hand waves in front of his face, and Moon Knight comes to attention. “Jeez, you’ve been spacey this entire fight. Are you all alright there?”

Moon Knight twists the spider’s wrist away from knocking on their forehead. He frowns and turns around, heading to the elevator. Spiderman, not fazed at all, trails behind them like a duckling.

“Hey! You didn’t answer me before!”

“About?” The elevator doors open. The buttons and floor are stained with blood. The smell of iron is caught in Marc’s nostrils. He can feel Jake pouting in the back, and he ignores the twist of guilt in his stomach.

“Dinner?” Spiderman slides in beside him, “there’s a pizza place downtown that I want to check out.”

The doors close. He waits for a response from Jake. Nothing comes of it. 

“Does it have Chicago style?”

“I—” The spider pulls out his phone, opening it at lightning speeds, and checking. His eyes drop once the website is pulled up. “No, it doesn’t. Do you only eat Chicago style?”

“Yes.”

“You are so gross, Moony.”

Don’t call me that .” It slips out before he has the chance to bite his tongue, and he blames the list, always reminding him, hidden deep in his back pockets.

STEP ONE: BOUNDAIRES in fancy cursive that only Wong could achieve. It’s barely legible and beautiful at the same time.

“What?”

Marc wishes that the elevator doors would open right now. The hospital-like light, the all too pungent smell of blood—it’s overwhelming. The spider continues to stare and Marc, ever stoic, all but wants to crawl into a corner and not come out. It doesn’t help that Jake has disappeared, leaving a trace of his presence: A patch of stuffy air obscuring his thoughts. 

It makes him want to cry, but he shoves the thought aside. He’s getting too attached again.

“Nevermind.”

“Hey! You can’t push that to the side,” Spiderman points a finger at him. The doors, coincidentally, open up. Marc goes to rush out, and the spider blocks the entrance, clicking the button to close the doors. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t block me in.”

“Then be honest.” He leans against the metal door, and cocks his head to the side. “Go ahead, I’m listening.”

“Let. Me. Out.” He growls, digging a finger into the spider's chest. It does nothing. Marc tries desperately to keep his emotions at bay. 

A pause. Spiderman only raises his arms and keeps quiet. As he should be—

The silence drags on. It’s awkward. Neither of them are moving. It’s getting stuffier in the elevator every minute. Marc’s eyes burn. He hates this—he hates this— he hates this—

Dammit. He’ll follow the stupid rules Wong gave them for Jake. The cab driver doesn’t deserve to suffer—

Because of me . Marc blinks, breathing shallowly. It’s all because of me.

People are now talking outside the elevator. Have they been in there for that long? He manages to crane his head away and look into the, now pity filled, white eye sockets of Spiderman. He feels something inside him break.

“Fine.” He pulls back, crossing his arms. “I don’t like the nickname.”

“Moony?”

“Yes. It makes me feel like you’re calling me a lunatic every time you see me. I don’t appreciate it.”

“Do you mind MK? Or… Hm…” Spiderman pauses, digging through the recesses of his brain for a new nickname. “Moon… What else do I associate you with…?”

“Glad you associated me and being crazy together.”

As everyone does.

“Well—Hey! That isn’t what I meant!” He exclaims, being brought out of his thoughts by that comment. “I consider you a friend, MK. If I knew how you felt about that name, I would have stopped, but I just assumed you kinda… Claimed the title of being crazy? I don’t know! You were threatening me once because you thought I talked to spiders!”

“You can’t?”

“No!” He devolves into laughter and steps out from the door. They slide open, they both clamor out, and then they proceed to rush out of the bank upon the sound of the sirens. 

“I’ve got a new one!” He calls out as they run, face brightening up. He flicks his wrist, web fluid coming out. Moon Knight grabs his truncheon, clicking out the grappling hook, and tilting it in the opposite direction of where Spiderman is headed.

“Seeya Casper!”

╚══ ☾•°◉°•☽ ══╝

The sun breaks across the horizon, light cascading across the towering skyscrapers like glass prisms. Marc stretches his back, dangling his feet off of the ledge of the Avenger’s mansion’s rooftop. It was the best place to watch the sunrise, and he hadn’t been kicked out yet, so he took his chances every morning: Sitting here for five to ten minutes, watching as people began to congregate on the streets.

He closes his eyes, taking a breath. Wong's words, however miniscule he took them in the moment, resonate in his head: “You need to do more than communicate. You need to connect, embrace, and encourage.”

Marc scoffs and slouches, tapping his fingers against his thigh.

“Jake?” He calls out, hoping to discuss the main reason he was here. It wasn’t for the sunset. It was to relieve the guilt twisting in his gut, constricting like a snake was wrapped around it, and he was its meal. 

It takes a second—Marc lets it take a second. He’s got all morning. He lets his breaths go long and drawn out, letting the first, warm rays of the sun envelop him; they mask the feeling of his aching bruises and fractured bones enough for him to relax.

What. Voice gruff, and heavy, Jake comes back, filling the empty space in the back of his head. What do you want.

“You’re mad.” Marc crosses his legs, planting his hands in the middle, and leaning in. He keeps his eyes trained on the sun. “What did I do?”

Do you want the honest version, or do you not want to listen tonight? Jake quips back, and Marc can feel the anger simmering between the two.

He takes a breath. “The honest truth.”

I need to see you face to face, Marc.  

Alright. Marc takes a breath, leaning down against the rooftop. He gets comfortable, I’ll play your game this morning.

Jake wrangles him into their shared headspace—a jarring experience from the comfort of the sun—forcefully pulling him down. Yet, no matter how cross his words got through it, or how contrary everything made him feel, Marc lets him. It’s fitting that he ends up in the back of Jake’s cab with him staring up at the mirror, a disappointed frown across his features.

The outside is dark; it’s as if the only thing there is the cab, Jake, and Marc in the world. Beside him are car blankets. He resists the urge to burrow into one, hiding himself away from the eyes that bore into his soul.

“You’re a good man.” He starts sweetly, making his tone softer, and Marc already regrets his decision. He wrings his hands, and his throat gets tight in anticipation for the worst to come. “You’ve come a long way from being the guy who tears faces off, I can say that.”

“Of course, there’s a ‘but’ there.”

“We wouldn’t be talkin’ if there wasn’t, Casper.” Marc’s face flushes at the new name. It was ridiculous—and he didn’t elaborate if he was supposed to be friendly, or if he was the not-so-friendly ghost—

“I miss being out there, you know. We’ve talked about it, but I miss it. I miss feeling like I have some semblance of control in our life. I miss sharing the body, instead of our constant fight over it.” Jake huffs, eyes flicking away from the mirror, and away from Marc. “I don’t want it to be only a deal for me to be out, y’know? I feel as though I don’t have any stake in our life anymore. I love the kids—Hell, I’d go fight anyone and anything if Reese or Soldier got hurt—but I only know them from an outsider view.”

He sighs, nose sniffling. He tilts his cap over his face and leans closer to the wheel. “I don’t want to be disconnected from everyone. That’s my worst fear: Being ostracized. Why do you think I care as much as you do about the stupid nickname Moony? It’s ostracization, Marc.”

“If the world was perfect, I would have everyone safe and comfortable under my roof. I would have it so we would have the best food—everyone’s favorites—and we’d have movie nights every Friday. We would have dinner together, recite our verses over meals, and wash away impurities. Maybe we could even have a mezuzah at the entrance of our home.” 

“That sounds nice.”

“Doesn’t it?” Jake pulls back, dreamily sighing before his face falls, returning to his serious, stone cold face. “But, we don’t have that, Spector. I have a dark world filled with bars, and Steven betting on if my poker games are situationships. But, you have a life. You have a nice, trusting girlfriend, who will go to the end of the world for you; you have a kid, you have friends, you have everything. What do me and Steven have? The scraps?”

“I don’t know, and that’s what scares me. Do we have anything? I know I’m still known on the streets, but does the new generation of kids know of me? Jacob? One of the last cab drivers in a world of advancement?” He twists his gloved hands across the wheel; it was something soothing to him: The feeling of leather rubbing against his skin. “I miss chatting. I miss knowing people. I miss driving the kids out places. I miss being a part of life.”

He looks back into the mirror. Marc meets his eyes. They stay like that for a second. Marc itches to hide himself.

“But, you’ve built a life. I understand if you don’t want us in it, but that’s the problem isn’t it? We’re a part of you as much as you’re a part of us. What ever happened to working as one?”

“I don’t know.” Marc turns away from Jake, looking out to the void. His gloves crack against the wheel, gripping it tighter.

“Yes, Marc. Yes, you do,” Jake shakes his head. “Just… Promise me you’ll say it one day.”

“I promise.” Marc frowns; his reflection looks dreary against the window. “I won’t ruin our life, Jake. I won’t screw it up this time. I’ll… I’ll try.”

He doesn’t add: Because that’s my worst fear. My worst fear is losing everyone, and I got so close to you two, that I got scared, and when I get scared, I lose everyone.

And I am always scared.

I am so, so scared.

And yet, the unsaid truth lies between them: That promise will never be fulfilled. 

“And, include us in it, yeah?” He chuckles, reaching back and grabbing one of the blankets. He swaddles himself in it and closes his eyes. “Maybe, even, you can relearn your pronunciation.”

“Seriously?”

“And, maybe,” ignoring Marc’s protests, Jake continues. “Maybe, even if it’s just for me, test the waters of our old traditions. I know you’re not lookin’ for something to believe in, but maybe, you just gotta let your overthinkin’ go, and have it run into faith, sometime.”

Marc stares longingly, now at the cab driver sinking further into the hard, worn car seat. “It’s too crowded in here anyways for your overthinking.”

Jake doesn’t continue, and Marc sits and stares. Just like that, the conversation ends. He barely notices that he’s back into the outer world until someone bangs on a window to the right of him. He drags his head to the side, lagging back into reality—it’s an old, puffy man in a suit. He opens the window carefully, leaving a cup of water and some snacks. There’s a letter underneath the plate.

He doesn’t go for it right away. His body is unable to move, as he lays and stares. Feeling. 

When he’s finally back to the front, enough for the world not to be blotted out in vibrant smears, he’s greeted by the sun, now high up into the air. The clouds swirl around it, as if it’s pushing it up, and he can’t help but feel as though the rays kiss his skin like an apology. 

He drags himself to the window, and tucks the letter into one of his back pockets. He doesn’t touch the food. After everything, he isn’t hungry. The snake that once twirled around his gut has finally consumed him.

Marc gives up attempting to return to the Mission anytime soon and leans back down in the same spot, letting the sun bake his suit until it’s unbearable to lay there any longer. Then, he goes off and finds a shaded spot. He continues to lay there, thinking, staring, and feeling. 

╚══ ☾•°◉°•☽ ══╝

It isn’t until three days later that he remembers he had a letter, and that he opens it. It’s stained with coffee, blood, and torn into large pieces, but he manages to figure out what is written through the careful lettering:

Moon Knight,

You seem to be baking up here! 

Come inside, and I can provide you with food, rest, and clean clothes. Your demeanor looks as though you need it.

...

Jarvis, STARK INDUSTRIES

…In an emotionally mature response, he proceeds to cancel his plans for the night, and rots in his cold, dark sarcophagus.

Chapter Text

Reporters flank Luke from all sides as he steps out of the white, shining court house. He keeps his chest out, chin up, and eyes lowered as his assistants part the seas of faces and cameras. The sun rises from the East, and its light, as well as simmering heat, smothers the citizens who crowd him. He wipes the sweat from his brow and readjusts the buttons on his drab plaid vest.

A month ago, Ryan Powell, a run of the mill young-adult working two, fulltime jobs, was accused of identity theft, burglary, and credit card fraud in the first-degree. As the gavel hit the sound block, he only had his lack of baby cheeks, and own sense of self-righteousness to his name. He was rushed to the Queensboro Correctional Facility, with his head up high, nose to the air, and that was that. He said farewell to retail, and embraced his new life in a penitentiary. 

Two weeks ago, he had declared to the investigators, who were still attempting to dig into the man’s theft, that he was not Ryan Powell. Instead, he was Tyler Sieberg of Connecticut, but due to matters unknown, he had been altered surgically to look anew. The NYPD brought him into further questioning, and there Tyler was, alone in a room with four cops, spilling his guts out about something far, far more dangerous than what anyone had thought “Ryan” was connected to.

An interconnected ring of cultists, addicted to new drugs circling the Black Market. Cultists, who for some reason, had kidnapped, brainwashed , and surgically altered Tyler for their benefit when he was a kid. Cultists, who deserved to be beaten down until they were nothing but bloody smudges on the ground.

Luke huffs, stomping up the steps of the small, makeshift floor for him. The platform shakes under his weight, and he grabs hold of the podium in the middle. The reporters circle around his station, and mics, aside from the one duct taped onto the podium, are shoved close to his face. 

One week ago, Tyler was assassinated in his own prison cell. Three days ago, the Queensboro Correctional Facility was burnt down. Today, the One Police Plaza in the Financial District was shot up and taken over by insurrectionists. The courthouse in the Upper East Side of Manhattan was their new headquarters until they managed to mitigate the threat.

Two hours ago, the insurrectionists made a statement: They are the Harbingers. Luke, and in turn the entire NYPD, assumes that the group is connected to the cultists Tyler exposed.

One hour ago, a police precinct order was put in place to help mitigate the Harbingers. Luke agreed upon the rules of the Constitution; that everyone who was to be brought in would have a trial by jury. No matter how long it took, he would ensure that everyone was treated equally in the system. 

He takes a breath, swallows before speaking—like his mama always taught him—and starts to speak. The reporters lean in as if his word is gospel as Luke all but throws away his entire campaign, reputation, and life in a span of thirty minutes. 

╚══ ☾•°◉°•☽ ══╝

“The NYPD and I are issuing a police precinct around the Financial District—”

The uproar had not left Luke’s ears. The hands that reached out, clawing out in desperation—the frowns, the yells, the cries—

The news stations had gotten increasingly spiteful, borderline racist, and Luke suddenly knew what it was like to be one of the first black mayors of New York. To recompose after the nightmarish, and stifling hot day, he hid himself away on top of an apartment complex.

Luke’s hands fumble his hold around his beer before he takes another swig. It goes down thick and sickly, burning his esophagus and settling low in his stomach. He grimaces, eyes lowering away from the smog filled horizon. 

Fires had been burning from the Harbingers territory throughout the day. From what the NYPD could see, all they were doing was setting fires to cars and chanting odd songs. The smog covers the already light polluted skies, masking it in hues of citrine brown. 

“I assure you, I am doing everything that I can.”

“You’re Luke Cage, and you’re letting the NYPD handle this?”

“I cannot do anything! I am bound by the law of this land, and I cannot—”

Luke tips the can over his lips, and the familiar burn greets him again. After, he crushes the can in his hands, ignoring how the metal digs into his impenetrable skin, and grabs another one from the cardboard holder. The crushed metal clacks against the concrete as he tosses the crushed one in back of him, and it lands amongst the rest he’s slugged down before.

That was the thing—He was Luke Cage: The Power Man. He had dealt with people like the Harbingers, and he had taken them down swift, powerful, and mean .

But, he couldn’t be mean anymore; he’s the mayor of New York, and even though he oh-so-hated how thoroughly he had to work with the NYPD, his wrists were tied by law. Anything tracing his money to his wife to take care of someone, or him tipping Misty off, would make the people riot. He was mayor , not a Hero for Hire. His dog days were over, and here he was, a happily married husband with two kids, and the mayor of New York . 

—Mayor of New York with a shit statement. Mayor of New York that was up over his head with the city's problems. He could barely handle the ramifications of Wilson Fisk’s mayorship, let alone multiple invasions afterwards—

He can barely even calm the public about the Harbingers. What had happened to him?

He’s Luke Cage, and only Luke Cage. That’s what happened.

God. Luke closes his eyes, already floaty around the edges from the overpriced, cheap beer. He can hear his watch tick down the time he has left up here, until it dings softly, and he presses down on the small buttons on the side to turn the alarm off. Instead of getting up and going off for dinner, he lets the world cave around him, and swirl as if a riptide had come in, and taken him away. 

He’d handle Jess’ wrath; he’d kiss Dani’s sleeping head, and then pry Joe away from his DS to be rocked to sleep.

Luke stills, placing his can down beside him. Manhattan itself is a besmirched, dark smear in his eyes, blurring further as he tilts his head around and notices a large, white figure beside him—

“Sweet goddamn Christmas! ” Luke cries out, lazily pulling his fits up. The world spins around, and a wave of nausea hits him in the face as he attempts to figure out who—

Who… He’s staring at. Longingly. Perhaps too long. 

White. Black suit. Moon things… Moon… Who did he know…

Moon Knight. Luke holds himself up in order not to tumble off of the roof’s edge, and into the busy street below. Accidentally, he lets his next thoughts spill out hazily: “Whadda hell?! Moon Knight?” 

Moon Knight hums, tapping his fingers against his knees. He’s perched on the edge, a can next to his foot, with his legs drawn close to his chest. Luke can’t imagine the position feels comfortable with his armor, but any sense of worry twists his gut, and his chest curls over itself to prepare for dry heaving.

“Cheap shit.”

“Well, I’m not lookin’ for good fucking beer.” Luke sighs, rubbing his eyes. “This day needs to end already.”

“So you’re getting trashed with…” The Knight drags the can next to his foot up to his face. His white, milky eyes scrunch up, “Dutch Treats? This is the lowest you can go.”

“What? You want me to drink the most expensive Vodka on the block?” Luke scoffs, keeping his eyes shut in favor of the soothing darkness that greets him. “If so, give me the money, the bottle, and leave.” 

When the vigilante doesn’t move from his spot, as heard by the continuous tapping on his suit that drives Luke up a wall, he finally reopens his eyes to pry further. The man is still perched like a pigeon on the lip of the roof. “Why are you even here?”

“Saw your speech this morning.”

Luke groans and decides to cut the conversation short by getting up. Moon Knight follows him close behind, while carefully spotting him from below, as he staggers onto his feet. He’s never seen the man’s demeanor to be so full of pity before.

“Everyone has seen my speech.”

“Wasn’t that great, was it.” 

“Oh, so that’s all you wanted to say to me?” Luke spits, spinning around on his heel to look him in the face. He knew he was a snarky, rude, and an abysmal asshole, but he never worked with him close enough for him to say that he’s a piece of shit. Never—

“No. I just wanted to make mention that you’re wrong for getting drunk about this situation.” Moon Knight steps away, arms hiding behind his back, and cloak folding over his body. Luke’s mind stutters as it pulls itself through his drunken daze to register what he’s saying. “You’ve been through worse. The Harbingers are your average, D-Lister criminals who are rioting for a day. It’ll be all over tomorrow.”

“How is that supposedah help me?” 

“You’re overreacting.” Moon Knight shrugs, sitting back down at the ledge. He’s sitting normally, Luke’s dopey mind points out, and he chuckles to himself. The Knight frowns at him, “Will you hear me out?”

“Nope.”

A pause. He lets Luke plod farther away, and as he’s about to jump to the next rooftop, he calls out: “I’ll tell Jessica you’re getting trashed on a random rooftop alone.” 

The Knight lets the silence drag out as the tension in the air builds, watching closely as Luke wavers in his steps, the gears in his mind going through the situation. Luke swears he can see a smirk take form from under the black mask when he turns back around to flip him off. “And that’s why you’re skipping out on family dinner.”

He pats his spot next to him, and Luke swallows down his anger, boiling up through his throat—or perhaps that’s vomit—to sit back down next to him. Even though he’s missing a few important cogs in his reasoning right now, he knows that the vigilante never bluffs. Therefore, he grumbles, and refuses to look at him as the conversation continues.

(If he stumbled through the pile of crushed cans, cursed loudly, and almost fell onto his face, it is between him and Moon Knight.)

“Are you going to hear me out?” 

“Hell no. You just guilt tripped me.”

“Well,” he clicks his tongue, tilting his head. “I suppose that I just wanted to admit something to you, Cage. It’s been long overdue.”

Luke glares at him. The Knight scoots over a few inches to not feel the heat of his anger radiating off of him—Or so he’s not in the splash zone of the vomit now bubbling at the edge of the tip of his throat.

“It’s not that you’re a piece of shit, if that’s what you’re thinking…” Another pause—Will he ever get to the point? “You’ve allowed my Midnight Mission to continue, even past my death. When Kingpin took control, I thought that the Mission was over. When you took control, I had some renewed hope that I could continue helping my people through this guise —Moon Knight, Mr. Knight—whoever you think of me as.”

“When I came back from the dead, suddenly planted into a Vampiric invasion, you allowed the Mission to be used as a bunker for safety. I saw your emergency broadcasts alerting people to go to my Midnight Mission. You trusted us.” The Knight clears his throat, attempting to cover up his voice breaking at the end, even though it was clearly obvious. Luke can’t help as his jaw goes slack, ajar from the sudden burst of… Admiration? For himself? His work?

“Well, I havetah trust ‘ya. I’m the Mayor. It’d be goin’ against my people’s wishes if I didn’t trust your Midnight Mission.” Luke shrugs it off, pouting at the horizon line rather than the Knight clad in black and white. 

The Knight unsheathes a crescent dart and fiddles with it in his hands, looking at it rather than at the mayor. “That’s the reason I am here. You are always acting for everyone’s wishes, never your own. Your campaign has been strong… Maybe the strongest I’ve ever seen. People trust you. If they didn’t, then people would still be in the Financial District, being terrorized by criminals.”

“You’ve got two kids, a wife, being mayor, and… letting go being a Hero for Hire to balance. I know what it’s like for things to make you up, and the feeling of being forced to let go of them.” The light from his eyes darken as saturated turquoise cascades across his cheekbones, losing himself in flicking the dart around. Luke stares with oddly captured interest. “But, you have to figure out a balance, as well as embracing what makes you up, and I know you will. You’re Luke Cage. You’ve been through hell and back. The people trust you. I can’t imagine a little bit of bad press and new-aged criminals are going to tear down the Power Man .”

“I don’t think I can imagine a world without the Power Man, but I don’t think I can imagine a world without Luke Cage being… Luke Cage . The Mayor. The Husband. I don’t think anyone else can either. If you give up on one of them, I don’t think anyone could see you as Luke Cage anymore. I don't think you'd be the same guy, doing everything even for them, even as they bash you on the news.”

"But that's just me, I suppose."

With a croon, the Knight gets up, and Luke, terribly so, feels refreshed. It’s as if the heat from the summer sun, which has buried under every surface, had been torn from the Earth, leaving a crisp draft, without having to choke through thick air. As he darts from the skyline to the Knight to say something—he’s already gone, leaving him alone. 

Alone in a sweat soaked, yellow T-shirt, and after a few seconds, vomit stained pants.

Damn. 

Luke pulls out his phone, scrambling to the messages in order to text Jess and put in his notes app: Moon Knight—Dinner? Something? Think of something. Fuck. Figure out his new pep-talk (that was fucking weird??) deal. Get out. Get flowers for Jess. Christmas, you’re gonna die.

╚══ ☾•°◉°•☽ ══╝

Marc collapses at his spot on the Avengers Mansion’s rooftop once again. He curls his hands above his head, humming a slow, lazy tune as the sun covers his form. Steven hums along, practically pushed right up beside him, as they both tap their knuckles onto the shingles along to the beat.

It had been one of those good, rare nights, alright.

The night—besides the Harbinger problem, who are not their issue territorial wise—was peaceful. They talked Cage out of his drunken mind, managed to get a bite to eat down at a local Italian store, and had coffee with Reese. He couldn’t help but let his head bob to their imaginary tune while his body melts against the rough shingles.

I heard you had a fight with Jake, Steven drawls with his sickly bite and no play. Unfortunately for Marc, whose gut decides to flip over and choke itself whenever there’s any confrontation, Steven’s projecting enough through their bond to be felt—his emotions, his presence, his everything.

Marc groans and attempts to move away from the businessman, trying to shut the conversation down. Ah, ah, ah—no. You are not going to walk away from the same conversation with me, yes?

“We don’t need the same conversation.”

I believe we do, and with what Marc can only imagine as a lackluster smile, Steven gets closer—way too close —and it’s all Marc can think of before Steven takes a dragged out breath. 

I believe we need this conversation as much as you needed to have that talk with Jake, hm?

“You’re a petty bastard.”

And you’re a little piece of shit, how about that? He tuts, and Marc can imagine the way his brows wrinkle, thinking past their current dilemma of him not wanting to begin—fingers tenting close to his face, full of masked emotion, and ready to let loose on him—gelled back hair—cinereous eyes—

Marc’s heart skips a beat and he forgets how to breathe. The conversation is supposed to be serious, dammit.

“You—” Marc pulls himself back together, and picks at the hard lines engraved into his suit. “What?”

What? Steven huffs, all snooty, and nose up in the air. I can say what I want to. I am a grown man now, as we all are, and I believe, that as grown men—

“Fine. Lay it on me. What do you want to say?”

I am terrified.

Marc bores holes into the sky with his eyes. He doesn’t close them until it hurts, and only then, does he muster the strength to drag his wide-eyes together to blink. 

It isn’t until a few minutes pass that he realizes he needs to respond. “What?”

You heard me, Marc. I am terrified. I am jealous. I am feeling… A lot of things that I don’t know how to feel right now. Steven sighs, shoulders barely bringing themselves to shrug it off. There’s this weird thing about the people we’ve been fighting; there’s these new Harbingers at the center of it right now; we’ve barely talked to Diatrice for a while; I want to know people—

A breath for himself to recompose, and he’s off again. 

Love is complicated. I don’t know how to feel about it. I don’t know if I want to feel it at all, honestly. The businessman lets his hands fall into his lap, already exhausted from the sudden surge of pure, unbridled, emotion. It’s tiring. I’m so tired of hearing you fight with everyone all the time. I wake up some days and I don’t want to leave my office because, quite frankly, I don’t want to hear the fighting—your fighting—

I loved Marlene, he snaps to another line of thought, albeit incoherent, yet steady in tone all the way through. But I hated her. She hated us, so I suppose we were both ticking time bombs primed for explosion.

I want to feel that again—what is it? Love? I suppose it would be love, but were we ever loved by her? Did we ever love her?

“We loved her.”

But did we? After everything that we did—that you did—do you truly believe that this plan, the idea of making people love you, will work? Steven pauses, waiting for a reaction, and when none comes, he goes on. You’ve thought about that.

“Of course.”

Are you ready?

No. “Ready to be loved?”

Loved again, Marc. Loved again.

A pause. He traces the clouds with his eyes as if he’s attempting to memorize their shape. 

“Yes.”

I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do when they love me. I don’t know what to— 

Then, Steven gets closer, and Marc’s heartbeat kicks back up. For me, at least, stop fighting. Stop trying to fight everyone all the time, just as you did at the start of this conversation… And like Jake said, it would be nice to get to know your new friends. A pause, and Marc can feel him beaming across their bond. Everyone looks and sounds so lovely.

“They are,” and for the thousandth time, he means it. He doesn’t know what he’d do without them all by his side.

He’s so scared of what will happen when it comes the time for them to finally leave. It always happens.

Thank you for letting me talk. Steven stutters, clearing his throat. Just rip it off like a bandaid, right?

“Mm…” Marc rolls his shoulders, and stretches his back. “Do you want to have coffee with Reese tomorrow then?”

“Who in the hell are you talking to?”

Marc all but jumps out of his skin, pulling out his truncheon from his thigh and pointing it at—

Luke Cage, who is beaten to shit, his yellow shirt torn to shreds, and his black pants partly still on fire from small embers… And caked in vomit. 

Luke Cage, who stares at him with a thick, heavy glower that penetrates through Marc’s lax daze. Steven stifles his laughter at the way blood drains from Marc’s face.

“Myself.” He coughs up and scrambles to his feet. “How did you get up here?”

“I took the stairs.” Luke flicks his Avengers card into the forefront. Marc squints at it, and it’s suddenly his turn to keep down his laughter at the terrible photo plastered on the flimsy paper. “Every Avenger has access to this building.”

“Doesn’t answer why you’re up here.”

“Didn’t ask why. You only asked how.” Luke grins, hands on his hips, as Marc clicks his truncheon back onto his thigh, grumbling. He was so ready for a fight… “How about some breakfast, ya? It’ll be something to make up for you helpin’ me last night.”

“Breakfast? Really.”

Luke shrugs, “I’ve been fighting the Harbingers all night. You’ve been here dozing off in the sun like a cat. Let’s grab some grub.” And just like that, he folds himself back through the window he came from, and leaves. 

Marc, hesitantly, follows. Steven trills with excitement from behind him.

╚══ ☾•°◉°•☽ ══╝

Marc didn’t know why he agreed to do this. He’s sitting in a booth while Luke orders for the two of them. He has his mask drawn up half-mast, and it tugs down on his, once again, broken nose. He was forced into a yellow, merchandized, Power Man T-shirt, and only complied to take off his cowl when Luke said he could carry it around. It is currently stuffed to the side of the seat next to him, hiding his weapons.

He is not buying another cowl. Do you know how expensive they are? For a simple piece of fabric? Do you know how much that one shvantz—apologies—shark cost him?

When the waiter trots away, obviously too tired for his morning shift, Luke clasps his hand on the table and looks across it warmly. Marc attempts to reciprocate, to fit in with his demeanor, but he looks as if he’s constipated instead. 

A wave of dizziness washes over him—maybe from the lack of food, water, something—and in turn, Marc lets his hand hold up his head. He twists his face to look at Luke as best as possible without staring as if he’s too interested.

“So, the Harbingers—”

.

.

.

What about—

All of a sudden, he’s looking at himself in a mirror, thoughts torn from his mind, and gelling his hair for the day. He blinks, freezing, his nerves vibrating with confusion and distress. His mind feels foggy, and he wants to shake it away as fast as possible.

No more Luke Cage. No more breakfast. No more warm smiles and bright lights. His stomach feels full, and yet it’s as if he’s starving at the same time.

What in the— He shakes his hands, the feeling of slimy, and all-too-watery, goo making his brain twist and turn. The shaking only results in the gell splattering against the mirror, and he growls, low and perturbed.

When he goes to wash his hands, sliding across the metal sink handles, he catches a glimpse of writing strewn across his arms. 

It’s Steven's writing: All too fancy to be Jake’s, and too straight to be Marc’s. 

Had breakfast with the mayor. Harbingers are gone. Look further into them. Their insignia was a moon. I think he (Marc assumes Cage) knows we’re plural. 

And then, further down, scribbled out and then rewritten five times over:

I think I would like to have dinner with them sometime. We’ll chat later.

And before he catches himself calling out to Steven to pester him about the matters, he stops himself, takes a breath, and washes his hands, proceeding on with his morning. He’s overwhelmed, frazzled, and…

And he’ll talk to him later. After breakfast, he’ll chat about it. About— 

Marc frowns. He hates to relinquish control, it makes his blood go cold, and his stomach twist around uncomfortably, but if it means that Steven had a good time with Cage, and that Lockley can finally hang out with the Vamps—

If it means they’ll feel more content with themselves, and their lives—

If it means that he’ll stop making them miserable, with every action he does—

If it means that this time, he won’t screw everything up again—

Then, maybe, he’ll let it slide this once. 

Maybe.

Chapter Text

Jake had planned to wear his favorite cap and leather jacket just for this weekend. The week of the "Great New York Heat Advisory", or what he likes to call: Hell on Earth; the staple of a turning point before the cold winds of Fall took the entirety of New York by storm.

But, now, instead of cooping up inside of the Mission, and sweating all of their assess off as the house baked them to death, they all—the entire family—was on their way upstate.

It all started like this:

Andrea, bless her heart for her attempt, mentioned about getting away for the weekend in Marc's bi-daily not-therapy session. He shrugged it off and they continued without a hitch.

One day later, Soldier made a comment about how his mom was going to sell an old camp upstate if no one was going to take care of it.

Two days later, Badr expressed desire to leave the pit of Hell that was Manhattan on an 107 degree day. Everyone agreed with him without fight.

The final straw came five days later: Greer's AC broke in her house, and the Midnight Mission's water supply burnt Jeff so badly that his shrill was heard throughout the entire house.

Jake taps his fingertips against the trucks steering wheel and leans back, taking in the sticky, torn leather, and smell of mothballs coming from the engine. His left arm hangs out of the window, skidding his hand against the wind.

"Hang on—" Jeff springs forwards, right beside Reese and Jake, as he ques up a few songs. After a few seconds, he tosses Soldier's old, ratty phone back into the semi-melted cup holder, and flops into the backseat—or, where his original spot was meant to be. To everyone's dismay, he kept going back and forth between spots. "There. Britney Spears. Listen and weep."

"You two are deplorable—" Badr, of course, hated that Jeff and Reese had taken hold of the aux.

"Britney Spears? I thought you were more into Kesha—" Reese, ever the instigator, sits on the center console. She was over the moon (no pun intended) that Jeff loved "2000s white-girl" music… As she put it. Jake had no idea what that meant.

"Badr, come on now, they're having fun…" Greer, who's squished in between Jeff and the right-side door, forces a smile. William is propped up on her lap, sticking his head out of the window. She holds him by his waist, keeping him steady so he doesn't go flying out.

"Fun or not, I am going to tear the aux out of the car—"

"You would not!" Jeff squeals. When the car hits a bump, he scrambles around, and dives straight for Reese. She flies forward, and thankfully Soldier holds her back, resulting on her only being shoved against the smashed apart radio on the dash.

"Jeffery Hagees!"

"He started it!"

Jake smirks, glancing over his shoulder to watch Soldier shake his head, irked by their banter.

…The same banter that had started inside of three-hour-long Manhattan traffic, and even-longer-hour-long New York traffic. Banter, which had progressed from favorite colors, to types of pizza's, to now music tastes.

Jake looks back to the road, matches the signage to the map, and takes a right turn.

Beside them are trees, towering over them. They wave in the wind, with pine cones like artichokes, and needles colored like the deep sea. At the end is a quaint log cabin beside a lake, seemingly with no power on.

However, the good-luck streak of the trip suddenly comes to an end, as the truck screams to a halt, skittering and puffing, when the wheels hit the dirt road. Jake manages to swerve to the side of the road in order to give the car a break—

Then, just by his own terrible luck, the car forcibly comes to a stop, switches off, and begins beeping loudly. Britney Spears is replaced with loud groans from the occupants, and the car yelling at him. He decides this is worse than Jeff's music taste.

…The icing on the cake is when Jake hits his hand against the steering wheel, and small puffs of smoke come billowing out from the engine.

"Kholerye—Augh!" The cab driver kicks his door open, unbuckles, and tosses himself onto the ground. The rocks crunch under his feet as he stomps up to the hood of the truck, flipping it open. Soldier comes flying out as well, flanking his side, and they're both masked in the plume of smoke the truck coughs up.

"I think the ignition systems shit the bed. Maybe even the radiator." He takes off his cap and lets his bangs flop in front of his eyes. "If we're lucky, it's just a loose bolt rather than the entire system being compromised."

"We made it." Soldier shrugs, swiping the cap from him, and putting it on his own head. Jake takes one look at him, and warmth rushes through his body, settling down into his fingertips, buzzing with anticipation. The cabin is still behind them. They made it, and the kid looks like a complete doofus with a cocked grin and battered cap.

"We made it." Jake agrees, dragging the hood back down. Soldier raises a hand, waves everyone out of the truck, and all of a sudden, Jake is carrying five packs—only one of his own—and they're on their way, walking all the way to salvation: Soldier's Mom's camp.

Somewhere along the way, the kid offers his cap back, and Jake gladly declines. He can't help but greedily take in the sight when the kid puts it back on his head and smiles—genuine and large.

╚══ ☾•°◉°•☽ ══╝

Marc opens his eyes, blearily looking up into the sky, as he reminds himself, through a chant in his mind: We're at Soldier's Camp. We have a deal of letting people switch in when they want to. We're at Soldier's Camp. Don't screw up this deal of letting others switch—

The heat gently lays against them like a purring cat, vibrating over their skin. The sun is high up in the air, and he lets his hands hang high above his head. He doesn't fight to gain control, instead—Jake and Steven would be proud of him; the thought makes his mind spin more—he lets it come to him in slow, gradual strokes.

When he settles fully into the front, and stops having to feebly grab at the fabric of the world, he realizes that he's laying against a towel. He cranes his head up, noting how his skin is half burnt off from the lack of sunscreen and shade.

…He made sure Jake packed them swim trunks for the trip, just in case, and regrets it at the sight of tigers in flamingo floats. Marc grumbles, but gives up his act of pouting fast when he turns his attention out to the water.

Greer, Reese, Soldier, and Will are in the lake in front of him. The four are having fun, letting Will climb to and fro between them while they sit in the water and chat. When he finally pushes through his confused haze, first off realizing that he's at the bank and not in the water, it hits him that the vamps are—

…He digs his heels into the plush loam in order to stop himself from barreling over to the two vamp's to do—something. Anything.

Remember, he tells himself time and time again, yet it never sticks. Varnae, after the invasion, made it so they were all safe in the sun. They get burnt easily. That's it.

Of course, his efforts would be in vain just by the way Reese soaks in the sun, and Soldier pushes her into the water. William trills, going to join the action, but gets intercepted by Greer, and held up on her shoulders.

Marc scans the bank further. Jeff is passed out on… something. He's almost out of view, if not for his foot hanging out from the tree cover. He surmises he's likely asleep on a hammock.

Brief flashes of Jake and Soldier putting it together are brought to the forefront, and he rubs his temples to subside the blooming headache. At least he's correct.

With one member not accounted for, he peels himself from the scratchy towel to search. It rouses a whistle from Greer and Marc tilts his head away, a blush creeping on his face, which hides against his sunburnt skin. He wants to burn the swim trunks and slip into his typical fur jacket with cargo pants.

Marc peeks around the property surrounding the cabin first, slipping into the familiarity of recon. It's a beautiful house, all things considered: Two, maybe even three floors, all hand-carved cedar logs, dusty windows, and an overgrown garden. When he rounds the front door, now only distantly hearing the group by the water, he pauses as Badr comes out with plain white swim trunks, and a cotton laced shawl over his shoulders.

His brother keeps the door propped open with his foot, then twists around, and grabs a three tiered tray from inside. Marc's stomach drops, twists in hunger at the sight of carefully made sandwiches, and then vomit climbs up his throat in the matter of seconds. It sends him reeling, and he stumbles back, failing to successfully slink back into the woods before they lock eyes—Badr's, cold and sharp; Marc's, wide and unblinking.

He hadn't talked to him since they fought. Yes, he had been pettily avoiding him, and maybe he easily accepted Jake's idea of driving upstate instead of him, even though he hated the idea to leave his family for that long, but it was also for this—

To avoid.

He shoves his hands into his tiny, stupid shorts and watches as the door slams shut. Unceremoniously, Badr jumps due to the sound, almost dropping the tower of snacks—sandwiches, apple slices, and pickles galore—and Marc holds his breath.

They both stand there, unmoving. His brother begins, clearing his throat, and putting the platter onto a nearby accent table. He holds it steady as the table rocks back and forth.

"Your injuries have healed."

"Yours too." Marc picks at his fingernails and looks away. He can almost see the four by the lake… If he squints.

They're frozen in place, awkwardly, again. Marc doesn't know how to continue the conversation, and after a few minutes pass, Badr gets the hint.

"I think that maybe we should talk." He steps down and takes a seat on the porch stairs. He doesn't gesture to the place next to him, nor even signal for him to sit, but Marc begrudgingly folds all too fast from Badr's glare alone. He plops down beside him, and outstretches his hand. As if reading his mind, Badr offers up a mini-sandwich from the first tier, and Marc hesitates.

"It is Shechitah?"

"Shechitah? When…" His brother's brows furrow before he places it back on the tray. "No. I apologize."

"I'm doing it for Jake," Marc spits, an all too harsh tone, while lying straight through his teeth.

"Well, everything else besides the sandwiches should be fine. I'll keep in mind to look for Hechsher in the future." He readjusts his glasses, plucks off a few pickles from the second tier, and offers some to Marc.

He fights against his knee-jerk reaction to curl into himself. He couldn't let his own brother know he felt ashamed for buying food with Hechsher. Like he didn't deserve it—he's too far—

He shouldn't have even asked. Shouldn't have even brought up the idea of stupid—

"Thank you." Is all Marc says instead, and scoffs down the offerings. The sour taste overwhelms his taste buds, making his stomach churn. "Can you the plate over? Preferably the apples?"

"If I do, then we have to talk."

Marc swallows his fears and nods. Badr seals the deal by moving the dish to the middle of them. His brother grabs a few apple slices from it, and Marc copies him.

"I've been thinking about our fight. I did not mean to call you… What I did. It was wrong."

He wants to tear his hair out of his head already. His brain gives him a flash of that reality, and it pumps adrenaline through his blood enough for his nerves to jolt his leg into bouncing erratically against the air.

His brother looks at him for solace, spurring him on to speak. "Yeah. What you said was kind of shitty."

"Language." Badr smirks, and Marc holds back a smile.

"But, I messed up too." Marc shrugs, plucking the loose strings from his shorts. "I shouldn't have called you what I did either." A pause. He lets it drag out until he hears a lull in the songs wavering through the trees. "…I just couldn't see past my relationship with our father."

"If it's any consolation, I couldn't either." His brother hums and passes one of his apple slices to Marc. He reluctantly takes it with shaky hands. He bites into it and sweetness floods into his mouth. "I know we were bickering over things that have affected us—saying things that we believe. However, I've been thinking about something I said: Not having faith in two things…"

Badr tugs his shawl over his shoulders further down. "Is it just to believe in something, but have faith in the other? How does that work?" He turns to look at Marc; he has to forcefully grind his teeth to keep his jaw from falling agape.

"Do you think I know? I abandoned both of my fathers, Badr, just like you said. I am not holy. I am not traditional either. I have a relationship with them, but they…" His eyes fall to the ground, and he frowns. "Neither of them are great."

"Hm," Badr traces the lace on his garment, keeping his eyes on his brother. His orange glasses do not stop his stare from being as cold as ice against his skin. "Then, if you desire such… Perhaps we could figure this question… Together?" His brother fumbles with his hands, and when realization dawns on his face of what he just said, he hastily twists his body around. Marc skitters to the edge of the stairs on instinct from the sudden movement. "Ah—If you want to, of course! I just thought, that as brothers, we have a obligation, beside our innate duty through Khonshu, to figure things out together. Khonshu made us both his fists. I feel as though we have to help each other. As brothers."

"As brothers." Marc takes a deep breath to steady his heart beat. "I'd enjoy that, Badr. How long have you been thinking about this conversation?"

"Yehya." His brother blurts out, and a flush creeps up on his face. "It's my first name, and—" When Marc doesn't say anything, Badr slides further away, now pressed up against the railing. "We're brothers. we should be on a first name basis… And, yes, maybe this confession went unprecedentedly faster than thought."

"Yeah, I can tell." Marc snorts, and Yehya softens up, eyes blinking again. "It's a good name. Better than Marc."

"You have a perfectly fine name—" Badr scoffs, but cuts himself off with a deep sigh. "We are brothers through death and through life." He places a hand on Marc's shoulder and rubs small circles into his muscles. Marc fails to not melt into it as they come back together again, shoulders brushing next to each other. "We'll get through this debt together."

And they sit there, calmly, letting the sun bake their skin. Yehya continues rubbing small circles into his skin, until Marc is buzzing between the inner and outer world. He's fallen into a safe balance between his skin feeling fuzzy, and the touch being all encompassing.

As brothers. As brothers. As brothers.

╚══ ☾•°◉°•☽ ══╝

The first thing she notes before her world goes red are Reese and Soldier's smiling faces, with her son struggling against the waves. His legs are giving out, as his hands flail to find something to grab. It reminds her of—

Of him. Of what happened. How she scrambled, trying to find something, anything—

When she comes back, and the world is no longer shrouded in a deep, crimson red, she has Will in her hands, and everyone's faces are twisted in confusion. She feels her fur bristle, fog creeping back around her mind as a warning, and she steps back, putting more distance between them and her.

Threat threat threat threat—

"Mooom!!!" William cries out, kicking his feet against the surface of the water. She doesn't realize that she's holding him by his waist, possibly hurting him, until he shifts and her nails accidentally dig into his skin. Instantly, he starts sobbing. "This isn't fair!"

Her instincts falter, cradling her son and pressing her nose to his chest. He smells of fear and anger. She lets a low rumble erupt from her chest.

Fear and anger is what she felt when his throat was in her hands—twisting—cutting it open, letting the blood pool out until—

"We were teaching him how to swim," Reese calmly states, but she cuts her off with a growl. It vibrates the water around them as her ears pin themselves down, and her tail flicks up.

"You were drowning him." Greer snaps back, and William writhes in her grip. His sobs rack his body, and she tries to shush him. Her instincts are telling her to comfort and protect, but her logical side knows this is wrong, yet it's hard to communicate while she's uncontrollably growling whenever someone moves. "I can teach him how to swim. Why didn't you invite me over?"

The vamps look at each other, and then back at Greer. She attempts to calm herself down, pressing her son against her chest, and taking his sent in as they continue to look back and forth. He still smells of anger, but no longer fear. Her instincts take this as a win.

"Look, I think we need to take a few, big, and deep breaths." Reese says, slowly and gently. She puts her palms up, open to the air, and Greer hisses—She learned that mannerism from Marc of all people, and it's obvious. He does that whenever they fight. "4 seconds in—" Only the vamps inhale in. Greer stills in the water, face falling further into discontent. "7 seconds hold—" Their chests still, and when she doesn't find Will breathing, she notes that he's doing it to—a silly thought that this could actually help, her instincts scream. "—and 8 seconds out." They all exhale, and then stare at her blankly.

"4 seconds—"

"I am perfectly calm," Greer frowns. Reese cocks an eyebrow while Soldier scratches the back of his head.

"Then why are you growling at us for teaching your son how to swim?" Reese retorts, pointing a finger at her.

They were doing something else—We all know they were doing something else. You're an idiot if you believe them.

"You have to let him learn. We thought it would be a good time to learn. There was no malice behind it."

"I can teach him perfectly fine." Greer snaps back, making the distance between them further.

At the same time, Will, through his squirms and cries, bites her hand. She hisses as her grip slips, watching in fear when her son drop down into the lake, wading his way through the shallows to the other side of the gap—

She's not there, he's going—

He's—If she's not there, he's going to be hurt—

Hurt hurt hurt hurt hurt—

Her mouth goes agape as Soldier pats his head, and Reese places him up onto her shoulders. His crying subsides, and he bursts out into giggles. Suddenly, the pieces fall together like tumbling rocks—

He's okay.

She can feel the instant her instincts shrink down inside of her, and she's fully back in the lake. The feeling of the water is ice-cold, and the waves rocking her knees is overwhelming. She feels her body shake, struggling to stand still.

"I can't swim," she coughs up. It's a part of the problem; the other part is her own instincts. To protect; to save; to keep close. If she looses her kid, she doesn't know what she'll do.

If she lets him get hurt, like she did, she doesn't—

No, she bites her cheek. The thought will make her cry, and she can't let her son see her hurt. She has to set an example. An example of how to get through life. Of how not to be hurt for life.

Reese's velvet eyes meet Greer's emerald ones, and they soften. "I'm not going to pry for more, but we all know that isn't just it."

A pause. Will is handed off to Soldier. He picks up a few rocks, and after the twelfth one thrown by her son, Reese takes a long, dragged out inhale.

And then, by everyone's shock, Greer mimics her exhale. 4-7-8. The kid looks at her with a surprised smile. She hates how possessiveness blooms in her chest as the smile is accompanied with slouched shoulders and a loosened demeanor—keep it like that. Kids don't need—

"If you're ready to say it, and to get your stick out of your ass, do it." Reese waves her hands around. "But, if you're not ready, it doesn't matter if you do so or not. We're still going to teach your kid. He doesn't deserve to not learn something because his mother—" She stops herself, and Greer is thankful, as she can feel her talons dig into her clenched hands. "Because his mother doesn't trust people she's known for almost three years."

The kid is clever. When Greer doesn't respond, her demeanor becomes tensed again. Her instincts scream at her to do something; she swallows down a pitiful, high-pitched whine.

It doesn't matter how long you've known someone, her brain spits back, but she keeps her mouth shut. She hates the feeling of her gut churning at her words. Reese knows she's right. Greer does too. What happened once will happen again.

She tears her eyes from the two vamps, and promptly, makes her leave. She dries herself off at the bank and stomps towards the cabin. She covers her ears and forces herself to ignore the chatter behind her, the half-asleep men by the steps, the heat being unbearable, the sweat reeking, and—

Everything. She tries and fails to ignore everything as she closes herself in, and doesn't leave for the day. When Jeff joins her in the kitchen, he offers her coffee—she can see her reflection in it; the crazed, dead look in her face—and she throws it in the trash in front of him. She doesn't care when he stares blankly and runs downstairs after. She feels empty. She wishes for him to cry and run away from the team. To leave. She want's everyone to leave, she wants—

When Marc finds her crawled under the table, pulling at her hair, and shaking, he doesn't touch her. He only looks at her, makes some finger food in front of her, and sets it beside her. After a while, he brings blankets, pillows, and a tissue box. She stares into his eyes, and it's the same look she knows all too well—it's the same one she saw when Jeff gave her the coffee—

Something bad will always happen. But at least we have each other before it all goes to hell.

╚══ ☾•°◉°•☽ ══╝

The cold breeze rams into Jake's sunburnt skin, and he curses himself for falling asleep by the bank. He should have known better, but alas, here he was, rubbing aloe on his skin, outside of the cabin, with a pack of Marlboro's beside him. He needed a break; everything had been fuzzy since the afternoon, and even though he couldn't put his finger on why, he knew it was something stemming from these steps, this place, and the birds high above.

…And a table. He's guessing it's the accent one beside him.

However, while sometimes fleeting memories came to Jake when he gave the time to investigate why things felt familiar—with the added rush of remembrance afterwards—nothing was ringing a bell. He knows Marc fronted in when they woke up, but either than that, the entire day is blank. It was morning one second, and night in the next.

He lifts up the pack of cigarettes, takes one out, strikes a lighter, and lets it burn the underside of the paper. The embers float in the air, and he takes a drag. The typical light-headed bliss follows closely behind, and he exhales, watching the smoke swirl against the night.

He loves times like these: Him and the world, alone, with a cigarette in one hand, and on good days, a bottle of Bacardi Black Rum in the other. It gets their body loose and the world spinning around them. It always felt intox—

A crash startles him back into reality, and he inhales smoke, spurring into a coughing fit.

"I didn't know you smoked," Reese is behind him. He smiles, and pats the space next to him. He doesn't need to look back to know she's already making her way towards him. He can hear the silent shuffle of her feet, caused by her bunny slippers—she was a loser, and Jake loved her for it.

"I'll let you try one if 'ya sit down." He chuckles, already scrambling for another as she slowly goes to sit beside him. He pulls one out, holds it to her, and she takes it. He flicks open his lighter, lets the paper burn, and stashes it back into his pocket. She takes a drag, then blows it into the air with ease.

"My father used to smoke Marlboro's, but I always liked the smell of Winston's." She smiles, her dimples showing against the faint light. "You remind me of him sometimes."

Jake barks out a laugh, and once the sound settles back into the ground, no longer reverberating through the dark forest, he lets the comfortable silence drag out. He watches from his peripheral, waiting for Reese to relax before he pries further into why she's awake.

A bat flies over head; the owls coo from the trees, peering for field mice; and a pack of coyotes can be heard from miles out, their cackles ringing throughout the woods.

"Is there something else that's botherin' you besides me reminding you of your father?" Jake lightly taps the butt against the railing, letting the ash fall onto the ground. "Or we just gonna smoke in silence?"

"I'm still a vampire, Jake. My brain tells me to be up all night." She hits her elbow against his, and he hits back. They tussle for a second, before she takes his cap off, and puts it on her head. He lets her have it, not caring of the way his cheeks hurt from grinning so widely.

"Ay! I know, I know. It's just not everyday I'm smokin' with someone…" Jake hums, throwing the majority of the body onto the ground, and stomping it out. "…And it relaxes us. It's the best time for confessions, I've found. Hell, you should have heard some of Ben's confessions when I got him to smoke once. Didja know that—Oy, I cannot—"

He breaks down into laughter, not caring for the lack of context. Reese places her head against one of her hands, peering at the man giggling to himself. She keeps her cigarette between her fingers, but lets it burn up in the air, giving up on the actual act of smoking.

"I dropped out of college when you all died," Reese frowns. She pulls her eyes down to the ground, away from Jake's, and rightfully so, as he can't help fight against the way his face drops.

"You were goin' to be a doctor, Reese! Yehya offered to be your tutor, an' everything!"

"I know! But you few don't choose tutors well!" She straightens up, her cigarette joining Jake's on the ground. "You said you'd be relaxed about this!"

"I am perfectly relaxed!" His leg beings to bounce, and he tries to hold it down.

"No you aren't!" She groans, rubbing her eyes. "You sound exactly like Greer! I swear to God, no wonder why Marc is in love with her! You all freak out the same way!"

"Ey, hey now—" Jake places a hand on her shoulder, and twists himself around to look directly into her eyes. "I just—we—" His brain stutters. He really shouldn't have smoked before this conversation. "We love you all the same, kid. Of course we do. I'm just mad at Marc. Not you. I could never be mad at you. He said that Yehya was goin' to tutor 'ya if we died. Push you onto 'yer future, an' everything."

Her frown deepens, and he wishes he could unsee the way her lips quiver from his touch and words.

"You were just mad."

"Because we shouldn't have died, kid." He sighs, leaning closer so that their shoulders touch. He lets his hand slip onto her farthest arm, keeping them inseparable. He can feel the way she shakes beside him. "We shouldn't have let everything fall onto your shoulders. It was Marc's move, but Steven and I, we could have said something."

"I just—" She covers her face, and he brings up his hand from her arm up to her locs. He runs his fingers through them, and he stills when a broken sob racks her body. "I don't know what to do. I didn't want all of this to come out this way—"

"Shah… shah…" he murmurs, slowing his breaths. He hates the way he can see tears spilling down her face, as quiet as a mouse, before another sob breaks the silence. He places his chin on her shoulder, slowly rocking them back and forth. All the anger, confusion, and distress has left his body, and he knows Reese can sense it. He's completely focused on keeping her comfortable, safe, and protected. "It's ok to not know what to do, and for this to be happening. Your tears are valid, dear…"

He bites his lip, "Do you want to go back to college?"

Another sob, but a nod comes after. He's getting somewhere.

"But… All of this is holding you back. Right?"

She stills—another wail breaks through her hard exterior—and she semi-shakes her head. "It's—It's that—"

She lets out a pained whine, and he brings her closer, his knees knocking into hers. She hates that she's breaking down over this. She attempts to curl into herself further, but when Jake instinctfully pulls her into his arms, she finds herself curling into him instead, clawing at his leather jacket. It smells of smoke, cinnamon, and gas. It makes her cry harder. He smells so human.

"I'm a vampire, Jake. I'll be here long after you all are dead. I want to do everything, but I just—But I just can't. I'm dead, but I'm alive, and every single day I'm reminded of it. I hate drinking blood—I hate going out in the sun, only to smell of smoke—I hate feeling nauseous at the sight of food—I hate looking in mirrors—I hate—"

She fists the leather, and Jake doesn't care when her nails dig through. He rakes his hands across her back as she continues to shake, now reduced to hiccups and small whimpers. He massages her muscles, as if trying to cleanse the pain coursing through them. His poor, poor kid.

"And I hate that you're not mad." Suddenly, she pulls back, wiping at her face. Jake's heart breaks when he sees her face flushed, and mascara falling down her cheeks. "You're supposed to be mad. Not at Marc. At me. It was my decision. I quit. I failed. I pushed everyone away. I—"

He brings up his hands, cupping her face, and swiping away at the makeup stains. It simply smears against her face, and he purses his lips.

"You didn't fail, sheyfele. We failed you. You are our sun in the night. Our star. You always have been. None of us, including me, could ever, truly, be mad at you." Jake rumbles tenderly, bringing up the cuff of his jacket with one hand and wiping away her tears. She bats him away, but he persists, wiping away most of her makeup until she's giggling. "See? You brighten up like one. I know you're going to have a great life. You did everything we should've done as kids…"

Jake lets his arms fall, lacing his hands into hers. He brings up her hands, and puts them onto her own cheeks. He smiles, full of pride, and as soft as a feather. "You're going to figure this all out, and you're going to do wonderful things. Come on, say it with me: You're going to do—"

"Wonderful things." Reese whispers, having now twisted Jake's arm's away with her own, and into the air. "I'm going to do wonderful things."

"Yes, yes you are." He lets go of Reese's hands, and places his own back onto her shoulders. He purrs contently when he realizes that her body is collapsing into his, and the only thing shaking are her hands. He keeps his voice and body steady as he continues. "You're going to make it. No matter what you do. Like you said, you have the rest of eternity to perfect what you love."

He carefully pulls her down, and she responds by going back to wrapping her arms around his body. He returns to massaging her back, letting her breathe in the strong sent of gas and rust from the lining of the leather. It's so Jake, she thrums, and yawns, jaw cracking. She listens to the way his heartbeat slows down after a few minutes, and so does his hands. She doesn't mind the croons falling from his throat, and the way he presses his face against the side of hers. Reese cups the back of his head, lets it happen, and stays there, listening to the birds and the blood running through his body until the sun rises. It's comforting. It's like what her dad always used to do to calm her down.

Maybe she does have this.

╚══ ☾•°◉°•☽ ══╝

Britney Spears is on the aux. Again. Soldier slides the seat belt across the sleeping man in his passenger seat—It was Steven last time they were awake, his half-awake mind supplies—and tries to ignore Reese and Jeff's karaoke while he buckles him in. Greer combs a hand through the Boss' hair before she tosses her and her son's bags into the truck bed. Yehya is already climbing into the backseat, indicated by how the truck tips over slightly.

He looks at the scene fondly through the rearview mirror. If his heart was still beating, and intact, with no bullet holes, he swears it would melt. Instead, a smile tugs at the corners of his lips.

The last day was nothing but chaos. He's glad it's done and over with.

The Boss was tired from switching to-and-fro—it ended off with a big, one-sided argument that everyone heard. It went something along the lines of: "Stop fronting in whenever X, Y, or Z happens! It's tiring! I don't want to deal with this!"

Nobody dared look at him the wrong way when he waltzed back downstairs, bags under his eyes, and looking miserable.

Afterwards, Badr and Greer made dinner—while almost burning down the house—as the Boss crashed at the dining table, barely shoveling food down enough until he clocked out… At his seat, mouth open and drooling.

8-Ball promptly excused himself—Soldier has sneaking suspicion he has the hots for someone in their system, which he does not understand—and Reese took a plethora of photos… In which Greer chided her while she sent them to Shannon and Teddy.

In the morning, Badr broke his glasses, William finally conquered swimming by sneaking out, Greer freaked out, Reese attempted to do damage control, and him and Jeff were fixing up the truck. Where was his Boss? Asleep. Still. On the couch. Of course he was. Goddammit.

Thank goodness they got it fixed up fast, for that amount of time alone with Jeff, made him want to kill him, and then himself. Maybe not himself. Maybe just Jeff.

He rubs the bridge of his nose as everyone clamors into the back, and Reese slides onto the center console beside him.

"Hey," she leans down, looking between the Boss and him. "Thanks for doing this."

"Needed to do it anyways. It was going to be sold off." He shrugs, starting up the truck. The Boss stirs in his peripheral, and he waits to move before he's shrinking back onto himself, snoring softly. He can't wait until the aux is drowned out by his loud-as-hell snores later on during the drive. "Mom'll be happy."

"Of course. We only went because the camp was going to be sold off… I think we should make sure it doesn't get sold off more often." She hits his shoulder and grabs his phone, flipping to the song queue. "What type of music do you like?"

Soldier swallows thickly. Why did everything feel so familial in this gang?

"Electronic rap."

"Coming right up." She grins, swiping through his phone with unparalleled speed. Soldier looks behind him, turns the car around, and drives off down the dirt road. Britney is interrupted by a low, rhythmic beat, and fast, quick paced lyrics. He taps his fingers to the lyrics, carefully watching the road in front of him.

William's giggles from behind him—Reese's laughter when Jeff attempts to recreate the lyrics with terrible accuracy—The Boss' confusion when he wakes up, in the middle of nowhere, in a car, and then the serene look that falls on his face at the sight of everyone—Badr's grumbling, holding himself back from strangling Jeff—Greer's added commentary whenever the silence got too loud—

It was nice. It wasn't like any other gang he'd been apart of. It wasn't like Hydra. It was like—

It was like his family.

He hates the way his stomach bubbles with warmth, and his body relaxes, at the sense of everything—of everyone. So, he shakes his head, continues driving, and lets himself smile, suffocating in his own sentimentality.

╚══ ☾•°◉°•☽ ══╝

When they get back to Manhattan, all tired out of their minds, they end up crashing at the Sanctum while Clea cools the Midnight Mission down with a spell. They all end up falling asleep fast, strung across a common room, while Strange scolding them being "callous" and "irresponsible multi-dimensional owners" acts as lullaby to them.

At least they're all tired, hot, and being reprimanded together.

Chapter Text

If you would have asked Marc a day ago that he’d be standing on the Moon, squeezed in between two of the most popular Avengers—a playboy billionaire, Tony Stark, and a literal star, Carol Danvers—he would have trapped you inside of the Mission's walls, and ordered it to eat you on sight.

However, no matter how cross he was about the situation; how dusty and stretched out the old Stark space suits were; how broken the comms were between the three, or how bright the Moon was, like a pearl circling the Earth, Marc was called upon for a reason, dammit. The Star called upon the Moon to be civil for a few hours, and thus, the Moon caved.

The Star being Danvers when she cordially interrupted his movie night with Greer and William. Fittingly, they were watching Despicable Me, and when the final act hit, Will buried himself into his arms, not wanting to watch the movie further if the girls were not coming back home.

They were woven together, as a family, and of course, the Star had to burst through and tear the Moon from his orbit; the Moon being Marc, when he had to transplant Will into his moms arms, and leave with a sullen frown.

The ship’s hull opens with a hiss, landing against the rocky surface with a thud. The only noise across the landscape is the soft pattering of six feet stepping out of the airlock, and into the desolate land of the Moon.

As they walk out, Marc can't help but be transfixed on everything but the mission. He waves his hand through the kicked up rocks, now stagnant in the air. It wraps around his arm, scattering further as his fingers brush against them. His breath condensates against his glass helmet as he finally allows himself to breathe, blinking at the sight before him.

The star and billionaire that accompany him are speaking quietly in front of him, and when they pause, he feels the ground rumble, and more dust clouds his vision. He wipes his hand through that as well, entranced. He can feel the way their eyes are locked on him, as if he's being observed, as if this is a test.

He had been on the Moon before after the Watcher... Well, died, and of course, when he fought Thor once. Nevertheless, the battle between him and the God of Thunder happened years ago, and since then, he had almost forgotten the thrill of being on the moon; how energy zips through his body with every step, how his head feels clear, yet foggy at the same time, and how he can see more—feel more.

He can feel them all walking across the Moon's crust; it echoes his own puttering heartbeat. Everything is exhilarating, and breathtaking, all at the same time. He loves it, and yet he hates it. It’s too much, but not enough. He already finds it hard to focus—

The billionaire—Stark whistles in front of him. Marc snaps his head away from the kicked up dust, eyes narrowing towards his blinding, white eyes. His armor, the classic red and yellow, shines against the flickering headlights of the jet behind them.

Marc tsks to himself, face attempting not to scrunch up into a disapproving glare; he didn’t have to wear the mildly moldy, crusty, and old suit. Average Tony Stark behavior.

“Danvers is scouting the area around us. You’re with me, Spector.” Stark pauses when Marc continues to stare, unblinking. “Do your… Magic, or something.” He waves his fingers around, and then returns to standing with his hands on his hips. 

Marc shakes his head. The suit’s helmet sits uncomfortably, squeezing his neck too tightly, and digging into his jaw. Did it always sit like that?

He feels caged inside of the suit, and the way Stark stares at him like he's insane makes anger boil in his gut. 

The ground underneath him thrums with a promise of freedom. 

“Tell me why I’m doing this again?” Marc scoffs, readjusting the tablet on his forearm. He flips to the tracker screen, watching as Danvers’ ping clicks around the map—freedom, someone supplies. Who—

“City recorded odd readings coming from the Moon, and well, you’re the Moon guy.” Stark opens his hands, shrugging. “Talk to your God or something.”

“Not—” He bites his tongue, tearing his eyes from the tracker, ignoring the pulsing in the back of his head. He associates the sound, akin to drums in the distance, with being in the same, 100 foot vicinity of Tony Stark. “Never mind. Let's cover some ground before I do…” He pauses. “Moon things.”

“Right on,” Stark salutes him and heads off. Marc trails far behind, keeping a few foot grace between each other. Goodness knows they'll get into an argument, and fast.

Minutes pass, but it's nothing to the two as they walk. The continues to cold seep into Marc's veins, coating his muscles in a tight squeeze. His heartbeat quickens, as his head pounds harder—as if someone is wailing against his skull. 

The drums are gradually increasing in volume while they take step after step, and he has to bite his tongue in order to not ask Stark if he hears it as well. The ground is shaking under his feet—Or is it him?

He rubs the sides of his helmet, attempting to ignore his own shaking and the beat, echoing through his head. He refocuses on the mission at hand, letting his fingertips tap against his tablet. Danvers' ping continues to circle the other side of the Moon.

He was Moon Knight, but he never did Moon things. The idea was ridiculous. Danvers was ridiculous. It’s not as if he could command the Moon—

You commanded it once. 

All of us.

All of us.

Marc’s steps stall, tripping over himself. Stark continues onward. 

Maybe the mission was idiotic; maybe it was dangerous. 

He doesn't stop to think about what's going on before he scrambles back into pace, getting closer to Stark, dust crunching beneath his feet. He doesn't have time. The quicker the mission ends, the faster he'll be able to get home.

If Commander was awake, he would be ecstatic at the sight of plain, grey rocks and deep craters. He didn’t get the appeal. To him, the Moon was the pearly white sands of the desert, where their blood once ran like a stream. He drags his legs, like how he once dragged his body, following the whispers—the pleading in the back of his mind.

Freedom.

Freedom.

Marc’s legs buckle and he collapses, palms pressing hard against the woven rocks, which vibrate under his weight. Stark, noticing the kick up of dust from behind him, spins around, looking down before the Moon, and it's vessel.

Command. Freedom.

“I can hear something.” Marc calls out, pressing his hands harder against the ground. He feels light headed—the vibrations from the ground pulse through his muscles—it's intoxicating. “I—Ha oh my—I can hear it.”

“Yeah, obviously… It’s your bird God, or something.” Stark shrugs it off, turning his back to Marc, and trotting away.

Marc doesn't realize when Stark begins to stop and start, turning back every few seconds, observing as he continues to heave on the ground, eyes blown wide. He can't see; he can only be.

“It’s from the ground, Stark.” He laughs to himself as he twists his eyes shut, and breathes shallowly. If he can get closer to the source—If he can calm down—“Stark, trust me on this. Danvers brought me in for a reason. It’s the Moon.”

“Or it’s not! City could be malfunctioning!” He calls over his shoulder, and Marc can feel how each hit of his steps breaks the ground—breaking him. His chest—The lattice of interwoven rocks—

He grabs hold of the source, becoming one with everything. He is—

Marc cries, snapping his eyes open. The abyss has wrapped around him, shutting him out from the inside. He tries to yell something out to Stark—anything—but he ends writhing in the darkness, alone. The void feels like silk to his skin, as smooth as a pearl, yet as rough and sharp as pointed rocks.

The next step breaks through his sternum, pressing against his lungs, imprinting a pattern from the underside of his boot.

He holds his breath and grits his teeth, extending his hand out. Maybe he can get away from it all the same way he got into it.

Stark is still walking—he can feel it. Quick steps, big strides, breaking his ribs, tearing them from his body—his lungs are collapsing. His heart is gushing out, shards of broken bone sticking into it. He can't focus; he can't feel.

I can’t breathe, Marc gasps, jaw dropping. His words are caught in his throat, as nothing comes out. Jake—Steven—is anyone–

His head is pushed upward, jaw grabbed by an unseeable force, yet cold and smooth against his bruised skin. The hammering on his chest has come to a grinding halt.

He feels as if he’s underwater—someone is talking, but he can’t pinpoint where.

Now looking upwards, from far away, there is a ball of light. It casts a prism against the black hues of the silky darkness; he can’t bring to himself to tear his eyes off from it. It’s transfixing—inebriating. 

Marc’s bloodied hands clutch at his chest, unconsciously attempting to keep his guts inside of his ripped open body. His ribs are on the ground—he claws at them to keep it inside, while blood flows out of his wounds. Tears sting his eyes; he can’t go this way—He promised Greer—The light—

All of a sudden, the sphere explodes, and Marc tries to shield himself from it, clamping his eyes shut. However, it's as if there are lights under his eyelids. He can’t escape it; shapes spiral from the center of his sight, in large, cascading, twisting lines. 

It reminds him of the way Jake used to braid Diatrice’s hair; how William’s sweaters are knitted; how Greer pulls her hands through his hair, blinding him with the radiance of her smile; how Steven used to purposefully tie his ties wrong, having Marlene readjust them so that he could be in her presence for just a bit longer— 

If he just could focus—

Marc wraps his fingers around one of the lines—when did it get physical—and lets it weave itself throughout him. He knows he's being pulled in, yet his mind blanks, thoughts stolen by the way the lines continue to twist over his body, embalming him.

His broken chest is covered, new ribs are formed, and he can breathe. He feels his heart vibrating in his chest for the first time in hours, beating double-time to match with the adrenaline coursing through his prone body. 

Marc groans, finally bringing himself to his feet. His muscles are sore, his head is still fuzzy, but his body is numbed by the pearly white braided against his skin, and it allows him to push on to Stark and Danvers… Where ever they may be.

His own luminosity centralizes under his feet, and Marc giggles at the sight, his vision swimming, readjusting to the light attacking the darkness.

From the dissipating black hues, a bird skull carves its way through. Connected to the skull is a body made of light, burning the abyss surrounding its form as it pushes forward. 

Marc looks down; it's the same energy which is bound to him. The bandages roll on the ground, go upwards, and connect to the skull.

He doesn't understand why it makes him want to squirm away; to run as far as possible from the thing that saved him.

The bird tilts its head and brings itself closer to Marc, bending down. All he can hear is his heart pounding as the bird presses its bony palm against his chest. Its hands trail around his wrappings—he wants to tear himself from the wrappings, to disconnect him from his captor—

My son, I have a new mission for you.

╚══ ☾•°◉°•☽ ══╝

“Bttz—Uh, Carol…?” Tony's voice, strained and quiet, crackles through her comm. The static-covered yelling coming from the other side causes her train of thought to pause. She stills her flight and calmly presses against her ear to answer. 

“Stark, what’s going on?” Carol cuts to the chase, pursing her lips together. She looks down to her arm, quickly attempting to figure out her interface—God forbid Stark make a normal U.I.—on her suit to find their trackers. “Is it Marc?”

“Yes—I don’t know, he just started screaming!” Stark huffs, exasperated, and Carol can imagine him wringing his hands. “I’m a science guy, not a magic guy, and what I’m looking at is a magic thing! What the hell, Carol?” A pause. The yelling has stopped. “Wait—somethings happening—”

Bingo, the screen on her forearm snaps to their trackers, following a screen full of white buzzing. She takes no time to catapult herself towards their location, yellow zips of energy whipping across her form. The ground underneath her whizzes by, and as the time passes, her chest becomes tighter.

If someone had told Carol that the mission on the Moon was a bad idea, she would have agreed with you. She knew the risks, and she knew the stories of how he acted on the Moon. However, she thought, perhaps innocently, that she could use it to her advantage.

The pit in her stomach, which had been there since she interrupted his movie night, continues to burn her insides. Will, the poor kid, looked so disappointed.

Did Carol feel guilty? Yes, she did. Did Carol believe that she could weave her own agenda into Marc’s odd reaction to the Moon? Yes, and perhaps, that was the wrong plan all along. Perhaps the City’s data, the odd energy signatures radiating from the desolate piece of rock, was a mistake all along.

As she’s buried into her thoughts, she barely notices when something else shoots by her. The tracker rings loudly, snapping her out of her daze. Carol tunes back into reality, halting in the air.

She swiftly begins to poke the screen on her arm; the screen cracks, and shards of glass chip off into the air.

That can’t be… Carol frowns. Marc’s tracker is skyrocketing towards a location, too fast for Tony, and too fast for Marc. Is it…?

“Carol—” The comm is a mess of crackles and hisses; it’s a miracle she can hear her companion on the other side. Sparks weave through her fingers, easing her worrisome mind.  “—Gone—Bttz—” 

If someone had told Carol that Marc would have a powerful reaction, enough to fling him across the entire Moon in seconds, she would have laughed in their face.

However, no matter how much her gut churned, and sweat poured from her forehead, it didn’t change reality. The U.I. wasn't glitching, it was the truth.

Carol sends a quick prayer to the Gods—Thor, Allah, Hashem, hell, even Khonshu, just in case the mission goes south. After a breath, and memorizing the craters underneath her feet, she presses the comm to respond.

“Contact the City and tell it to start its course to the Moon. I’ll head out to see what I can find. We can regroup where Marc stops.” Carol commands, slipping into action as she flings herself through space once again. 

The Air Force would have forced her to do ten more laps on the track by the way she's handling this piss poor mission—Fly, Fight, and Win her ass.

She curses herself out for choosing old and faulty suits, that depend on short-ranged communication over clear communication. Five more laps.

She could hit her self over and over again by the way she thought she could get away with forcing Marc into an unknowingly dangerous mission. Suspension from the force for a few months.

She should have listened to the stories, and gone with her gut. Instead, she let herself underestimate an Avatar, and she should know to never do so with the Egyptian Pantheon. Complete and utter discharge from the academy.

Carol keeps one eye on Marc’s tracker and the other on the ground below her. She feels vomit crawl up her throat, and her mind races through Thor’s tales of his battle—Moon's converging, slamming together—Mass destruction. If he wasn't the "Mighty God of Thunder", he wouldn't have survived.

Let Thor be over exaggerating as always… 

Once their dots on the tablet intersect, she pulls out of her flight. Peering across the barren land, she notices the black, dusty cloth of an out-of-date Stark suit. It sways side to side, hands weaving through the abyss, as if commanding something unseen, or talking to something.

Carol glides to the ground, feet planting themselves on the hard rock. The suit continues to sway, and from being closer to them, she can hear faint mumbling, as if they're chanting: Freedom, freedom, freedom.

“Marc,” Carol starts, grinding her teeth to be as calm as possible, but they don't turn back to face her. Instead, they slowly falls to their knees and tilts their head. “Can you hear me?”

The Moon rumbles under her feet. She curses herself under her breath and steps closer. Thor’s stories be damned, the person in front of her was compromised, and perhaps it was her Air Force ways clinging to her heart, but she was determined to pull them out of their dazed condition. No man left behind. A medal of honor on her chest.

The Being makes no mention of her, only raising their hands over their head. Upon their demand, the ground cracks underneath them, and suddenly, Carol spins to protect her face with her forearm. Her eyebrows raise as she watches the ground tears itself from the ground, and explode in the air. 

The amalgamation of dust and rock spins around, as if it’s a tornado, and then stops at a standstill. All at once, the area goes silent, and Carol can barely hear the Being resume their muttering through the roaring of her blood. 

She stays quiet, barely breathing, fearful of making a move as they raise to their feet, floating off the ground. 

“Marc.” Carol repeats sternly, swallowing her shock. She steps closer, extending her hand out, palm facing towards the ground. The Being continues to act as if she’s not there, clicking his tongue. Who is he communicating with? “I will repeat this again, can you hear me, Moon Knight?”

To that, the Being cranes their head towards her, and she cringes at the sound of cracking bones and snapping muscles. However, at the sight of their tear stained eyes, and blood soaked skin, dripping from his nose, her voice is caught in her throat.

She doesn't allow her confusion to spill over, only letting action take hold of her. At the sight, she switches her plan, now crouching to the ground. Their iris' and pupils are gone, leaving only the whites of their eyes left. They stare, unblinking as Carol attempts to slink away.

To her delight, and surprise, instead of instigating further, the Knight turns back around and drops into the hole they carved.

She takes the time he's in there as a moment to assess the situation, running a quick 5-Things, per her Avengers-mandated therapist, before she continues: The area is clouded with rock and dust, but is the same, desolate, pearly Moon; the cold singes her skin, and the stars sparkle as if they’re laughing at her misery. 

All in all, the scene is silent, and with the Knight not crawling out of their new home, she manages to finally breathe.

“Carol!” With a loud bang, Tony's suit lands beside her. She jumps away, cursing him out loudly, and hitting his arm.

“Jesus Christ, Tony! This is not the time!” She whispers, jamming a finger against the chest of his suit. Her chest constricts again and she heaves. “What the hell happened to him? Did you contact the City?”

“Yes, I did, and you’re telling me. One second we’re walking, and the next he’s yelling—saying that I was hurting him? I did try to get him to snap out of it, but…” He brings a finger to the thin line—Carol loves to tease him that it’s a mouth—on his helmet. “Did you know he’d have a reaction to the Moon? Or, did he mention knowing he would?”

Carol shakes her head, rubbing her temples. “I knew that he would seem out of it. I’ve heard Thor’s stories about his fight, but not—” She gestures to the floating rocks and torn up hole. “—Not this out of it.”

“This is his doing?” Tony inquires, strutting up to the edge. “If it helps, he’s just standing there.”

Carol holds her breath and walks up beside Stark, placing a hand on his arm. He’s right: The Being—Marc—or someone is standing there in the hole, a hand on a chair in the middle.

To her disappointment, the hole itself was actually a monumental discovery. It draws her eyes, as it seems to imply if there was an ancient society that lived on the Moon. The walls are engraved with drawings of spiraling lines and pulsing shapes. The ground looks akin to old mosaics in Pompeii, being a collage of different colors and shapes.

The chair itself looks like an altar, with a large circle on the top. The Knight’s hand slips off of it, and their head bows lower.

Sadly, she knew they'd have to come back, but that was the future, and as of right the present, they needed to get the man out of the moon's vicinity, and fast.

Carol's eyes flicker to the blood dripping onto their helmet, sliding down against the glass. She points to it, and Tony's neck cranes back at the sight.

“If you want to draw him out, he seems to be able to fly in this state.” Tony suggests, his own brainstorming working in tandem with Carol’s.

“I barely could get his attention before.” She huffs, running her hands through her hair. She paces the edge of the hole, biting the inside of her cheek. “I can’t just grab him if he flies off. You said he was hurt, and I am not risking a spinal—”

CRACK! 

Carol and Tony jerk their heads toward the sound, mouths shut. The Knight's helmet is fractured, a thin line engraved in the glass, and their palms are curved around a sharp rock. They bring the rock up again, and to the Star and billionaire's horror, begins bashing it against their head.

Seconds pass in shock, before they both fall into action, working together through body and mind. It's what makes them Avengers, after all.

But she knows that later, a place Carol desires to be so badly, she'll reprimand herself and Tony for letting those few seconds slip by them. That is not what makes them Avengers. That's what makes them normal heroes.

She slides against the wall, breaking the engraved artistry with her heels as she flings herself onto the Knight. She, upon impact, takes one hand, and grabs them by the wrist. Taking her other hand, she fumbles with their suit to keep them steady.

They writhe in her grasp, abandoning the rock to claw at her arms. When they do, Carol lets relief flood through her system, waiting for Tony to get into position above them.

"Whoever I am talking to, I don't know what has gotten into you," Carol laments. "I know I shouldn't have taken you up here… And I apologize for what we're about to do."

Looking up, she waits for Tony's nod, and as he gives her the cue, she shoots herself upwards, spinning in the air.

“Let go—” The Knight orders, deep and garbled. Carol grimaces and holds their body tighter, ignoring the way their voice sounds similar to Khonshu’s. “I have a mission—”

“You are compromised. You have to be taken out of here.” She growls, her grip briefly slipping up. The Knight takes the opportunity, twisting their arm around and flipping her off of him in one swipe. 

Narrowing her eyes, and turning back to Tony to acknowledge his actions, Carol shoots herself back into the dark void. The Knight’s eyes keep their unnerving gaze on her, and they lift their arms up into a boxing stance, ready to fight. 

Carol scoffs, tackling him in one hit. They both hit the ground with a blast, rock kicking up, and Carol can hear the Knight chortling at the hit. 

“Stark, he’s not listening—” He’s fucking giggling. “—Can you distract him?”

“Distract him? You read my mind, Carol.” His voice is now his typical work-tone: Simple sentences with a smooth tone. As he flies into the air, extending his missile launchers, Carol flips off of the immobile man. She quickly pushes upwards, blasting into the atmosphere, away from the fight.

From above, she can see how the Knight drives himself into action, and how Stark lazily spins around them, taunting. When the Knight tosses the floating rocks at him, he breaks them with expertise with his blasters, and she swears he pulls an incredibly childish move: Flipping the Knight off.

Danvers rubs the bridge of her nose and sighs. Jesus, Tony.

She gazes upon the horizon, pulling herself from the battle of bright flashes and manic laughter. The Earth, as big as a pearl, is in the distance. She yearns to get back there, to where the sun wraps around her skin like a soft, silky blanket.

“City? How far are you from us?” Danvers clicks to the other channel in her comms. She can hear the tired grumble from the other side. She feels the guilt burn worse with how great their friend is expending itself.

“Half-way. Do you require tactical assistance?”

“No. I can make it to you.” Danvers hits the back of her hand into her palm. She looks down, smirking as the Knight’s shoulders raise in agitation. They shoot more rocks toward the billionaire, and of course, it doesn’t perturb him. He slides through each rock with ease, continuing to get under the others’ skin with his remarks.

If she could ignore it, she could easily forget how similar the Knight looks to when Khonshu gets angry: The raised soldiers, grumbling demeanor, and demands shouting from their mouth.

If she could ignore it, she could be blissfully ignorant about how their body is tired; how they move with sluggish steps, drag their hands around too languidly, and how their eyes are half-lidded, face caked with their own blood. They aren't thinking, they're just trying to defend themself.

However, she couldn’t ignore it, nor forget it or be ignorant, and Carol decides to end the fight permanently.

Waiting a moment for an open shot, she tilts herself in the air, and once Tony is far enough, with the Knight charging up another attack, she proceeds to catapult herself towards them.

They hit against each other with a thud, and Carol manages to wrap her arms under theirs. They kick and yell, pounding into her chest, and squirming in her grasp. She digs her feet into the rock, and kicks off with everything she has.

Every hit, she holds on tighter—every yell, she closes her eyes and continues to sail away from the Moon, through the black abyss.

“Stark, take the jet back to the City—I’m taking him down.” Carol grits out, clicking the com in her ear with her shoulder. “I’ll manage to get him calmed down.”

“10-4, Danvers.” Stark crackly responds back, and for the first time in the day, she manages to take a deep breath—one that lowers her shoulders and clears her mind, pulling it away from her guilt.

However, her relief doesn't last long, as her own reality comes crashing down in full force when the Knight stops flailing, and proceeds to enact purposeful hits. She hears a crack, and knowing its their helmet, she grabs their wrists and pins them back.

It doesn’t take long for the City to come into view, with a backdrop of blinking lights. She watches the cargo door opening, giving her a target to aim for. Understanding that she cannot slow down, and what City’s plan is, Carol lets go of their wrists, grabs the Knight's head, burying them into her body, and holds her breath.

They soar directly into the cargo bay without halting their pace.

They slam into the metal flooring of the ship, tumbling against the ground. She can feel Marc get torn from her hands, and once her world stops spinning, head now pounding and ears ringing, she opens her eyes to survey the damage.

Light burns Carol’s eyes, and she sits up with a groan. She hits her side a few times, popping her ribs back into place. She squints, watching the cargo bay door close before whipping around to the limp body on the ground, unmoving, as always. However, the lack of mumbling makes her eyebrows furrow. The Knight's suit is burnt in multiple places, helmet shattered, and his arm is twisted upwards—

Carol scrambles to her feet, panting, and ignoring the way pain sears through her legs. Shit, she curses herself, falling to her knees beside him. She holds his head in one hand and slides her arms under his legs, hoisting him up.

As quickly as she hurried over, she drags herself to her feet, and stumbles over herself to get to the medical bay.

“City—medical, now.” Carol calls out, and in turn, the doors in front of her, to exit the bay, are pulled open.

“Ms. Danvers, I would implore you to stop moving. Multiple of your bones are fractured. I can transport you two to medical alone. Where is Stark?” The City inquiries, watching with keen eyes.

"I can get there faster than you, City." She begins running, throbbing shooting through her muscles, and bones cracking as she hurries away. Her world narrows into three things: Herself, the Knight, and getting to Medical as fast as possible.

She did this to herself. She knows she did this to herself, but no matter how her tears threaten to pour out of her eyes, she has to fix it. She wasn't the leader of the Avengers for nothing.

If she can make a team, lead a rag-tag group of excellent heroes, fight against Varnae, Doom, and galactic threats, she can fix this.

But she knows that she can't fix the broken trust from this mission as easily as she can fix the worlds problems.

She only realizes how fast she’s been running once she skids to a stop in the medical ward, and the City's worried voice fades back into reality.

"—Ms. Danvers, are you there?"

“Stark is heading back here with the Jet.” The City opens up a door, flicking on the lights as Carol shoves the body onto an empty, cleaned bed. As their dropped onto it, she notes how blood instantly beings leeching into the fabric, leaking from somewhere unknown. “He’s compromised—A broken arm. possibly more injuries unknown. We need to set it and stich things up before it all heals.”

“Marc Spector has the average healing—”

“City, some records are wrong.” Danvers snaps out, quickly digging through the cabinets. “Delete that record from our system. Replace it with: Marc Spector can get beaten to shit easily, and don't ever bring him to the Moon, you idiot—" Carol pulls out the first aid kit from the back, flipping the cover open.

With a brief pause, and a breath, she pulls herself back together; into the action and out of her own head. "Also put that he has a different way of healing—The doctor, his brother, found a new way. If we could replicate it—”

With bandages and tape in her hands, she gets up from the kit, and spins around. However, she stops in her tracks, attempting to mouth words, with nothing coming out.

The Knight is sat up, his arm slowly snapping into place. She can hear the cracking of bones, and rattling coming from their lungs. They tilts their head, peering at Danvers through the glass jutting into their face.

“Marc, it’s—”

“My mission is not over,” they gasp out, laughing . Tears spill from their eyes, and their hands claw at their throat, attempting to get the suit off, or strangle themself. “You can’t stop this.” 

Before Carol can ask for an explanation, the room rumbles. Thinking nothing of it, she drops the supplies down and attempts to step closer. The Knight watches, and with a loud, echoing boom, the room explodes. Glass flies everywhere, wood is shattered in an instant, metal is bent upward, and Carol stands in the middle of the chaos, shell shocked. 

As the Knight stands and proceeds to target the objects towards Carol, she gives up her attempt at medical attention, or any type of subduction, in the moment, and runs the other way.

Outside of the room, City, realizing the predicament, closes the door as fast it can. A few chunks of metal fly through as the door shuts, and Carol scarcely dodges a needle shooting directly towards her.

When everything is closed up, and the Knight is locked in, she can see the steel door bending against the objects beating against it. Her heart beats as loud as the screeching of cabinets getting pulled up in the medical room.

As if it’ll do anything, she places her palms onto the door. She hangs her head low, letting a few choked breaths out.

“Ms. Danvers, should I call the rest of the team?”

Chapter Text

The streets outside her home bustle with the songs of birds displaced by the imposing city of Manhattan, similar to the citizens of their small community, and wild life that hides in dumpsters in the alleys. However, when people pass the Emporium, they pause, letting their eyes trace the words engraved on the signage, before going on with their day. The silence that drags outside of her window, with hushed whispers of awe, and people waiting for something magical to happen, gives cadence to her reputation.

Her name is a mere act of shock value to the common person. Tourists disagree that she lives there in all of her glory; the Locals humbly know otherwise. She's saved their lives, and they've saved hers.

She is the Scarlet Witch, or Wanda Maximoff: Chthon's cage, an aunt, a mother, an Avenger, once a pupil of Doctor Strange, and overall, a shopkeeper and protector of the people. In the quaint town of Lotkill, in central New York, where the noise pollution of Manhattan cannot pass through the mystic barrier she wove around the town, she resides, waiting.

She keeps her casual clothes on first, but keeps her work garb on her at all times with a simple illusion spell. She has allies—none of them as close to her as Darcy Lewis, her assistant and her confidant—and she has foes. She has memories of peril, and she has memories of drinks with her friends, letting herself relax for those few, rare moments. Yet, she waits.

Wanda keeps herself planted by her Door. The Last Door. Even while William—her not-brother-in-law, don't ask her how Vision and him are not-step-brothers, but are—bounces from bookshelf to bookshelf, while Darcy runs wildly behind him. She knows the tell tale sign of brewing conflict within the cosmos very well; it personifies itself as tension brewing under her fingertips, buzzing in her muscles, and keeping her mind sharp. Therefore, she continues to wait, even with Greer's child bestowed upon her.

With one eye still on the Door, Wanda times her movement in order to pluck Will from his race around the shop. She hands the squirming kid off to Darcy, who scolds him quietly, and goes off to the storefront with a whining kid in tow.

"If Greer wants us to babysit a hyperactive kid, then he's going to learn something!" Darcy proclaimed hours prior, but by now, Wanda knows she's all but given up, and is now only trying to keep him simmered down. However, their jobs continue, their patrons come in to seek solace and help, and they receive all they can be given.

Just when Wanda can feel sparks crackle in between her fingers, and Will starts up his third lap around the store, the Door swings open—The Door which leads those who feel as if they have no where else to go, to a temple of guidance. It is the Door who pushes people into safety, and out of their pain filled lives. It is Wanda's spell, but it is the Door who searches and transports.

That is how the Door is supposed to work: An act of transportation. Nothing else.

As Wanda keeps her gaze on the crimson wood, slowly swinging open, nobody comes through. Instead, it is a portal to someplace. A place that is stark white, with ceiling tiles and floor panels being pulled from the ground; pipes leak from the walls, and wires curl around barely visible limbs. In the center of it all is a body, hunched over, and bleeding.

Wanda snaps her fingers, letting her work clothes replace her purple, summer dress with her sleek tiara and silky bodysuit.

She does not need to tell Darcy where she's going. She knows their trust goes beyond simple pleasantries; they both know each other enough to understand the other will throw themself straight into action by the sight of such. Just as how Wanda has memorized Darcy's favorite foods, colors, and mannerisms, Darcy has memorized Wanda's own as well.

It makes her face flush if she thinks too long about the way their lives have become bound together through love alone.

Breaking the air of hesitancy, she lets the Door carry her through. As she crosses the threshold, she brings her hands up instinctively, and lets the Door shut at her heels.

╚══ ☾•°◉°•☽ ══╝

When she first steps in, yells and chaos accompanying her entrance, she redirects the debris flying toward her face, noting the interior pulling itself up by an invisible force. With an area carved between her and the sudden constant onslaught of metal, her eyes land on a semi-transparent robot figure—her mind registers it as Vision—holding a syringe, and carefully gliding toward the body she came for.

The body shuffles back, pressing itself against the wall further, attempting to squirm away, and her gut twists. Her hands work faster than her mind or voice, pulling Vision away from the body, and to the back of the room.

NO!

Her knees buckle, a voice booming throughout her mind, making her arms falter in the air. A piece of wood knocks into her legs, and she staggers back, shaken.

"Wanda, it is imperative that you let me go." Vision calls out from behind, voice barely being heard over the room attempting to dislodge itself from its foundation. "We have to sedate him. He will not calm down."

Kill me—Kill me—Kill—

"Mortals cannot take this much stress upon their mind!" Thor, Wanda cranes her neck around to face the God, lodged into the ground. She blinks, scans the room, and it clicks in her head that the Door led her to a barely recognizable Medical Bay in the City.

Please—Please—Please—

"Khonshu is abrasive. He is destructive. He will destroy his Avatar—" T'Challa struggles against his bindings, which seems to be both piping and Sam Wilson, who is knocked out on top of him. "—He will destroy him before he even knows he's dead."

"You are compromising the outcome of all of our—"

"I understand these stakes, who do you think caged Chthon?" Wanda spits, turning back toward Moon Knight—or, what is left of them, heaving on the ground. "There is another way. Have you considered that sedation means that they won't be able to fight? It will compromise his life. They will die if they are sedated. Why do you think Nightmare only attacks when everyone is asleep?"

She takes one step, ducks away from a pipe flying towards her face, and then propels herself forward. When her knees hit the ground, her palms inches from the hyperventilating figure, she raises her hands up, sprouting a barrier from the ground, to the ceiling.

When the shield solidifies itself as a bubble around the body, the room stops vibrating, and after a few seconds of deafening silence, the floating debris fall onto the ground with loud, ear piercing crashes.

Wanda presses her forehead against her work, feeling her power buzz against her skin. She lets the team mumble and complain behind her as they all process the present moment.

I'm sorry, she sends out to the Being on the other side. They look up; Was that you speaking before?

I will not fail my mission.

Wanda sighs, tilting away from the shield. Through the simmering chaos, she dusts her body off, gets up from the ground, then turns to the rest of the team, assessing their status'. She's already forming a plan behind her eyes, as they snap to each member who is mildly-compromised.

Carol is attached to the wall, shards of metal that are through her arms keep her there; Stark is wrapped around the ceiling, wires wrapped around him are now snapping at an alarming rate; Sam is out cold; T'Challa looks barely present; she can hear Thor's grumbles from the ground as he attempts to break the piping around him.

Her plan depends on Vision, Thor, and T'Challa, she supposes. She negates Vision instantly, pursing her lips at how he continues to clench the syringe full of sickly yellow liquid like a life-line. It's up to her, T'Challa, and Thor.

"City, how stable is this room?" Wanda inquires as she trails around the room, flicking her wrist, and breaking each member out of their trapped state.

"78% of the interior hull has been damaged. Only 35% of the exterior has been. The bay is almost completely dislodged from my form." City remarks, and Wanda crouches in front of Carol.

She takes her time with their leader, meticulously drawing each shard out, with a healing spell right on the tip of her tongue. When she's freed, and fully healed, Carol promptly collapses, just in time for Stark to do the same, crashing directly into the ground, indenting himself into the metal floor.

"Vision, help the City repair this room." When he doesn't follow her orders instantly as she gets up, now finished helping her team, she shoots him a piercing glare, and it breaks him out of his daze. "Thor, T'Challa, you two understand being an Avatar better than me, yes? Godly matters are different from Witch matters."

"What are you thinking, Maximoff?" T'Challa huffs, carefully peeling himself from Sam, as well as dodging an unconscious stark, all while getting back onto his feet. Wanda struts by him with ease, and with a wave of her hand, he's pushed to her side.

"We are going to enter their Mindscape. However, first, I have to release the barrier, and calm them down enough for us to enter." Pushing through her own apprehension, she extends her hands to each of her sides. "You two will have to keep hold of me, or of him. I cannot transport all of our minds easily without contact, and this will be an incredibly dangerous job, as his mind is protected by a deity."

The two take her hands into theirs, and she takes it as consent to go further. She kicks the edge of the barrier, and it slowly begins to dissipate. The room starts vibrating again, and the debris on the ground is picked up, floating in the air, stagnant.

"From there, we'll assess the situation, and stop it from the source." Wanda calls out over the screeching of metal and cracking of wood being pulled up once more. "If you make any move to hurt them, I cannot ensure your safety. Understood?"

"Aye, Witch!" and "Understood" comes from next to her as the barrier fully disappears, and they begin to shuffle closer.

The three of them plant their feet onto the floor, grimace against the metal colliding into their skin, and once they're close enough, Wanda brings them down to their knees in front of the Being. They respond as expected, pressing against the wall, as if attempting to make themselves as small as possible.

"The interior is experiencing unregulated dismantling. I require assistance to keep you all safe."

"Knight," Wanda whispers, crawling further, ignoring the City. They still under her gaze, like a deer in the headlights. "Where are you hurt? Can we come closer to help you?"

The response is immediate, and it breaks her heart to see how they curl up further, not pushing her away, but trying to push themself away. They cry louder, breaths rattling in their incomprehensible haze, and she looks at her companies by her side, watching as their eyes dart to the ground, and then she goes back to the Knight.

"Can you show me where it hurts?" She brings herself up, shins pressing against the cold flooring, knees touching theirs. They jerk back, gasping in pain, and she scoots away so that there's no contact.

"That hurts? What about your arms?" They shake their head, and Wanda takes it as a lie. She pushes further, "Do you want me to make it feel better?"

They whimper, silent and devastating, as the room is pulled apart faster. The walls are being torn down, exposing them to the outer edges of the abyss, and she notes an orange hue against the black backdrop; the two other beds in the room have been cut to shreds, as if someone took scissors to paper.

She can hear Vision's grunts, likely extracting everyone out of the crumbling room, and yet, she keeps the three of them planted in that room.

"Ms. Maximoff, the room is about to be—"

Wanda makes a gamble, brings up her hands, intertwined with the two others, and replaces their hands, which claw at their head, with their interlocked ones. The Knight doesn't fight it, letting themself go limp against their touch, and she watches as new tears flow down their cheeks, turning red.

Wanda doesn't wait, the Door had led her here to this person, and she was going to be their guidance. She closes her eyes, wraps her being around her companion's minds, and plunges into their patient's head.

╚══ ☾•°◉°•☽ ══╝

Numbing cold greets them instantaneously, as if diving into the depths of the ocean, and although they're all crushed together for now, an amalgamation of God, Witch, and Ex-Avatar, Wanda takes control of their new form.

With their limbs, she carefully weaves through the bright spikes of white, and tangled webs they fall through, dodging the Knight's mental barriers. They narrowly fly through hands which comb through his walls of security, built up over decades of life as an Avatar. Although bone and space dust are what makes up the tunnel they skyrocket down, it shows signs of wear and tear: Entrances to their mind long forgotten, never correctly shut, and blips in the framework which offer simpler meanings of sudden weakness, or consequence.

After minutes of careful gliding into their mind, sandy ground meets their sight as she begins closing up the entrance in which they dove through. She brings their hands up to the tunnel, bringing bone back together in it's intricate puzzle.

When she finally reforms the paper thin line between reality and the Mindscape, they hit the dunes, skidding across the ice cold sand. With each rolling hit, their body shatters, pulling each other into their own bodies, and digging into the sand.

Wanda groans as she comes to a stop, her body catching on the peak of a dune. She pulls herself up, shakes out the sand hiding in her clothes, and scans the world around her.

The fabled city buildings, regaled by others who have survived mind battles with him, are buried under the sand that they crash landed onto. The Moon hangs high in the sky, bright as spotlight beaming down onto its actors.

The buzzing in her mind, and the tingling underneath her skin has vanished; the world doesn't feel alive. The sensation of life beside her comes from the three of them, and a slight commotion from afar. She blinks, rubbing sand from her eyes, and gazing into the horizon.

A house lays in the center of the deserted land. She can make out three, human-like figures staggering toward it. In the foreground, she notes of a large cloud, towering over anything, and spouting from the ground, spinning straight for the only protection among the dunes. Her eyes go wide, and the spike of adrenaline from the sight spurs her into the moment like a bullet shooting off from a gun.

"T'Challa! Thor! We need to move." Wanda slides down the dune she once stood upon, halting herself to tug at her companions limbs. They grumble, digging themselves out of the sand, and hoisting themselves up with her help.

"This is their Mindscape?" Thor shakes his head, hair scattering clumps of sand to the ground. "I would think it looked like something else. Not this."

"Exactly," Wanda stomps up a dune, and when they don't follow her, she turns back. "We have a mind-destroying issue on our hands. We need to stop it immediately."

"Or else they're all gone," Thor whispers.

"Or else they're all gone." She reciprocates, turns back, and sprints up the rest of the dune, stopping in order for the two of them to catch up with her.

When they crest over the peak, Thor and T'Challa stall, looking across the world. They don't exchange words, only glances, and then they turn toward the Scarlet Witch. She smirks, knowing that they're waiting for guidance—For a Door—For a plan.

"We need to make it to the house. I am suspecting the cloud beyond is going to destroy the last place of safety in their mind, and if there is none left, everyone will be buried alive, including us." Wanda points over to where she's talking about, and then without notice, begins the trek there. Her feet skid across the cool sand, digging into her shoes, and the sound of loud thuds and crunching behind her indicate that everyone is running alongside her.

"We should inform you about, well, we did have a fight." T'Challa huffs. The house is gradually getting bigger. The three figures are gone, but the door is now open, letting bright, warm light cascade across the land.

"We? Who's we?"

"Us," Thor runs up far enough to meet her heavy stare at the cloud; she lets herself float off from the ground, propelling herself through the air. "If we meet Marc, or someone new, they may not take… Kindly to us."

"Then stay outside of the house. In any case, we'll need to assess the cloud situation." She squints overhead, reconfirming the direction the cloud is spinning to. Now closer, it seems more akin to a cone-shaped tower of sand than anything atmospheric. "…Or a sandstorm situation."

"If we meet someone new—" Thor stumbles over himself, then takes a few seconds to catch up. The three are almost there; the house's details are becoming more apparent: Worn down window sills, a Mezuzah at the doorway, a small mailbox without a number. "Wanda, by Danvers' words, they were attempting to…"

"They were attempting to kill themself in space." T'Challa finishes for Thor, as they skid to a stop at the start of the house's steps.

"I had a suspicion," she takes a step up one stair, and holds her breath. "This is the house. Thor, go and observe the storm coming this way, as you are the God of—"

The door flies open with a resounding, echoing yell of fury. She, thankfully looking forwards, watches as a man, way under average height, and manning a mustache, comes swinging out with a baseball bat. His yelling dies down, and he drops the bat as his face falls. The bat breaks apart against the ground with a dry snap.

"Ha-Shem! Ha-Shem! V’al hakol Adonai Eloheinu anachnu modim lach um-varchim!" He spins around, gleefully. "Come in, come in—" He cranes his head to talk inside, "It's the Avengers! We must be a hot-topic right now!" Then, after shimmying his shoulders and grinning, he turns back around, laughing in relief.

"We can make quick pleasantries, but then we have to go. There's a storm headed straight for this house." Wanda comments, keeping still on the steps.

Another body pops into the door frame, peering over the man's shoulders. He's tall, clean shaved, neatly put together, and obviously younger. Although, the scars make his wrinkles deepen. "That same storm has destroyed the entire city. We took refuge in my place, but when the sands got too high, it wasn't safe. However, this house randomly appeared."

"This house, like it's not my childhood home." Another person peeks in from behind the mustached-figure. He shoves the two away, making room in front. 

He looks the most battered of the bunch: His bare chest is covered in sandy, bloody bandages, and his palms are caked in dried blood. As if he attempted to hide it, he has too-big leather gloves on. "And, we know there's a storm. If you three can do anything about it, there's something at the eye of it. We can't get close enough since—" He gestures up and down to each of them, "we're not super powered, nor fit for this."

"Hey! You're the one who associated more with the muscle-macho-man we are!" and "Says the one who had their guts spilling out a few hours ago?" come from the two, and the man covered in blood rubs his temples. 

Wanda doesn't know why she's so shocked, stunned into silence watching the few interact. She knew beforehand that they were a system, as it's in their file, but after years of typically seeing one person with their own individual world... It feels like a challenge. She loves it.

"There's something in the eye of the storm?" Wanda rounds back to their conversation, successfully disputing the bickering. They all make noncommittal nods and noises that make her almost break her stoic, flat-face, with a subtle shake of her head.

"Yeah. I came from it. Had a pretty bad fall." He shrugs, and the two beside him groan in exasperation. Seems like they've talked about this before.

"Alright, Mr. I-can't-tell-any-story-for-the-life-of-me doesn't understand that they need this information, so—" The mustache man clears his throat, while the bloodied one glares daggers at him. They bicker like married men, but she holds her laughter for later. "According to him hours ago, when we weren't buried in sand, tired, and desperate for anything, he had an encounter with Khonshu. Or maybe it wasn't Khonshu. We don't know. All we know is that somethin' was wrapping him into like… An egg?"

He looks to the bloodied one. The hurt one nods.

"Right. An egg. Weird, right? When he was almost fully encased, all of a sudden, he just feel right through, and crashed into where I usually operate in our mind. I patched him up, ran from one hell of a storm, and now we're here… Still dealing with said storm."

"Wait—Wait—" Thor's brows furrow. "Marc, am I assuming right? You met Khonshu."

Marc, the bloodied one, nods. "Exactly. He's supposed to be in prison. I suppose it's not the first time it's happened, but he's never…"

"Wrapped you in an egg."

"Or made a sandstorm in our mind." The clean shaved one adds in. "He's done some other weird stuff to harm us, but this is just petty."

"I have a plan." Wanda puts her fist to her palm, looking at her companions. "First of all, we know this isn't a normal sandstorm. You—" She points at the clean shaven man; he seems taken aback. "—stated that Khonshu made it. How do you know that for certain?"

"It goes directly toward us. Nowhere else. Only to us."

"Since this is caused by a God, we need a God to dispel it." She points toward Thor, who grins up at her.

"I know what to do, our Scarlet Witch." Thor steps down from the steps, making his way to the storm.

"T'Challa, I need you to stay here just in case the storm does hit the house. We need someone to get everyone out of here with ease." She watches T'Challa nod, proceeded by him brooding on the stairs, and smiles back at the three in the doorway. "Mind if I get introductions from each of you? If this is a new person, I need to—"

"Hey, don't sweat! Jake. Jake Lockley." The mustached man, Jake, tips his hat. He points at the two beside him. "Big business, or the tall guy, is Steven Grant. You already know Marc."

Wanda refuses to comment about Steven Grant being a billionaire gone AWOL, according to Darcy, and Jake acting like a personified teddy-bear in the face of impending doom. Instead, she smiles and nods curtly.

"Thank you. You three already know me as Wanda. Please change those bandages and clean out his wounds again before we take care of this." Wanda waves, before turning on her heel, and heading toward the back of the house.

She meets Thor by the back, stepping up to him carefully and quietly. She summons a weak barrier spell in front of them, making sure the sand doesn't deter from his concentration.

She can't see the eye Marc was describing, but once a few moments pass, and the sand is whipping against the walls of the home, piling up against the windows, it scatters across the air.

From underneath the storm, she can see the eye clearly: A white oval made out of glowing bandages.

"I've got hold of it! Now go! I won't be able to hold it long." Thor grits out, struggling against the storms power, hands clenching in the air. She takes the cue and hurries out, boosting herself into the air, close to the white, pearly egg.

When she presses her hand against it, planning to enforce a counter spell, she lets out a yelp as the outer shell wraps around her arm. She attempts to pull herself away from it, tugging against the bindings, but to no avail, as within seconds, the egg consumes her.

╚══ ☾•°◉°•☽ ══╝

The world is nothing but a black void, enveloping her wholly. She writhes against the binds that constrict her, and they pull off languidly, dropping her into a deep, never-ending sea of water. Shock runs through her veins as all the warmth is zapped out of her body, and she's left chattering inside of the abyss.

However, it isn't dark for long, as for when she closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and reopens them, she can see a ball of light from afar. As she steps further, the water gets deeper, and she struggles to keep her footing as the water overtakes her, now feebly kicking her feet to get closer. She's shivering, hands shaking, but she has to figure out what's going on.

She knows the issues always sprout from the mind and come out in a disastrous mess of pain. That's how people suffer: Not pinpointing the issue inside. Perhaps this was the issue's inside.

When she bumps into an edge, she brings her hands to feel around it. The light is a few feet away, and as she drags herself onto the ledge, she knows her legs have seized, paralyzed by the nerve wracking chill. Ever practical, she drags herself with her arms, watching as the cold causes her skin to go white, and then a shade of pretty baby blue.

The light isn't a spherical shape like she thought from beyond, it's more akin to an oval, like an egg—like the one she interacted with outside, which folded her into another layer of their mind. She's close enough to touch it, to feel the pearly wraps in her hands, but something stops her this time, a lull in her thoughts of a spell against the madness.

The light mutters, silent and soft, as if something alive is inside of it.

She hoists herself up, flips her body so that her legs stick out, and begins tearing at the egg. The wrappings come undone easily, no longer pulling her in, and providing a warm relief in contrast to the searing cold. Her hands burn as she digs further, blue turning into a fair shade of red, and then back into her natural hazelnut tone.

Wanda stops when she's half-way done, watching as the inside of the egg shakes. The form itself looks more human, but it's too small to be anyone else in the system. Unless Jake was a 13-year-old and she didn't—

As she pulls one of the pieces off, which wrap around its entire figure, everything comes undone. A small body flops to the ground, and Wanda's blood goes cold. She heaves herself up, the light being discarded onto the ground, as she picks up the kid, attempting to hide them from the cold.

The kid is small—brown hair, pearly white eyes, and ivory skin—with bandages covering their body. She closes her eyes and curls into them, hating herself for not at least wearing a cloak for the poor, shaking kid.

"Are you hurt? Are you okay?" She whispers into their ear, running a hand through their hair. Curls meet her fingers, and she weaves through them. "Are you cold?"

"Please…" The kid chokes out. She shushes them, pressing their hands into hers, and closing her eyes. "I don't—He—He said—I—"

When Wanda goes to peck the back of their hand, she tastes blood on her lips—but the blood continues further, or perhaps its the warmth of the bandages which go through her body, wrapping around her mind, tugging at her body, until she's nothing but—

╚══ ☾•°◉°•☽ ══╝

Wanda snaps her eyes open, reeling backward, noting the bright white, glistering walls. The room spins around her, and she carefully keeps her vomit down. Her hands bring the kid closer, and from under her, a small whimper pulls her into reality. She blinks through her own tears, letting go and pulling back enough to see the kid in their entirety.

They're back in the medical room, but she's holding the kid in the same way she did the Mindscape. She can hear her companions groan next to her, both collapsing to the ground in exhaustion. She doesn't blame them, as she would as well under different circumstances—Not with a kid in front of her.

The kid is not small. It's Moon Knight's body: Tall, broad shoulders, forever broken nose, stubble, and messy hair. The body is nothing like she just saw: Small brown curls, pure white eyes, and chubby cheeks. She croons, rubbing her thumb against their jaw, mourning the loss of their adorable baby face.

"I don't wanna be here…" The kid sobs into their hands, attempting to look away from the world itself. "I don't wanna be here!!"

"I know, I know…" Wanda coo's, bringing her hands to rake through their hair. She looks back at the two she came in with, who both are looking at her quizzically, now sitting up and readjusting to reality. "Are you okay with Thor and T'Challa being here?"

"No, no, no!! They're mean!!" They cry out, and sobs wrack their body, shaking their broken form. "They didn't let me save my brother!!"

She continues to attempt to physically comfort the kid, ignoring the drying blood on her palms, as she cranes back around, asking many questions with her eyes alone. It spurs the two to stutter through a mess of recounting before settling fully into their own heads.

"Knight, you did save your brother." Thor cuts his own groans of pain short as he scoots next to Wanda. Surprisingly, he can keep himself sitting up, and enough to take off his cape, wrapping it around the kids shoulders. "You passed out long before we got you to the jet."

"You're lying! He was still hurt!"

"We're telling the truth," T'Challa from beside her, sighs. He's the least mentally damaged out of the two of them, but he still lays his head on Wanda's shoulder, unable to keep it up. "Your brother only had Band-Aid worthy injuries. You were supposed to be wrapped in bandages for weeks. Seeing as you're not right now… Someone didn't follow the doctors orders."

"That's a lie!" The kid frowns. "I was perfectly fine! No doctor tells the truth!"

"The body wasn't okay, sweat pea." Wanda turns her attention back to their eyes. The kid sucks in a breath, attempting to stop crying, but tears continue to spill down his red cheeks. "Do you know Marc?"

The kid nods and scoots closer to Wanda. She takes the cue and wraps her arms around his back, keeping him close. They freeze until she combs through their hair again, one simple touch, and they're squeezing against her as tightly as possible.

"You and Marc share the same body. Do you remember how hurt he was after you saved your brother?"

"We don't share the same body!" The kid pulls back, laughing. "You're silly."

"No, you're silly." Wanda puts on her best smile, and taps his nose. He kicks his feet from behind him and giggles. "But you know Marc?"

"Mhm! He's my brother too, but don't tell him—" He leans in, placing his chin on Wanda's shoulder, chest to hers again. "Jake's my favorite."

"You've met them?"

"No…" He chokes back a sob, clearly embarrassed in his tone, and Wanda gets to work on healing their bruises. She presses against their back, scattering small pulses of energy through his body to stitch it back up. "I get—I get big and scary, and I don't want to scare them…"

"That's okay…" She hushes them, stalling for more time, observing how when their breathing slows, the objects begin to fall from the air, banging against the floor. "You're doing great, okay? Take a few more breaths for me."

They do as she says, and she rewards them with a soft good job. "What's your name?" They murmur, wrapping their own arms around her. "You smell nice. Like Marc's mom."

She lets soft laughter escape, before refocusing on healing the kid in her lap. "My name is Wanda Maximoff. Do you have a name?"

"Mm… I think it's…" They yawn, and she bites her lip when she hears their jaw crack. She brings a hand up to his jaw to focus her spell there as well. "I 'unno… I don't like it anymore…"

"You don't like your original name?"

The kid shakes their head, and she can feel their frown deepen against her skin. "He's a meanie."

"Thor and T'Challa?"

"No! They're—" They snap back, and she has to move with them to keep her hands on them. "No, no, no, no!! Him!!"

She blinks mindlessly, the pieces not falling into place as they wail on her chest to get away, until Thor scoots closer, gets positioned behind the kid, and scoops them into his arms. The God looks down at them with solemn eyes, deep, saddened blues looking down at bright white pupils. The kid freezes up, and she hates how they flinch when she pulls back in order to move closer.

Khonshu, Wanda bites her tongue. What did he do?

She looks over to T'Challa. He meets her frown with his own. It seems as though they're asking the same thing in their own heads.

"Ay, he doesn't deserve to name you. You are valiant! A warrior." Thor keeps his voice low and the kid stops squirming. She gets closer, bringing T'Challa with her, as she places her palms on the kids sides, narrowing back in on healing the kid. "I can tell with those eyes."

The kid lets out another yawn through their stifled sobs, gradually relaxing in Thor's embrace, the keen eyes of T'Challa, and the warm touch of Wanda. "You know him?"

"I know him very well, young Moon." He hums, peering up at T'Challa. "Our cat friend also knows him. He used to serve his step-sibling, Bast. I only know him by biting him when I was a young thunder God!" He fake nibbles against the kid's shoulder, and they giggle, squirming around. Wanda is thankful that T'Challa plays into attempting to calm the kid down, putting up fake cat ears on his head with his fingers, as it makes the kid laugh more, subduing his sobs.

"Stop! Stop!" They shriek, and Wanda lets go, scanning his body for any other visible wounds to heal. "Who are you? That's so cool!!"

"I am the Mighty Thor!" He stands up, swinging them along with him. Wanda ducks, dodging the flailing feet in the air. She shoots him a glare, and he wearily looks down, before continuing his gloating. "God of Thunder, protector of Midgard, King of Asgard, and an Avenger!"

The kid stares at him with shock and awe, letting himself be thrown onto Thor's shoulder like a rag doll, and paraded out of the Medical Ward like a king. When she turns back to the two, her heart finally takes its last beating, shattering under the blank face, full of unprocessed emotion from the kid. It's as if they've never been comforted, only hurt.

"We'll be making breakfast for dinner! A feast fit for kings!"

"I'm not that hung—"

"We are both famished!" He corrects the kid, driving his knuckles into their scalp, eliciting more laughter. "Wanda, would you mind…" Thor scans the room, and then looks back at her. She rolls her eyes, getting back up onto her feet. T'Challa clings to her side, requiring assistance to hobble alongside her.

"If you make extra for all of us, yes, and clean them up. I don't want to be eating breakfast with a side of blood."

"Very well! We shall see you all soon!" Thor waves them off, strutting off with the kid.

Before the kid fully disappears around the corner, he attempts a weak wave, and whispers: "Bye Wan… Bye kitty."

╚══ ☾•°◉°•☽ ══╝

When Wanda waltzes into the commons, now adorned in casual clothes; T'Challa in sweatpants at her side; Carol being 90% bandages; Vision looking unaffected as ever; Sam in a marketable Captain America onesie, and Tony with his average, black T-shirt and pants, like nothing ever happened, she foolishly thought she could believe what happened hours ago had simmered down.

No. In fact. Instead, two boisterous boys set half of the kitchen on fire, and the City had to intervene to cook. It took an hour for them to try to cook, another to stop the fire, and another for City to fix the mess that they caused.

Wanda snaps her fingers, replaces the burns on the couches with fresh cushions, and lets the team collapse onto them with rapt speeds unknown to the common person. She turns, strides to the kitchen, and the door is opened before she can go in herself.

The kid stumbles out first, looking wobbly on his feet, but nevertheless, holding a plate of edible eggs and hash browns. They look up sheepishly at Wanda, then skitter around her, and place it on the table in between everyone. She can feel the air tense up at the sight of them, but then Thor comes out, with pancakes, waffles, milk, and juice, and she can feel the tension break.

"Hm… What about Cody?" Thor booms, sliding the plates onto the table next to the hash browns and eggs. The kid groans, rubbing their eyes. They look far better, more awake and intact, wiped of blood, as well as being in one of Sam's onesies than in a destroyed Stark suit, shaking in pain.

"We already have a Cody!! You've said that name twice!"

"John?"

"No, no, that name is awful." The kid rolls their eyes, slamming into Thor, and the God takes him up into his hands. He's thrown back onto his shoulder, and the kid dangles limply, accepting fate.

"You two seem like a handful," Wanda smirks, taking a plate and piling it full. "Is this all good for me to eat?"

"We looked for the labels!" The kid gives her a big grin and a thumbs up; she realizes that she's never seen their body smile in any capacity, especially not one so genuine.

"Thank you, you did a very good job." When she's done, she ruffles the kids hair, and departs for the couches. She alerts the rest of the team to dinner, and they all sluggishly get up, one at a time, putting food on their plates, before collapsing on any nearby seating, and stuffing their faces full.

The kid, now perched up on Thor's shoulders, watches with rapt attention. They purse their lips, and rest their head on the top of Thor's, who stands with a plate full of food, in front of the team.

"Are we safe?" Comes out of nowhere, and the team snaps to attention, all looking at the kid.

"Well, where did that come from?" Thor chuckles, attempting to alleviate the oddity of that question, and pull it into something more calm. Everyone applauds him with their nods, but doesn't say anything out loud. Wanda wonders if they've even been briefed about the new system-mate.

"We are 192 million meters away from the Moon." City cordially supplies, and the kid's feet stop swinging. "I am a battleship meant for intergalactic warfare, we are very—"

"He told me it was a 'disposing' mission." The kid whispers, "he wanted to dispose of us. He can do that on Earth too…"

Their voice is a small, choked out whisper, but it's enough that it clicks in everyone's minds. The attempts to crack the helmet; attacking people the system knows; struggling to get away from a source of comfort—

"He is still in prison, little Moon." Thor sighs, placing his food down on the edge of one of the couches. Sam keeps it steady. "He will not have that type of power over any of thee while you are on Earth. His power is far more limited, and he knows it."

"But—"

"No buts, aye? Why don't we move somewhere else, get food into you, and take a nap!" He swings the kid down to the ground, and their knees give out, struggling to hold themself up, as he lets go. "Goodness, you're about to fall down from exhaustion! Come on, now."

The team watches with shock as he pushes them to grab up a plate, put something on it, and waddle off into a different direction. They turn to T'Challa and Wanda for answers, while Sam puts Thor's forgotten plate onto the coffee table.

"I believe we all need to rest and process everything before we start briefing." Wanda promptly says, gets up, and leaves the commons to do just that.

╚══ ☾•°◉°•☽ ══╝

At the end of the day, when the City has finally established orbit with the Earth once more, she slips into Thor's room, just to survey the damage.

In the middle is his bed, and tucked inside is the small body of the kid. Monopoly, the board game, is placed beside him, and they attempt to play while half-asleep. Thor is sat on the ground, playing with mild attention, and rattling off as if his partner is not slipping into unconsciousness.

When she sits beside the kid, combing her hands through their hair, Thor greets her with an exhausted smile. Seconds later, as she predicted, snoring fills the room, and the God lets out a sigh of relief. She waves her hands, packing up the game with ease as he gets up, stretching his muscles.

When Thor flops down beside her, she extends a hand out to his wounds, and presses against it. He lets out a deep, resounding breath of air, and melts into the bed.

The three of them sit like that for a long time, the world slipping from her hands, until hours later, Marc wakes, startles the two of them, and hides in Thor's closet all at the same time.

Chapter Text

He feels as though he's breaking into somewhere foreign to him, although the hand pressed against his back, the one he knows so well, and the etched, spirals across the floors and ceilings call to him in familiarity. The body weaving between their legs, the eyes on them—present, unlike his distant ones—and their coaxing tone pries them all into one, jumbling, and staggering mess.

He knows the hands on them are keeping their body steady, and the same one's pull them from room to room. He doesn't know what they're doing. When they finally let go of him on a soft, cushioned chair, and leave his space, he sighs in relief.

What the hell was all of that? Jake yawns with an audible crack in their jaw. They blink their eyes, looking through a clouded haze to the four in front of them.

Some sort of magical tests. Steven rubs their eyes, and leans further back. Their hands skitter across the top of the chair they're stationed in. When his fingers reach something soft, they pull together, and a blanket ensnares their body.

Marc huffs, carefully tearing the blanket from them, and flattening it across their upper chest. He sticks his nose into it and breathes: Bibliosmia and cinnamon. Steven pulls the blanket away with a cough, turning the peoples heads. They glare back at their blurred faces.

One of them bends down, close enough to where their combined efforts prevail, and they can focus into the outer world enough to make out discernible details: Short curly white hair, purple and black clothes, and a short smile. She brings up her hands, carrying red cloth and golden thread in one, and a brown bag in the other.

"I have a task for all of you while we step out." She places the cloth and thread delicately in their lap. "Stephen requires his cloak to be repaired. Use this thread and cloth wisely." She places the bag on the end table beside them. "In here, you will find needles and thread cutters. I trust you'll do good work, as always."

She gives one last look at them, sending a message they cannot understand from her face alone. Then, she retreats back into the dark, faded world. They drawl, slipping back into their shared, fuzzy mind without hesitation. Everything feels softer in comparison to realities sharp, fine edges.

Their palms rub against the ridges across the cloth, as they unconsciously pull and prod. Steven perks up first, leaning closer into the front. He takes their hands away from their subconscious movement, and directs them to the bag of needles.

Jake pulls back, and their chest collapses onto the arm rest, nails digging into the edge of the table. Marc grits his teeth; he can feel his simmering anger flicker alive just by the feeling of the stain bundling under their nails. Steven do you even know how to sew? And we need to talk about what actually happened—

Steven pushes forwards. Their hands now rest on the top of the table. Marc stirs uncomfortably, head dizzy from the growing battle. The stickiness from the skin-to-wood contact on the table is similar to nails on a chalkboard. Tsk—Are you joking about me not knowing how to sew—Also, I think we're fine for today to not—

Seriously? We're fine? Another push. Jake and Steven glare at each other like they're about to kill one another.

I just think that we're all tired. Resistance. He hates it.

And I think that you're not looking at this closely enough—

When Jake pulls again, Marc feels the final straw in his ever growing impatience snap, and he forces himself in, pulling the two apart. He breaches the waters, resurfacing into the outer world, gasping. He pulls their body into the cloak, thread, and blankets, assuming a curled inwards position.

"Shut up." Marc growls, clenching his hands next to his head. He desperately wants to squeeze—to pull something. Discomfort grows in his chest, but he doesn't know where his own sense of emotion starts or ends.

They're all squished into a small space, attempting to steer the body all at the same time. Jake's hands land on the wheel again, aiming to press their knuckles firmly into the cushions, away from their head. Marc tugs at their arms, and Jake pulls them in the opposite direction toward the couch.

What is all of this about?? Jake heaves, hands sliding off of the wheel. When they do, Steven pushes Jake back up, holding him there. Marc squirms around, bile clogging his throat. He can feel his head go fuzzy, spots dancing across his vision—he hates it he hates it he hates—

You two are infuriating—

Oh, we are??

Marc pulls at their hair, gritting at the pain. It jolts him into reality, but when their mind proceeds to be speared into by the sharpness of the world, he retreats inwards once again.

The sudden, forceful switch makes Steven fall back, but Jake hangs on, using one hand on the wheel, while the other scrambles to grab Steven, and another joins the fray.

Clad in a white suit, keen eyes, and a sharp tone, he pulls the three off, pushes them out of their small space, and grabs hold of the wheel. Marc falls into the head space with a pained cry, hitting the Synagogues floors with a crack of his ribs, and ringing ears. The two join beside him soon after, curled up in one another, and groaning as their bones ache under their combined weight.

"If you three do not calm down, do not assess the current situation of our system, and bicker the entire time, I will separate all of you. Again." Mr. Knight shouts from above, and then leaves with parting gifts: A mug filled to the brim of an unknown liquid, a Rubix Cube, and coloring books.

The three look at each other, all strewn across the hardwood floors, and in the middle of the old archives and play-space they used to hide in as kids. Marc is closest to the old shelves; Jake and Steven are the closest to the door leading outside, and nearby tables.

They proceed to scramble for their respective items like desperate animals.

Marc grabs the bottle, and retreats to a nearby clearing within a bookshelf, curling into his tiny retreat; Steven takes hold of the cube, mixing up the colors, and focusing intently on solving it, while staying on his stomach in the middle of the room; Jake catapults himself off of Steven to grab the books, nearly kicking the man in the face, and skittering to the nearby tables. He stakes his claim alongside broken crayons and dried markers.

They stay like that for a few moments, partly eyeing each other, and focusing on their given item. When Mr. Knight makes a disgruntled noise, each of them instantly snap back into the reality of the past day, remembering why they were hauled out of the front in the first place.

Marc is still caked in blood; Sand is still hidden within the crevice of every surface; and if you looked hard enough, anyone could find forgotten wraps from the egg. Something had been birthed in their mind, and no one knew what it was.

"Cutting to the chase," Jake starts, crayon stuck between his teeth like a cigar. "None of us like this. There's someone new here, and none of us knows what happened. It was bad enough to warrant magical intervention."

"We don't need a recap, Jake." Comes from the other two, and they both cringe. Marc hides behind his cup, and Steven looks away bashfully.

"And we had a little bit of a freak out moment that neither of us enjoyed." Jake shrugs, kicking his chair back, taking the crayon from his teeth. "I'm trying to be like Andrea, alright? Marc, tell me about your feelings."

"I think you should fuck off."

"Such nice word-play. Steven, why did you get worked up over me saying we need to be briefed over everything?" Jake turns the attention to the business man, who straightens up when everyone's eye's fall upon him.

"Too many emotions. Too many smells. Lights. Whatever. Even now. I don't like it." He looks back to his cube, and then back to the cab driver. "Why did you freak out about us using needles?"

Jake's brows furrow, and the sight manages to begrudgingly drag Marc's attention to him once more. "I, uh, dunno. I suppose. Instinctual reaction. A not good head space, to me, means to get away from any pointy thing on sight."

"Why was your first reaction to take control over everything?" Jake snaps back to Marc, who promptly regrets his own, rapt attention.

"Why is it your job to psychoanalyze everyone?" Marc deflects and takes a sip of tea. He squints his eyes, and Jake's face scrunches up.

If he had a full beard, it'd be the same one Elias made whenever he was disappointed. The resemblance strikes him in the chest, and forces his eyes to look toward the ground.

"Can you stop deflecting and be honest? For once?" Jake shakes his head, looking back to his coloring books. He scribbles in a section, snapping the crayon in his hand in the process. "Knew all of this wasn't going to last long."

The hushed comment stuns the room into silence. Steven finally completes the cube with a soft click, Jake's shocked himself enough that he's stopped scribbling, and Marc keeps the tea in his mouth, swallowing in short bursts from fear of choking.

"Hey, you know, maybe I just didn't mean that comment entirely—" Jake pulls back, now straddling the bench he's sat on. He scratches the back of his head, "I didn't… I..."

"It's been a tough day," Marc pouts. He hates how Jake and Steven look at each other knowingly when he speaks, as if they're a hundred pages ahead of Marc, and he's at page one.

"Try again." Steven looks at Marc, then tosses the cube at him. He flinches away. "You use that excuse too much."

"I got torn into tiny bits today. Is that not a good enough excuse?"

"Try again." Jake throws a marker at him, copying Steven. It clatters against the floor. Marc feels as though he's having rotten tomatoes thrown at him. "When Khonshu attempted to take control of our mind, you didn't assume control then. We all worked together."

"So, what's it going to be?" Steven purses his lips, getting up, and folding his arms next to Jake.

They lean close together, looking at Marc expectantly. Their small touches to each other—Jake leaning into the brush of Steven's subtle contact; Steven purposefully pressing hard against the other… Specifically in the exact place on his back that Marc maybe knows Jake folds into—Makes him break.

The cherry on top is how, likely all too late, it hits him like a train: He wants to be in the middle. He wants Steven to lean over him, covering him entirely, and pressing against Jake. He wants Jake's fingers, just as they're doing to Steven right now, to make sure the other is still there. He wants—

He doesn't know what he wants, but he does all at the same time. It makes him want to throw a tantrum; to puff out his cheeks and cry until someone gets the message to help him.

Maybe that's why he let the wrappings bind him so easily. It was warm. It felt like Greer's hugs, or the rare moments between the system, where they're all close together, almost touching—

They offered him a path. It wasn't easy. It was dauntingly difficult, but he walked upon it for a few weeks. He staggered up over the roots, and the hard bumps along the way. He had worked his way so far. Why did he stumble off?

He scrambles for his face, keeping his chin tucked under his arms, now curled around his knees. The cup was discarded on the ground long ago.

"You two were fighting." He chokes out, and scoots further into the bookshelf. He feels himself grow smaller to accommodate himself—or maybe it's the space becoming larger? "It was easier to just take control. To act upon it."

"And we both didn't like that, did we Steven?" Jake cocks his head, and Steven nods. Marc feels like he wants to die.

"Then what do you suggest? I lost control today. I don't know what we did. We all resurface from a night of hell, and then you two begin to bicker over something minuscule." Marc snarls. A few books fall in front of him, obscuring their overbearing eye contact for a brief flash.

He wants a wild animal to burst into the woods he's lost upon and kill him on sight when the room goes dead silent.

The two, instead of reacting as if his reasoning was idiotic, or rather, sound, Jake takes the initiative and barks out a laugh, leaving Steven to follow close behind. Their tension leaks out of their bodies like a raging stream, and Marc is left with the rapids, making him smaller, drowning him.

"Zay mir moykhl—" Jake coughs, pounding his chest. "One, are we dead? Come on, say it after me, we aren't dead."

"We aren't dead," Marc rolls his eyes. They weren't dead, but he felt far more dead than alive at this point; he can't feel his hands or feet.

"I'll take it. The worse thing that happened, that we know of, was our combined reaction from waking beside the Scarlet Witch, and a handsome Norse God… But did they look hurt?" Jake chuckles, and the sound itself pulls Marc out of the rapids with a swift push. He shakes, the cold sticking to him like a disease.

"No. Were they worried? Yes, I mean, anyone would be. Look at us! Steven freaked, I almost swung punches at this beautiful face—" He squeezes Steven's jaw, and the other purses his lips in response. "If you're feeling trapped, or if you feel as if have to take the reigns as an end-all-be-all, say something."

"Do we need a code word?" Steven offers, now unwrapping his arms, and having them lay out to Jake's chest. "I think it'd be useful. It'd be like our mercenary days. I did enjoy deciphering your codes."

"You enjoy puzzles, you nerd." Jake chides, and Steven only slides closer to him, their heads now beside another. Marc ogles them, not being able to tear his eyes off of the two. His heart strains against itself to go to them, but his brain, and his body, clamps down, and keeps him shoved into a rickety case beside moldy books.

"Yes, I do, but, that isn't the point, Jake." Steven flicks his nose, eliciting a garbled noise from the other, and then turns his attention back to Marc. He eyes him up and down, "I expected you to slide back into your old, controlling ways. If it helps. No one heals fully without some backsliding, but it's what you do to counteract the relapse is what truly matters."

"Code words would help." Marc gulps, and the stack of books beside him grows higher. "I just… Don't." He cuts himself off, bitten fingernails scratching at the wood. "Know. How to. Hm. I'd like to explain, but I just—"

Marc settles back, letting out a muffled humph. He crosses his arms, simmering in his own frustration.

Jake, noting the reaction, grabs a few crayons, as well as the coloring book in his hands, and tosses it toward Marc. It falls directly outside of the wall of books, and Marc has to kick down a stack to grab it.

"What is this for." He flips through the pages, skimming Jake's terrible handiwork. "You draw out of the lines a lot."

"Eh. I don't care for lines. Its for you to write down what you can't say." Jake comments, then takes a crayon, and fake drags it like a cigarette. It rouses a click of a tongue, and a swipe from Steven's hand. "Take your time. We're here until Mr. Knight clocks out."

They turn away, conversing with each other in small, hushed whispers. Marc looks at the coloring book in his hands. He flips to the last page, all to easily, and begins to write.

I never felt in control. He scribbles it out with red crayon. He knew that it was a lie. Even to himself. He was always in control. He picks up a turquoise crayon nearby, ditching the red.

I—He pauses. Was he really going to say this? He could just—was too worried about losing anything we had. Taking control was easier than accepting that I actually—He falters, scratches out the first letters of "love"—liked you guys. Out of sight out of mind, no matter how oxymoronic that is.

He tears the paper from the book, crumples it in his fists, and then chucks it to them. Steven, still standing, catches it from the air, and unfolds it carefully. He places it in front of both of their faces to read. Their expressions range from exhausted to shocked in a matter of seconds. Jake looks from the note to Marc, and then back and forth a few more times.

"Well," Steven takes the paper, folding it up neatly, and tucking it into his chest pocket. "I think we should talk about code words later. To combat these issues, what if we simply spent more time together?"

"What?" Marc blinks, and the towers shake. The two snicker at the sight.

"Spending time together. You say you like our company, but keeping us out of sight kept you a good distance, which in turn, developed into control problems out of fear—"

"—Sprinkle in some childhood trauma in there as well," Jake cheerfully adds in. Steven sighs.

"Yes, trauma does have a factor in this as well. Thank you, Jake. I thought that was obvious with us being a system." Steven shakes his head, and the cab driver only grins widely in response. "But, back to the point, what if we, like we've been doing more as of recent, stay beside you more often? Being co-con may help aid in a decrease in your innate desire for control, and it'll ease our worries of losing time."

"Mutualistic." Jake remarks, and Steven smacks him in the side. "Ow—Hey! I can say big, fancy words too!"

"That's biology—"

"Biology, shmology."

"Jake, literally can you just shut—"

Marc could see why Wanda looked at them like crazed men yesterday in their mind. They bickered like insane, married people. The thought makes his towers collapse fully, and his face flush. The flying books snaps them out of their fight, and brings it back to the main conversation.

"I've enjoyed you guys being there." Marc confesses, kicking his legs out. He grabs his cup from his side again, being greeted by the warmth radiating into his skin. "When Steven left notes of what happened, I felt… Better about letting go."

Jake and Steven do a quick, downward high-five, which does not fly by Marc, and when he goes to call them out on it, they make a jumbled mess of embarrassed noises.

"See, it was a combined idea."

"A test!"

"Well, it worked, surely! We did not—"

"You don't have to get weird about it." Marc frowns, scooting out from under his book shelf. The attention on him doesn't feel tense, like before, and it's as if he's finally out of the stream and dried off. "It was a nice gesture. Made me less worried about losing time."

Jake grins, scoots over in his spot on the bench, and Steven moves with him. He pats the spot, looking at Marc. Marc shrugs, joining beside him.

"It's nice when we're all honest…" Jake rests his chin on the table, tracing the lines of old marks made by kids of yesteryear. "So, we'll leave notes, figure out code words, and speak up when we're not feeling well, mentally or physically, ay?"

Steven nods. Marc lets a breath out from his nose, more akin to a snort, and leans against Jake's shoulder, knocking into Steven's outstretched arms. He moves one around Marc's head, and the other all but purrs under the touch.

"And, we'll talk about everything later. We'll always find the time." Steven tacks on, slipping into the middle of the huddle, resting his head on Jake's cap, and bringing his hands up into Marc's hair.

It's everything he's thought about, and more. Together they feel of rough leather and silky garments; they smell of sharp cologne and gas, but they both feel gentle.

His eyes snap open. Realization dawns on him, and the rapids consume him again. They suck him under, and he resurfacing is made impossible from the weight keeping him down—sins from the past, ghosts tearing at his legs—

Holy shit.

Curse literally everyone, why did this actually have to—

In drerd arayn—

He's in love.

╚══ ☾•°◉°•☽ ══╝

Mr. Knight pulls the final thread, knotting it off, and setting the needles aside. They pull up their handiwork, displaying it for the Warlord beside him to see. She admires it with her eyes, looking it up and down, and then going back to her book. He drapes it along their forearm, folding it up, and placing it on the glass table in front of them.

They tip their head back, calling out to the abyss of their mind, attempting to listen in. He smiles coyly when he hears no fighting, nor punches being thrown, only small chides and laughs coming from his system mates.

They decide to tap the table beside them to grab the attention of the Warlord, ask for a book with their hands, and stay a while longer. They've got all the time in the world, after all.

Chapter Text

Soldier has no idea what is going on.

When he was a kid, his family would gather together for the winter. There, his tyotya's and sestra's would make bundles of Kalach bread, while his babushka would sit in her rocking chair, and weave soft thread between her two, large needles. His vash-dedushka would go off to work, and his mama would let him sit in her lap, bouncing him up and down until tears ran down his face.

That was all before they fled to the Americas.

When his papa came back after a long, long vacation, his babushka had sat him down on the old, scratchy carpet of their living room. She had said:

"Malysh," she would always begin. He was accustomed to being scolded by her, so when her hand came down to comb through his baby curls, somewhere inside, he knew something was wrong. A twist in his gut, perhaps. One he still remembers to this day.

"Malysh," she repeated. Solemn, this time. "I must tell you of story."

For the first time that he could remember, she had pulled him into her embrace, similar to his mother, and hummed.

"'ou have heard of ze Rusalka. Something beautiful in nature, but cunningly deceptive. Similar to how the vinters are cold, and yet the summers varm, and melt away the snow. She sings her songs, luring men into 'er waters. When zey come, she strikes, and drags zem in, and s'ey cannot escape.

"Feel proud of your mama and papa," she clicks. "Worked hard to free us all of the Rusalka. Worked even harder to keep us safe. Away from z'ose still trapped."

"Is the Rusalka going to find us?" The kid he had once been asked innocently, his large, teary eyes looking up at his one and only babushka.

She had looked down at him and said to not fear.

Little did she know, he would be ensnared by one in the present, dragging him towards her waters.

…Or in other words: Her apartment complex to babysit her over active kid. "Her" being Greer Nelson on a rampage—fur sticking up, slits for pupils, and a stand-still tail.

The Boss had been missing for a day now, and while Badr, Reese, and 8-Ball took over the Mission for the night, she would go on the prowl. Get her claws dirty, and rough up the crowd while she sniffs him out.

Perhaps kill Danvers, too. Soldier didn't understand what she had to do with anything, but Greer was all puffed up from her name alone.

He wanted to join her. He had asked, but she already made up her mind. That was the thing about Greer, he supposes. Her mind is hard to change. She goes out without a plan, figures she'll find the Boss, and if she doesn't, what then? She'll need back-up, but she could have had some beforehand if she simply had a plan—

But, in the culmination of everything, she left him alone. In her house. A list of chores in hand, a death wish on his shoulders if he ever dared do the kid wrong, the same kid tugging at his pant leg, and dread simmering in his gut on how he got into this situation. He had been lured in by promises of doing something for the greater good, and ended up being led to watch over a kid.

Winging it was not his forte. A kid was the counter to all of his fears, and more. He can already feel dread clinging to his spine like a disease.

He looks down at William, meeting his gleeful eyes with expressionless ones. Sadly, he couldn't say no to the Boss' girl. He was in debt to him; he gave him a purpose.

And perhaps—

"Soldier! Soldier! Sooooooldier!" The kid giggles, running circles around him.

Perhaps the kid was adorable enough to tear down every layer of ice that had frozen around his exterior for a night. Especially in his rolled up overalls and green, dinosaur T-shirt. The feeling makes him frown further.

He huffs and scoops the kid up, eyeing the list as Will squirms in his grasp. A foot comes up, and he can barely scoff before Will is standing on his shoulders.

Dear Soldier,

Please feed Will before he sleeps. He sleeps like the dead.

Maybe do something for fun. He's been begging for ice cream this week. Be aware that he will bounce off the walls if you feed him any sugar.

Do not attempt to bathe him. No matter how much he begs. You'll regret it.

If you do me wrong, you're dead in seconds.

Simple enough, Soldier shrugs, letting the kid swing down back onto the floor. He crumples the note into the pocket of his red jacket, and eyes the squirt. Plan.

"What do you want to do?" He asks bluntly.

Will looks at him like he's the coolest person ever. Then, a grin plasters itself on his face, as fast as the thought passes his mind. "Ice cream!"

Soldier sighs. There it is. Just as he was warned.

"If we get ice cream…" He scans the layout of the place, never having seen it before; it's a mess of scratched wood, large ferns, and dazzling hanging lights. "You'll have to go to bed by bedtime."

A groan is ripped out of Will, loud and pouty. He sticks out his top lip, and widens his eyes. Soldier looks down at him with an amused expression—he learned that from the Boss.

The thought almost makes him laugh. It's the same expression he has after a bad session with the Doctor.

But, instead of laughing, he stares, and then goes to look around further.

A TV, as well as a hallway to other areas, is on the right; a kid behind him is attempting to plead and compromise; the kitchen is to the left, with bent steel pans on the electric stove top, and a loaf of bread on the counter.

"You're supposed to be the cool oooneee!!"

"Mhm." Soldier nods, weaving through the kitchen. Will lets go of his pant leg, opting to scramble onto the counters. "Do your parents let you do that?"

Will looks down sheepishly and gets off as fast as he got on. Soldier rewards him with a pat on the head, and an offering to climb onto his back again. He takes it without hesitation.

Looking through their fridge, Soldier is surprised by the amount of food stock piled inside. Towers of jam, ham, and cheese pile to the ceiling, as well as a shelf specifically for pickles. He frowns, pulls out a few old coffees left inside, and tosses them into a nearby trashcan.

He closes the fridge and looks at the clock across from him. For an average kid, it was nearing dinner time, and fast. He remembers eating at four every day as a kid—feasts of Beef Stroganoff and Pelmeni. If he called his mom, she would have the recipes to him in seconds flat.

"Do you want dinner?" He asks, unknowingly monotone.

"Ice cream!"

"Dinner before ice cream."

"Uhhh…" The kid purses his lips. He can tell the compromise of after dinner worked by how Will's hands knead his shoulders. Thank the Lord. "Chicken!"

"Gotta be more specific." Soldier opens the fridge again. He scans the contents, flipping through the drawers.

"Uhmm… I know mom kind of just puts it in water and it tastes good."

"How about," Soldier picks out a few packs of month old meat and throws them in the trash behind him. The stench mixes with the coffee, making his body shudder. "We go out somewhere to eat. Where would you like to go?"

"The bowling alley!"

"We're not bowling. I mean a restaurant."

"Skating! With the food trucks!"

"It's not Fall yet, and the trucks aren't there anymore."

"Uhhh…" Will huffs, folding his arms. "You're no fun! You don't even want to go bowling!"

Soldier frowns. He's fun. He's the definition of fun. He went to a rave once! He danced!

He rubs his eyes and shrugs Will off. When the kid's feet hit the ground, he stays put, looking up at the vamp with angry, tear-filled eyes. His cheeks are puffed out, and hair sticks up on his neck.

Soldier caves at the sight. He lets out a long winded sigh and shakes his head.

"Fine. We'll go bowling."

"Don't tell your mom" is overshadowed by Will's burst of excited squeals, a swift hug that he barely processes, and him scampering off to grab his bag and coat. Soldier blinks. He feels indifferent about the newly carved scratch marks against the hardwood floors.

He doesn't know how to deal with kids. He knows he should feel terrible, but he also feels too sickly sweet inside to care. He's just like him when he was a kid. Overexcited. Ready to face anything. Naive.

When Will rounds back into the hall, bolting to the door with sandals on, a tote bag hanging off his shoulder, and jumping to an unknown, universal beat, Soldier swiftly joins his side.

"Ground rules," he coughs, taking Will's hand into his. He can feel the kid: Warm, and full of uncontrollable energy. He can hear it pulse through his veins, like a constant drum. "You will hold my hand on the street at all times, and listen to me when we go bowling. When I say that we go, we go, alright?"

"Yup!" Will circles around him, twisting his arm around his body. "Just like mom!"

"And, don't tell your mother we're going bowling. We'll get ice cream when we're done. Deal?"

Will stops in front of him, nods enthusiastically, and proceeds to kick around his feet as Soldier pulls the front door open over him. A breeze pushes the door back against him, and he struggles to kick Will's ankles fast enough to get him out of the apartment.

The kid leaps from step to step, just like a frog, bouncing out of the house. Soldier looks at him with an embarrassingly warm gaze as he closes the door, locks it, and hurries off toward the road.

When he catches up with the little frog, he makes sure he has everything set in the tote bag, including a house key to get back in, and a few coloring books to keep him entertained.

Will's hand joins his, and he grins up at him like he's the sun. Soldier looks away, refusing to accept the creeping smile on his face.

They begin to trot off to the nearest Bowling Alley, courtesy of Will's incessant tugging at his arm. Soldier keeps an earbud in for the GPS. His phone is carefully stowed beside the crumpled list in his pocket.

When they're half-way there, Will pauses in the middle of their steady pace. Soldier keeps going, dragging the kid along, and pushing through a cloud of smoke. He makes it to the edge of a sea of metal and honking horns, waiting for the traffic to pause, with a frowning faced kid beside him.

"Soldier?" Will whines, tugging at his sleeve once more.

"Yeah." He thinks nothing of it, keeping his shoulders straight and eyes forward.

"Can I tell you something?"

"Go ahead."

"Mom doesn't like talking about it but," Will tilts his head, leaning it against the vamp's arm. "But you're honest. I like that."

Soldier nods, taking the earbud from his ear. He knows where he's going. It's only a few blocks away.

"I know my actual dad isn't who mom says he is."

Soldier's head snaps to the kid, looking down at him, and missing the traffic sign turning green. He pulls Will back instinctively when he walks forward, but the kid kicks back out, and he relents, stumbling onto the cross walk.

He, in fact, did not know where this was going. Holy shit.

When they get back onto the street, with Soldier pushing them along hastily, Will continues. "Do you know who my dad is?"

He swallows the growing lump in his throat. His body can't sweat anymore, but either way, he feels as though he's in the center of the sun, being burnt alive. A simple, concise mantra echoing through his mind: Don't break this kids heart, don't break this kids heart—

"No," he tells the truth. He doesn't know, but he's had his own suspicions as well. To be frank, the Pym he met looked old enough to be infertile, and William was eight. It didn't make sense.

He yearns for the comfortable silence they once had together. Instead, it's been replaced with tension has sharp as a knife. If he makes the wrong move, says the wrong thing, he's dead. Greer will find out. William will cry. He's dead.

He keeps an ear on Will's heart beat. When it speeds up, Soldier grips his hand tighter. "You know, my babushka always said to never take your own curiosities as fact. She was traditional, you see. Always told me the story of a man who understood animals. It was silly. A man understanding animals and getting rich? The meaning was terrible in of itself, but I suppose she was correct."

"Mom's like that sometimes." Will nods, and they turn into an alley, cutting into a shortcut. The kid kicks a bag of trash on the side, and a few rats scutter out.

"Yeah. Your mom is like that." Soldier shrugs, pulling the kid to his right side—the one closest to the alley wall—when he notes a few people staring at them from afar. "But, curiosity can kill you, kid. It's better to believe in what you think, and not let fears of something else make you doubt everyone else."

"'So you'd kill your husband just to satisfy your curiosity'," Soldier snorts. "That's the only line I remember in that old, crazy story. I'm pretty sure she would hit me over the head with her wooden spoons if I ever confessed that to her."

"Do you see her often?" Will whispers; they pass by the small group of people. He can tell just by their eyes, not only by the way their heart beat pulses irregularly, that they've taken something strong.

He pushes them along faster. "No. She lives somewhere else now. Can't go and see her often."

She's dead. Died on the boat ride to America. He still remembers how they bundled her up in their spare clothes, pressed kisses along her skin, and tossed her out to sea. They didn't have enough room. They couldn't save her.

That was the first dead body Soldier ever saw.

"Mom says that a lot about my dad." They reach the bowling alley's doors. The open sign is illuminated by flashing lights. Rats weave in between their feet, and Will doesn't go to kick at them anymore.

The bell jingling above them as they go inside ends the conversation short. Will stays by his side, clinging onto him, as he goes up to the counter, gives off their shoe sizes, pays for some food, and grabs their bowling balls. He sends Will off to grab their balls, and takes a breath at the counter.

The cashier, a girl with a nose piercing and dark hair, cocks and eyebrow at him. She leans over, looking between him and the kid placing their balls down into the collection machine.

"Your kid?" She says. The alley is unusually empty, and it seems as though she's the last one on shift. He looks at her, eyes weary.

"Babysitting." He sighs, shoving his hands in his pockets.

"Had a rough talk beforehand?"

Soldier looks at her blankly. She smirks and stretches her back, yawning.

"Could tell. The kid looked sad to be here. Typically, kids don't act like that when they bowl, unless they're having a bad day." She shrugs, taking a toothpick from a drawer underneath, and filing it between her teeth. "If you ever need more nachos, or something, we close in an hour. So, get it while it lasts. Free for the taking."

Soldier hums and she leaves the station, heading off to the back. He kicks off the wall, trudging off towards Will.

"Hey, kid. Eat as much as you want. We got free nachos until this place closes," he cracks a grin—something that feels unnatural once it comes onto his face—and sits down next to him.

"Wait—Really?!" Will laughs, eyes back to being wide with wonder and whimsy. Soldier's smile drops. It feels too uncanny, and yet so natural at the sight of the kid swinging his feet, enamored by a probable college kid likely wanting to get fired that night.

The bowling shoes on the kid's feet are too big for him. He looks absolutely ridiculous. Soldier loves it.

"Really. Go up to the counter and ask them." He slips on his own shoes, and the kid bounds up. When he rings the bell, clearly impatient, the worker comes back, chats for a brief moment, before leaving with a shake of her head.

Will drags himself back, leaping from square tile to square tile. He balances wobbly in between the cracks, and then picks up his ball from the Return Machine.

"I got us a bunch of stuff!" William giggles, tossing his ball toward the pins. It hits one, then goes down. "Pizza! Nachos! Everything!" He throws his ball again, and it falls into the side.

"Kid, I can't eat regular food." Soldier huffs, grabbing his ball and tossing it haphazardly. He knocks down half of the pins.

"We'll take it home!"

"What's our deal about your mom figuring this out?" He knocks down the next set of pins. The screen flashes with a celebratory animation. It's harsh on the eyes.

"We'll hide it in the Mission! Then, I can meet up with you and Reese more!" Will giggles, and the worker comes up with drinks. Soldier gives her a nod, as Will's ball falls into the side again.

"You want to meet up with us more?" Soldier chuckles, watching as Will takes another shot, and fails miserably.

"Yeah!" He pants swinging himself around. He smiles, "you're honest! And cool!"

"Hm." He gets up, throws his ball, and lands a strike. "Alright. Well. Do you want to learn how to bowl like the cool kids?"

At that, Will about screams, flings himself onto him, and almost makes them collapse onto sticky floor.

╚══ ☾•°◉°•☽ ══╝

One pizza in, three stacks of nachos down, and four drinks, Soldier declares that it's time to pack it up. They grab their food to go, inconspicuously place everything in pizza boxes, give the worker extra money for letting them stay later than closing, and hurry out into the dead of night. Will stays glued to his side, carrying one box, while Soldier leads him through alley's and crosswalk's carrying the other four.

╚══ ☾•°◉°•☽ ══╝

"I want a bath!" Will demands as Soldier locks the apartment door shut. He agrees with the kid. The stench of frozen pizza and cheese whizz is oppressive, on top of the typical bowling alley sticky residue making him want to tear his skin off.

However, it's always Greer's words over his.

"Sorry, kid. Mom said I can't do that for you." He shrugs, shucking off his jacket and hanging it up by the door. "How about cartoons and then bedtime?"

"Yes!" Will gleefully chirps, ditching his bag by the door, kicking off his sandals, and tossing himself onto the couch. Soldier chuckles under his breath at the sight of him scrambling for the remote, flipping the TV on, and biting at his nails to find his favorite channel.

Soldier looks at the clock. It's almost eight, and he decides then that bedtime could go kiss both of their asses. He wants to watch cartoons with the kid.

He flops down on the couch beside him, taking a nearby blanket and throwing it over them both. Will finally flips to a channel he enjoys, and throws the remote on the table.

It's a show with a kid with giant, brown spiked hair, and a yellow dinosaur as his… companion? Pet? Soldier gathers that there's a team of kids with similar pets, but he's all too annoyed by their ear piercingly high-pitched voices to care.

Will shuffles beside him, draping himself over Soldier's lap. He takes the kids hair into his hands, combing through it. He feels like his mother.

He decides it doesn't feel so bad.

"Can you look over me next week?" Will yawns, eyes falling heavy with every blink. Soldier scratches his scalp harder, and the kid flattens against him further.

"Anytime you want. I'll be here for you, Malysh."

The kid's chest erupts into small purrs and hand kneading. Soldier relaxes into the couch, closing his eyes, focusing on the lazy heart beat of the kid under his hands, and the soft purrs of contentment.

Chapter Text

Mr. Knight kicks out his feet, planting them on top of the hardwood flooring. Across from him sits Sterman, their doctor, with crossed legs and new triangular glasses. She keeps one hand on her clipboard, as the other flicks a pen across her knuckles.

The night feels cold—it's the final frost of a Fools Fall before Summer comes again to sear them all. He wrings his hands in the effort of trying to keep warm, and to suppress his own simmering worries.

The Knight swallows. After recent events, he had been wondering about their relationship with their doctor. Jake and Steven never attended the sessions, lest they accept they have issues as well; Marc had been with her for almost three years, but he continued to be closed off and cold.

Hell, even when they were all forced together, according to Jake, it took him almost an hour to get from under a bookcase, and somewhat close to the two of them in mind and physicality.

…He supposes it's better than being completely shut off, but the cab driver had described him like a feral, scared cat, rather than a person who had been in Avengers mandated threat-assessment-slash-therapy for over two years.

It shook him, to be fair. The concept of this not working. The idea that, maybe, the doctor hadn't been doing enough—That their time had been wasted, and they could have been far better off by now, if only her own contract allowed it to be so.

They felt more betrayed the more they thought of it.

"Mr. Knight, correct?" Sterman hums, starting their session as the clock tolls seven. "Why do I owe the pleasure?"

"What makes you think I'm simply not here to entertain you with tales of the past few days?" They rest their head upon the back of their hands. She squints at them under her faded orange lenses.

"From the few times I have met you, Knight, you act more akin to Steven Grant. Reserved. Quiet. And most of all—" She grabs at her pen, pointing it to the ceiling. "You are here only for action. When Steven Grant shows, I know of it because he does not come to our meetings. His action is on the outside, for physical needs…"

"However, unlike him, you come to our meetings, and I believe you understand your own method of action. The inside. The inner workings. The cogs to the machine." She flicks the pen to point at Mr. Knight, and he recoils back. "Once again, why do I owe the pleasure? And please," she swiftly adds. "Your thoughts are not going to perturb me. Be straight to the point."

The Knight clicks their tongue and shifts in the loveseat. They clasp their hands in front of them, and press their back against the cushions. Her eyes are like daggers, and they suddenly understand what Marc feels every time she digs into him to pry new information.

They sigh, "these few days have been difficult for all of us… And, perhaps, doctor, I am feeling as if we've been betrayed by our relationship with you."

"Betrayed?" Sterman tilts her head, jotting a note on her clipboard. "How do you feel betrayed?"

They rub their eyes and continue from the prompt. "We have been attending your sessions for almost three years. We have made friends in the time, grown together as system-mates, and yes, established a place in New York with separate ideals from Khonshu, and of our own gruesome past. I accept that we have done much more, both mentally and physically, in the past few years than we have ever done in our lives."

"However," he butts in before Sterman can cut through. He takes a pause, breathing through his nose, and exhaling out his mouth. "You are the head of the Avengers Psychology Department, yes?"

The Knight can see the doctor's shoulders straighten. Her fingers grip her board tighter. "Yes. Yes, I am."

"You work through the Avengers Rehabilitation Program. An uncommonly known sect of the Avengers initiative." He cocks his head to the side, observing her blank look. "The doctors who work through the program are freelanced throughout the globe… and beyond. This has been accomplished by partnering with various Sanctum Sanctorum's, yes?"

"Yes," she confirms. "Although, I do not oversee the multi-dimensional, nor the intergalactic. I only oversee Earth based issues."

"But you still have clients who deal with problems of higher powers, or come from those worlds."

"I cannot confirm nor deny," she flicks her pen inwards. "Physician-patient privilege, Knight. It's all confidential. Why have you taken an interest in my place of work? Do you consider transferring?"

Mr. Knight frowns, "No. You work as a psychologist with other patients, correct?"

She smiles. Her shoulders fall, and she straightens her back. She jots a few notes down before responding. Mr. Knight picks at his gloved fingers, knowing that she's already caught on to his chase.

"Yes, I do. However, to you, I am a therapist, as well as a threat-assessment officer, rather than a psychologist." She comments, uncrossing her legs, establishing a more casual stature. "Mr. Knight, you must understand, I am bound by contract to do what I do. I cannot go further, or do any less, unless the contractual agreement is changed."

Mr. Knight nods, placing his palms on his knees. He scoots further up the loveseat, slouching down, and leaning in.

"Could you change your contract? Become a psychologist for us?"

"If the entire system agrees with your idea." She puts bluntly, and the Knight's head sags in response. He knew it would come to this. However, they came with the idea of a loophole.

"I am your patient." They look back up, a singular finger drumming against their chin. "Is that not cause enough to change the relationship between the two of us?"

"Perhaps," she shrugs. "Perhaps not. What set this spiral off?"

"Spiral?" He scoffs, pulling back. Her pen dances across her clipboard.

"You believe that everyone in the system will disagree with you, and therefore, you're worried." She looks up from her notes, "it's why you're in the front; it's why you attempted to establish a loophole; it's why you've done extensive research on me… Possibly even illegally obtaining information. Am I correct?"

He frowns. She smiles. He hates it. Her pen continues its dance.

Perhaps he did rifle through a few Avenger's databases with the help of Soldier's tech skills. Perhaps Reese did get a call from Carol Danvers herself ordering her to tell him off. Perhaps he was a bit worried. Perhaps he had already convinced himself that Marc would say no, and Jake and Steven would agree.

"Yes." He grumbles, rubbing his eyes. "But, the concern is valid."

"Is it?" Her brows furrow, lips pursing. He wants to die under her fake confused stare.

Her pen stops its dance as the clock ticks over half past seven. When she continues to stare, awaiting a response to her intentionally provoking prompt, Mr. Knight falls into her trap. Their eye twitches, and their hands knead themselves on their slacks.

"Of course it is!" He sighs, groaning loudly. "We've been in this position for almost three years. We all have made barely any progress. Jake and Steven don't come—" He jumps up, sticking a finger to her. "—You even said it yourself! Steven doesn't come to these meetings, and you've only seen Jake once or twice. It is only Marc and I who come to this—" He moves his hands around, acknowledging the room. "—This place. These meetings. All of this."

"And, guess what! Guess what, Andrea? We have problems! Problems!" He laughs, hands now flying to the back of his head. He kneads the fabric, pacing to the end of the loveseat, and back. "Marc is, well, Marc; Steven has processing issues—everything is so repressed and shit that he barely feels! Quiet and reserved my ass!"

A ball drops from the ceiling. He takes it in his hand and squeezes it as hard as possible. It does nothing to quell the growing strain in his chest, ready to explode. "Then, fucking Jake, he's the most normal of us, but he still has his own problems! He's lonely, and it's practically eating him a-fucking-live. And—"

His eyes go wide like a doe's. The ball explodes, and they continue their rant through the loud pop and the stuffing flying from his fist.

"—And we have a new alter. Two merged together—and hell, I don't know how to deal with that! Our protection against hardships, our Moon Knight, our shield against those who attempt to hurt us, our fail safe, our—" He chokes, gasping, before continuing. "—Our Moon Knight is gone! Gone! A child, Andrea! A child replaced them! "

He twists around, his palms falling on the arm rests of Sterman's chair. She leans back, wide eyed. He looks at her closely, "what the hell am I going to do, yeah? What the hell?! I'm supposed to be the stable one, the one who chimes in to keep everyone on track, and even I'm freaking the fuck out."

He breathes, panting as they stay there, inches apart. His nails dig into the fabric of the chair, boring small, fingertip sized holes through the hard surface. The Mission shakes in response, and scoots the chair away, elongating the floorboards underneath.

Mr. Knight drops to the ground hard, hitting the floor with a loud thud. He hisses, flipping their head to the side.

The strain in his chest explodes throughout his body, making him shatter into a million pieces. Their gut twists, and his throat seizes up, creating a large rock inside of the pile of broken glass.

Pitiful. Their face scrunches up. The ball grows larger, restraining him on the floor.

Sterman simply waits, frozen in place, her pen now attached to the top of her notes. He looks up to her. Her eyes are masked under an orange haze, her look no longer confused, just saddened.

He hits his head against the floor. Then again, but harder. The Mission quickly replaces the hardwood flooring with a plush fabric, and a blanket is wrapped around them.

"I'm sorry." He whispers—They don't know where all of that came from. That emotion, and how it continues to stick to him like he's sick.

He tries to hit his head again, but he connects to the cushion, and sinks into it. His quickly growing stuffy mind becomes all but dead weight. "I don't know what that was."

She nods softly and trails her fingers along the arm rest. The Mission shakes under her, and the indents on the sides of the seat are filled in.

"I'm sorry—" He can feel something that isn't sweat, nor blood under their mask. They don't understand. His head feels swollen, and the rock continues to grow inside of him. "I don't know what's happening to me."

"You're scared," she keeps her voice low and gentle. It makes the same liquid soak through their mask further, and they don't know why. Does it remind them of something? Something long forgotten? "It's okay to feel like this, even though it may be confusing. Do you want to move up onto the couch? Or, do you feel more comfortable on the floor."

Mr. Knight shakes his head. He attempts to get up, but his efforts of squirming out of the blanket wrapped around them are futile. His being shattered, and so his energy was zapped in the process, he supposes.

The Mission takes note, and pushes him up by twisting the floor upward. They collapse onto the loveseat, still wrapped in the blanket.

"This feels more than just being worried." They stammer, blinking through bleary eyes. "I feel terrible. I crossed your boundaries. I blew up. That's not a me thing."

"It's an everyone thing, Knight." Sterman sighs, taking a breath. "Being scared pushes people to do insane things. To make them feel new things. New emotions. This is a part of the human experience."

In a snap of her fingers, her chair is moved closer, back into its original position. Mr. Knight attempts to breathe, but it comes out shaky, and noncommittal. "Have you ever cried before?"

Mr. Knight shakes his head. He's never had to. Never felt worried. Never felt fear. He's what keeps everyone stable when they need it.

"Is this what that is? Feeling like you're just. Fucking—" He hiccups, and curls into himself. "Fuck."

Sterman nods. Another blanket is added onto him, and they don't take notice, their head spinning.

"I hate it." They feel like a child with cotton jammed into their brain. "I just want us to get better. I just want to be better."

Their voice cracks, and the doctor puts her notes to the side.

"Your system is in far better condition than when we first began. Like you've said, you all have friends, family, and a home. You all are working on being respected rather than feared. You all are working on communicating together." She leans in, adjusting her glasses. "You are better. Far better than a few years ago. You may not see it as a lot of progress, but to me, you all have exceeded my expectations."

He doesn't care how fake it sounds—or how much he knows if Marc heard it, he wouldn't believe her—as it makes him cry harder, silently. He hates how his mind becomes more disconnected, and he can't feel his hands or feet, but it's relieving all at the same time.

It feels as though they're putting themselves back together, shard by shard, just by—

They remember when they were younger, helping Randall with math. They were always the smart one, helping out their brother. So, while he would cry over his work, and trivialize about the smallest of problems, the Knight would swoop in, and do it for him.

He can still forge his brothers writing if they try hard enough. They can still remember the way his eyes lit up when he got a problem correct, and the tears would stop.

The cotton would flow out of his ears, and onto the ground, where they would stomp it out together. They would pick up their own broken pieces, and glue themselves together as brothers.

If they think hard enough, they can forget that it's not them. They're seeing it from different eyes. Marc was in the front. He knows. He knows he didn't exist. Or maybe he did?

Randall never saw him, but perhaps the Knight started there. Protecting his brother from the angry words of their primary teachers. Perhaps he was there the whole time, watching, waiting, and keeping both of them steady, in a loving life, and in safety.

Bright brown eyes. Slightly curly hair.

The child.

Did… Did they, as a system, finally accept that they don't require the amount of protection that Moon Knight gave? That they have others now to provide for those needs?

When did their mind decide that they didn't require a fail safe, or the protection against intruders in their mind?

When did that happen?

Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps Sterman was telling the truth. Perhaps both of them were lying to themselves. Perhaps—

They don't know when they've stopped crying, but their body has about three new blankets around it, and a tissue box is now in their hands.

He doesn't know how to use the individual slips. He's never used tissues before. Never had to. Never felt the need either. He needs to learn if this is going to be the new normal, that's for sure.

Huh. Maybe they could cry more than once. Maybe.

The rock is gone, and he feels lighter. Some of the cotton is still stuffed in his mind, but the world is clear—Sharper on the edges, yet blurry in the middle.

From the edge, they notice Sterman waiting patiently across from them. They shift so that their head can lay against an extra pillow on the loveseat—one they don't remember being added.

"My apologies."

"You don't have to apologize," she speaks, calm and straight to the point. He likes it, and he can feel more cotton fall from his ears. "I understand. Seeing those you love continue to hurt is heart breaking. You are fully in your right to feel the way you do." She pauses, and brings a teacup to her lips. He squints—there's a tea set on the table.

The clock ticks past eight. She doesn't move from her chair. "Do you think your lack of understanding of the build up of emotions triggered your reaction?"

He shrugs. "Possibly. I've never done that before—Both things: Not talking to someone about it, and blowing up." He hits the back of his hand to his forehead. "And I crossed your boundaries. I should have never gotten that close in that state."

"If I was scared, or wanted you to back off, I would have said so." She adds, nodding to herself. "How could you describe how you felt to me?"

"Tight. Constricted." He flicks his fingers out, counting on them. "…Heavy. Dazed."

"So, when you're feeling constricted in your body, or dazed, could you go to someone in the Mission for support?" She inquires, pulling back in her seat. She has her notes back into her lap, her pen on the side. "Or anywhere else?"

Mr. Knight stills. Could you go to someone in the Mission?

Of course. Their shield against the world had crumbled. Marc's ice; Steven's glare; Jake's silence—the being that once encapsulated it all… Is gone.

What was left was their own vulnerabilities. The Child.

And, perhaps, their Midnight Mission is now their Moon Knight in disguise. The thought makes them melancholy. They'll miss the old, scraggly mummy they had gotten used to, but—

"Greer," Mr. Knight shakes their head. "Or 8-Ball."

"8-Ball?"

The Knight shuts up, feeling his heart rate quicken, his hands getting sweaty all over again.

—But at the same time? Perhaps it was a long time coming, and Moon Knight was forever looking for a way to let go—to become someone it wanted to be.

To be vulnerable.

"I meant our brother." Mr. Knight huffs, crossing their arms.

"I wasn't judging, Knight." She clarifies, pulling her pen across her paper in a sharp line. "I think that's a great idea. He'd be very open to that."

Her words make him feel hot. He wraps a blanket around his shoulders, hiding the bottom half of his face under thick fabric.

"Really?" Vulnerability is a gift.

Sterman nods curtly, a short smile spreading across her features. "It's perfectly alright to have favorites, or to not like anyone. I am not one to judge, I am one to help."

"Do you think he'd mind?" The Knight bites their cheek. He was the most expressive, crazy—

In Jake's terms: It's hot, alright? The spontaneity, the unabashed emotion—everything. Everything. Everything.

"So," She butts into his dead stare, shuffling to place her clipboard into her leather bag. "When you're feeling like this, you'll go to either 8-Ball or Greer."

"And, of course, it's okay to vent off your emotions—It's very healthy to do so." She adds, pulling away from her bag. "Our time has come to an end. However, that does not mean we have to stop this conversation. I wish to discuss how we could handle the expression of your emotions at a later date, and to iron our plan out more. Do you think you can make it to a session tomorrow after Reese's?"

He nods. She catches sight of the start of his head bobbing down, then jolting back up. Their world feels muddled.

"Do you wish to talk about anything else?"

They yawn, taking a few deep breaths. His silence speaks volumes, not having anything else to add. She smirks, taking her bag into her lap, dusting it off as she does so. The storyteller has ran out of stories.

"Very well. I will also make it a point to discuss these matters with Marc as well. With his confirmation, I can be the system's psychologist." She comments, and the Knight twists onto their side. It makes them look like a human turtle made of piles of blankets and pillows, courtesy of the Mission.

"I am proud of you for letting yourself express these thoughts and feelings. I know it's hard to do so, especially if you've never felt anything like that before." She gets up, even though he's barely listening, lost to his own thoughts. She can see it as well, how his eyes have glazed over, the explosion now settling into a muddled pile of ash and dust.

"I am even more grateful that you explained your worries to me. This was very eye-opening."

He lazily huffs, closing his eyes. She taps her watch, her nails clicking against it, and he peeks through his crusted eyes from the sound.

"Do you want me to tell someone about you up here?" She inquires, whispering. The Mission flicks off a lamp above him.

He doesn't have to think about it. He only has to follow the plan.

"Mhm." He falls further under the pile, submerging himself in warmth. "And, thank you. For everything, doctor."

"It's nothing to be thanked for, Mr. Knight." She flicks the light beside her seat. "Thank you for trusting me. I will talk to Marc and my superiors in the future. Get some rest. You need it. I'll make sure someone will be up to check on you."

When the click of her heels fade out into the silent hum of the Mission's own breath, he twists until his back is against the bottom of the loveseat. His vision, although spinning, doesn't perturb him, no more than the residue of broken glass and cotton inside of him.

They let their head fall onto their shoulder, as they close their eyes. It isn't long until they hear new footsteps race up the stairs, and upon soft giggles from behind the door, Marc presses against the front, begging to switch to meet the boy fast approaching.

They relent—falling into obscurity and the abyss, losing grip on the outer world, before dropping into the comfort of their own home in the inner-world.

Two stories. Three bedroom house. White picket fence.

They open their eyes, being greeted by where they stood last: In the kitchen, a batch of brownies still on the stove top. Their hands are covered in oven mitts, and they slide them off carefully, one at a time.

The sound of soft snoring from the next room over does not pique their interest. Somehow, they knew, deep inside, that it would happen. This scenario.

They tip-toe over to the murmur, stepping between each square tile. When they reach the half-way point of the room, they peer from the half-wall separating the living space—a simple dusty couch, coffee table, and a box television next to a flight of stairs.

The Child is sleeping soundly, wrapped in a few blankets on the couch. Chips and dip are on the table. He doesn't mind the mess. He'll work with the kid to pick it up later. Vulnerability.

Instead, they pick a blanket from a drawer on their passing, and join the kid on the couch. He takes them into his arms, rocking them slowly as he combs his hands through messy curls, masked in darkness.

Chapter Text

It had been almost a year since the four of them had gone out clubbing. Of course, things had gotten in the way: Manhattan was overridden by Vampires, their Boss died, Reese became the overseer of the Midnight Mission, Shannon got a promotion, Teddy was being transferred from store front to store front, and Soldier was still, well, Soldier.

But now? Now, they all have their best clothes on: Teddy with his sleek leather coat, Shannon with her golden square heels, Soldier with his one non-white button up, and Reese with her slim, black and gold dress.

Shannon is on her right, Soldier at her left. Teddy flanks Soldier's side, keeping him in line with them. They approach the club, squinting under the blinding, flashing lights coming from the glass doors.

The bouncer—a man with broad shoulders, face tattoos, and golden rings—eyes them suspiciously. They cut their way to the front, and just as the bouncer is about to kick them to the back of the line, Soldier brings out their trump card from his pocket: A small bottle.

The bouncer's eyes go wide, expanding past the rims of his sunglasses. He takes it into his hands, looks the four up and down, then ushers them in with hushed whispers to not tell anyone of the interaction. Shannon giggles by her side—if only she knew that the one small vial was enough alcohol to kill a man.

Or, in other words: Asgardian "Vodka". How in the hell did the Boss get their hands on that?

Well, she's found it easier after these two-ish years not to question where they get things, and accept that they all just have things.

The crowd in front of them is pulsing with energy. Every beat of the rough electronic music vibrates her body, and Shannon takes her hand, holding her tight. Reese grins, flashing her fangs for the world to see, as Teddy carves a way into the middle. They follow behind him like ducklings, all in a row.

She can smell the sweat on everyone—the hearts singing together—the blood flowing through everyone else. It moves along with the music, beat after beat, thump after thump, while their bodies shake and twist around.

They make it to the middle, and Reese has to remember to breathe—has to remember to take a step—to remind herself to dance. To do what they were here to do: To live life. To not care for the future. To just feel.

She takes a glance over at Soldier. Teddy has one hand in his, twisting him around. A smile tugs at Soldier's lips, letting their friend drag him along with the motions. One step forward, and one step backwards.

"Reese!" Shannon calls out, muffled by the world around them. "Come on, hon!"

Her arms go up, and so does Reese's. She cackles, loud and unabashedly, as she twirls around, digging her heels into the stained tiles. Reese stares, laughing along with her as she, herself, dances around Shannon, twisting in and out around her, bouncing to the beat of everyone else.

Their blood pumping, their chests rising, their muscles contracting—all warm and lively. It's addicting—the feeling of life. It makes her forget the world. It makes her forget her own death, and her own future.

Her world is only Shannon in front of her, looking at her glassy, blue eyes, with Soldier and Teddy behind, dancing together. She glances back, noting Soldier moving away from the crowd. However, her face doesn't fall. She feels high off of the energy in the room.

Teddy joins the three of them, leaving his spot. Reese takes his hand and spins around him. He chuckles, all from his chest, and bubbly. Shannon hollers, hooting as Teddy rolls his eyes, flipping her off.

"Where'd Soldier go?!" Shannon calls out, and Reese pauses, stopping her movement. Teddy continues to bounce around, snapping his fingers, not to the beat, but to the steps of everyone around them.

"Outside. Smoke break or something." He shrugs, "I don't blame him. The lights are bright as shit tonight."

Reese squints—the DJ's lights scatter across the faces in the crowd, each person's lips twisted in ecstasy. Fog billows from the top of the building, masking everyone in a haze of blinking LED's. He's not wrong. This has to be a new DJ.

"You think he's good?" Reese frowns, turning back to her friends. Shannon joins Teddy by his side, jumping around him.

She purses her lips, yet still stomps her dazzling heels to the music. "Go check! We'll be here. Drag 'em back in!" Teddy wraps an arm around her hip. "He's missing out!"

Reese hums and turns on her heel, pushing through dancing people, flailing arms, and life. She can barely hear her friends giggling behind her as she trots through, yet she can feel their eyes burning into her back, keeping watch—Knowing what happened the last time they went clubbing.

Targeted. Attacked.

The edge of the room is dark, damp, and reeking of sex. Her nose scrunches up, briskly making her way to an emergency exit door, and leaving the building.

The door leads her into an alley, with a couple making out on the side. She glares, takes a look up, and by no one's surprise, spots Soldier on the edge of the rooftop above. She looks from the couple, groping each other through their clothes, then back at Soldier, who has realized her presence.

He waves. She nods and fades into mist, letting go of her body, and focusing on the location. She bolts upwards, all purple ash and dust, then reforms beside the other vamp.

"Too much?"

"Too much." Soldier nods, taking a breath. "Teddy was a bit much, as well."

"You just aren't used to living," Reese chuckles. "But, yeah. Teddy can be like that sometimes. Tell him to back off when he does."

Soldier clicks his tongue, closing his eyes. He kicks his feet against the open air, rubbing his fingertips against the brick edge. Reese stares at his hands. Scarred, bruised, and broken in parts, yet still moving. Still living.

"Do you ever think about the future?" He opens his eyes, and his legs still.

Reese lets out a sharp breath. "Damn, Soldier."

"Hey, look—" He shakes his head, rolling his eyes. He hits Reese's arm, and she smirks back at him. "I'm just thinking. Of the Mission. Of the Boss. Of this. I like this—I like Shannon and Teddy. I like clubbing with them. We're just so busy."

"We're getting back into the groove, for sure." Reese nods, and Soldier sighs as if she didn't grasp the underlying meaning. "There will always be a next time for this, if you don't want to rejoin us."

"Reese, shut up."

"Bossy. Don't speak in riddles then."

Soldier snorts, and Reese takes it at a win.

"'m not trying to speak in riddles. I just…" He bites his lip, fangs poking out. "I don't want to be out of this type of life. I enjoy it, especially with our team, but I've been thinking. Thinking hard about this—and you can blame Greer for making me think this way—but I…"

"I want my own autonomy in this gang. Organization. Mission. Whatever the hell people call it—or I want something more than what I have now." He shrugs, unbuttoning his top button, as if the collar was constraining him.

Reese whistles. Soldier glares at her.

"You don't just want to be a yes-man, hm?" She jabs first, taking sight of how his face twists from his deep frown, to open jawed, and exasperated. She laughs, shaking her head. "I'm joking, Soldier. You want to call the shots sometimes? Easy. You want to voice your own opinion? Easy. You just have to speak out yourself."

He groans, rubbing his eyes. "That's the hardest part."

"Mhm. Yes, it is, but until you try to do it, you're just going to be a yes-man. That's it and that's all." She cringes, hearing her own mother in her voice, and then she reiterates: "I can help you as much as I can, Soldier, but I can't do much except for listening to you vent out your complaints."

"You're right," he exhales slowly. "I know you're right. I just don't think Greer will let me babysit Will again in her non-freaked out mindset."

Reese pauses. The air stills around them, and the DJ switches the song inside—the crowd screams louder, and you can hear it from beyond the sound proofing and thin concrete walls.

"Is this all about babysitting William?"

"It's—Well, it's more." He stammers, and Reese logs that into her memory. She doesn't think she's ever seen him stutter through his words before.

"More?" She pries, digging her elbow into his side. "Just say it to Greer, Soldier! Come on, we could make it a thing! Every Wednesday, or something, you babysit Will! He'd love it!"

"She didn't even let us teach him how to swim when we went up to camp, Reese."

"She did in the end," she's knee to knee with him now, pressing his body against his. He doesn't move, and instead, makes room for her by shifting his hands further behind himself. "You have the guts to go out and blow things up, hack into software that could put us into deep shit, but doesn't because of your work, and you've put your life on the line for everyone… You don't have the guts to face Greer?"

"Have you met Greer?" He scoffs and looks away in embarrassment all at the same time. "Well, also, what if the Boss says no? I can't go against the Boss, or the Boss' lady. If I say something, make an alteration to a plan, and he says no, then what then? I've pulled a Jeff."

"Well, technically, he never officially made himself the ultimate boss when he came back, so in reality, I can still retroact his order of 'no' by executive—"

"Reese." He groans, and she chuckles, hitting her knee against his.

"Look, I told them that I quit college because of the Mission, and their death, alright? You know what they did? Their reaction?"

"Oh damn. You told them?"

"Yes. Yes, I did, Soldier." She looks out across the horizon, peering beyond Soldier's eyes, and at the skyscrapers farther east. The glass shimmers in the moon light, reflecting it off—forever a reminder of their captor, and yet, their life. "Instead of scolding me, they went for themselves instead. They made an entire plan before they died for me to be tutored by Badr, Soldier. Badr. The man who tried to kill us once!"

She laughs, and she feels Soldier relax, leaning against his hands, kicking his feet once again. "Isn't that insane? I was so worried that he would yell at me, and be ashamed. Instead, well, Jake was pissed that Marc basically left everything to me and not to anyone else, but they never once said that they disapproved of my decision. They were saddened, yes, but they understood."

She places a hand on his shoulder and leans closer, laying her chin against the back of her hand. "I think that Greer wouldn't mind bringing Will over, no matter how much she gets frazzled some days. She'll do anything for her kid."

"And…" She quickly adds, smirking. "The Boss would do anything to help you, as well. If that means taking charge, and or being more active in our team's decision making, I don't think anyone would say no to you. You've been a part of us for almost three years. You've given your entire life. That hasn't been forgotten by anyone."

"Plus, I honestly think Jake sees us as his estranged kids or something." Reese confesses, and Soldier cackles. She smiles, focusing on the way his chest rattles with each puff of air. "You know it's true."

"Shut up." He rubs his nose, "you're not wrong. I hate it."

"Hate it? Come on," she digs her knuckles into him, and he shifts away, slapping at her fingers. "You wanna start calling him dad? See his reaction?"

"Don't even—I think you'd break him." He sways, fangs stuck on his bottom lip. "Is Teddy and Shannon still in the club?"

Reese pulls back from their slap-fight, looking down. The couple is gone, replaced with snippets of clothes littered on the ground.

"Probably. You want to hit a bar and wait for them?" She pulls out her phone from her bra, swiping past her pass-code, and clicking her messages. "Also, don't look down. I'm pretty sure people are having sex."

"Thanks for confirming my suspicions." His nose scrunches, face falling. "I've been hearing them all the time I've been out here. They're disgusting."

"Ah-greed," Reese taps the group chat they've made together and types out a quick message. She sends it, then flips to her GPS. "What bar? Got a favorite?"

"No Name?"

"Fucking no." She shoots it down quickly before noticing the thin line of his lips. "You just cracked a joke."

"I know how to make jokes, Reese."

"Soldier," she laughs, clicking onto the nearest bar on the map. It's only a few blocks down. "You have not cracked one joke since I've met you."

"I have!"

"No," she laughs harder, her breath cutting off in sharp bursts. "My goodness, just follow me, alright? I need a drink to commemorate you actually being sarcastic too."

"Reese!" Soldier scoffs, getting up, and dusting his slacks off. "I'm—"

"Uh-huh." She follows suit, grabbing the hand he offers. "I'm Soldier! The king of comedy!"

He snorts, then it turns into a hearty laugh, mixing with her own. If she had blood, she'd know it'd be pumping, swelling her heart, flushing her face, and making her sweat.

She had made the most monotone, blunt man in existence laugh.

And she went clubbing with all three of them—and she was even going to share a drink with Shannon—maybe a few shots with Teddy as well. She was going to dance and drink the night away.

She doesn't care how much it'll hurt in the morning, and how alcohol isn't processed by her body anymore, but she doesn't care. It's life.

She steps up to the ledge of the roof, and drags Soldier along with her. She looks at him, and although his gaunt skin is his own indicator of his death, and how his too large fangs catch on his lips, he looks alive. The most alive that a vampire can be: A large smile, loose muscles, and a lazy stance.

"Soldier," she knocks into him, looking to the ground. "Do you want to learn how to turn into smoke?"

Soldier looks at her with the widest eyes she's seen since the Boss' death, and nods. She takes his hand, and steps off the edge, falling down, letting go of her body, and becoming air—becoming water—becoming life.