They had waited until nightfall to finally leave the safehouse and head for the airport. Layla had gone out to get their passports and whatever else was needed, and Marc… well, he and Steven had talked. Not just shouted, threatened, yelled or cajoled; simply talked.
"So, uhm, about London… when we get back… The flat. My flat. Where… where do you actually live?" Steven asked hesitantly. "When you front."
I don't have a place, Marc replied.
"Oh." Grant hesitated again. "Why?"
Because I only ran the missions, Steven. I'm the weapon.
Oh… oh! Steven felt his brain stall, then work overtime.
Marc had fronted when Steven had slept, taking over, using this body, sometimes for days on end… and then Steven had woken up to his mess of a life, his social anxiety, his inability to connect with anyone. His bland little jobs…
Steven was the one with a flat.
Marc was the weapon who had only ever been there when he was needed. Marc had taken care of Steven, had protected him, had arranged the flat, the cover ID, everything, but he had never lived a normal life.
"You… had a place before the mess with, well, dying and indebting yourself to an Egyptian deity."
Marc chuckled. Yeah. A long, long time ago. I was deployed, Steven. A base or a camp isn't a home. And after that… after my service to my country… I was always moving. Always on another job. There wasn't a stable place. Not for years.
"And now?" he asked softly, strangely saddened by how lonely this existence sounded. Like his own.
It is your place, Steven.
"It doesn't matter now. I mean, it's our place. Has always been our place. It doesn't even need a second bed, right?" he teased shyly.
Marc had to laugh. No.
"And we can work something out."
You want to work at the museum again?
His face reflected almost horror. "No! I can never go back there! Never! They must think I'm absolutely looney after what happened!"
Sorry.
"Yeah, well, fat lot of good it does me now. You wrecked a bathroom!"
It was either me or the jackal. I preferred to survive, Marc remarked wryly.
"Good point," Steven murmured, scrubbing a hand through his hair. "Still… you cost me my job! I loved it there!"
Did you?
Did he? Had he? With all the bullying and the way people treated him?
"I… I know it wasn't perfect, but it was something I liked a lot," he amended.
Because he liked Egyptian history. He was absolutely gone on digging into so many tiny details, on seeing the art and relics every day for free… even if it meant inventorying souvenirs and… Donna.
"I might have made it to tour guide one day," he mumbled. "I can dream, right?"
Sorry. We can work something out, Marc quoted him, voice quiet and filled with remorse and true regret.
"Yes. I think so. And… thank you," Steven murmured softly as he enjoyed the last rays of this day's sunlight, sitting on the rooftop, drinking tea. "For… this. It was an amazing day."
You're welcome, Marc answered, feeling almost relaxed. Museums are more your thing.
Steven looked into the distance, then, "You made the right choice."
Marc was silent.
"Really. You did. In everything. Well, maybe not with all the killing, but with Khonshu. I know I haven't been around him as long as you… haven't worked for him… and I know it was terrifying, but now… it feels so different. The bond… it's… different," he finished lamely.
I know, was the quiet reply.
"He grows on you."
He does? came the teasing laughter. Well, I guess you can't always hate the bastard.
Steven chuckled and looked out over the rooves, listening to the sounds from below, muted and distant in a way, nothing at all like the hustle and bustle of city center Cairo.
"You don't hate him."
Marc was silent. Then, No. Yes. No… Resented him maybe. His voice was quiet. He… gave me a purpose. I chose to become his Knight. That first time. It was my choice alone. I didn't want to die. I grasped at straws.
"Now you did it again. You chose. And it's a different bond."
Marc nodded. Very different. I can feel him. Everywhere.
Steven couldn't. It was more muted.
"It's beautiful here. Everything. It's… exotic."
Marc chuckled. Maybe the first two or three times. After that… not so much.
"When no one is shooting at you, it's always beautiful." The sounds of the city drifted over and he emptied the tea. "I liked it."
They would leave tomorrow.
As much as he wanted to see everything around here, enjoy the history, the many temples, museums and shops, he knew it would have to wait.
"You can return. In the future," Khonshu rumbled, startling him so much, Steven almost fell off the chair.
The god was sitting cross-legged on the low wall surrounding the terrace, the setting sun playing over his drab linens and wrappings. It glinted off the crescent moon adorning his staff, creating a halo.
"You can look at ancient relics of the dead, try to understand a world so far past your time."
"I'll have you know that I know quite a lot about that ancient world!" Steven replied, affronted. "Probably more than those bloody tour guides!"
It got him a rough chuckle as the god rested a forearm on a bent knee. His clothes moved in a lazy wind. He looked almost relaxed.
"Maybe."
"Maybe you can play the guide next time," Steven challenged.
Marc groaned and shook his head. Way to grow a spine and be cocky now, Steven.
Khonshu tilted his head. His presence increased, so much more real, and suddenly he was in front of the seated man, Steven staring at the god with wide eyes.
"Maybe I can. Next time," he whispered. "Little parasite." And it sounded almost affectionate.
Up yours, pigeon, Marc growled.
"I'll… keep that in mind. Thank you. I… think?"
Inside their mind, Marc just shook his head in fond exasperation.
The change of scenery from Egypt to England was slightly jarring. Not as bad as it had been for Steven when he suddenly fronted in the middle of a fight or chase. That much was a given. Marc had been through his own jarring moments, flung forward into a situation where his alter had been in over his head, split seconds to make a decision, and then Steven had taken over again.
Chaos. It had been their chaos.
No, stepping out into the British weather was no comparison, but it made him long for Egypt. It was like a distant pull, a kind of homesickness that couldn't be explained.
It rained.
Alright, so common preconceptions about the English weather played into this day.
It rained cats and dogs.
Layla grimaced as she shouldered her bag. They had arrived with very little luggage. "Figures," she sighed as she gazed into the leaden sky, then her eyes were on her companion.
Warm eyes. Eyes he had fallen in love with so long ago and which had always been on his mind.
Right now… right now he, they, all of them… they needed both the closeness and the distance.
"Will you be okay?" she asked.
Marc blinked, caught slightly off guard. "Yes. You?"
Those eyes were filled with an understanding that had him want to run again. Away. Just… away.
"Give yourself time to settle, get used to this," she only said. "It's different now."
It was. So very, very different. The sense he had of Khonshu was no longer this abrasive, foreign thing that had settled inside him. Foreign to the system. Invasive and pushy, using him.
So different.
Marc knew it would take time for him and for Steven to fully understand the magnitude of what had happened.
Harrow had called him a free man when Khonshu had been so violently ripped from him, he had actually lost consciousness for a while. He had hated that feeling. He had hated the emptiness.
-"And with freedom comes a choice."-
Yeah. He had made his choice. He had wanted that jerk of a deity back. Khonshu was his; he was Khonshu's. Equals, balanced scales, the chaos there but theirs.
Best choice he had ever made.
"Is that so?" that smooth voice whispered from above.
Well, he now had that pesky bird in his head and apparently thoughts spilled over. At least from his side. Not that he wanted to know what Khonshu was thinking about.
Right now, he ignored him.
"You have my number," Layla said as she hailed a cab. "Call. We are a team," she reminded him with a wink. "Always. And I want this."
He stared at her, hope blooming so sharply, it made him almost dizzy.
"I want that, too," he whispered.
He leaned in and brushed their lips together, then smiled. There was no sorrow, no sadness, no good-bye. It was a breathing space they needed.
It was the breathing space Marc Spector so badly needed to dial down, find his own new equilibrium, because he was no longer a weapon that was pointed at an enemy and then used. That was the biggest change and it had never been like this in his old life, nor his life after death.
Give it time.
"You have time," Khonshu remarked, watching the cab leave.
Marc glared at him, then hailed his own cab. "Is it too much to ask for a little peace?" he hissed at the god.
Khonshu smirked, then disappeared in a puff of wind.
"I really hate that ugly pigeon," Marc whispered.
And he would choose him again and again.
Marc walked into the flat, drenched, strangely at peace with the situation, the weather, the lack of warm welcomes. He had never been welcomed anywhere, be it coming or going. He had been a weapon and that weapon was there to be used.
Khonshu harrumphed as he leaned against one wall filled with books, papers and knick-knacks. Mostly books, though. Lots and lots of them.
Marc glanced at his eternal companion. "Opinions?"
The god regarded him, then his empty gaze swept the mess of a place.
Yes, it was a mess.
An organized disorganization. Every surface covered in books and magazines that had been pulled from the shelves or had found no room there anymore. There was more on the floor, interspersed with almost random items that were all linked to Egypt somehow. Figurines, vases, pictures, some ornamental pillows. It wasn't messy as such, just… chaotic.
His life.
Marc chased the tension out of his shoulders and moved to open the window, despite the constant rain, letting in some air.
Everything was as it had been.
Bed unmade, sand around it, the cursed chain attached to the solid wooden frame.
Sorry about the mess, Steven mumbled.
"It's fine," he replied softly, meaning it.
His gaze swept the flat again, restless, a little out of his depth. Since the moment they had stepped out of the airport terminal, Marc had been lost.
No mission, no orders, no job, nothing.
Afloat.
And still… not untethered.
His eyes fell on the empty fish tank. Gus 2.0 was gone.
"Sorry about the fish. Fishes," Marc told his alter. "I tried. Not my strong suit, really."
Caring for another life. A pet. He wasn't really good at taking care of himself, actually. Hadn't been… not since dying and becoming Moon Knight.
Steven gave him a tentative smile. Steven, who was the same mess. Because of Marc. Because Marc was bad at caring for himself, at protecting his alter.
He ran a hand through his unruly, damp hair.
Give it time to settle, Layla had told him.
Yes, it had to settle. All of it. The lack of urgency, the pressing insistence, the feverish drive to… just… serve. In its stead was something that had never been there before: gentleness. Still sharp, still vicious, still lethal, but so different in its approach to the soul that was forever bound to the god it had claimed. Patience had never been Khonshu's strong suit; actually, he pretty much lacked it, among other things.
But now he… was? Waiting, observing, watching… and always there… guarding… vigilant…
Like right now, Marc mused as he caught the shadows coalescing into the familiar form.
Khonshu had made himself at home sitting on the overflowing desk, watching him, strangely silent. Inside, Marc felt the curious presence, slightly quizzical, but none of the sharp, endless pushing and pulling of before. No urgency at all.
"Do you want to stay here?" Marc asked as he let himself get acquainted with a place he had never really lived at.
It's… somewhere to live, Steven answered cautiously. Is it even mine?
He smiled humorlessly, almost darkly. Marc had made sure that everything was in Steven's name, had set up the phone number of 'Mrs. Grant', had made sure to send postcards, to keep his alter safe and secure in his world.
Steven scowled at him.
"It's mine," he finally said. "It's… paid off."
Oh.
I… paid rent… Not really a lot… now that I think about it.
Another harrumphing sound from Khonshu. Marc shot him a dark look.
You… you have money, Steven murmured.
"Yes."
He didn't want to go into detail, telling the alter just where it came from. Marc had protected Steven from all of that.
Look how well that turned out…
From… your work?
He almost laughed. "You want to know if this is the Army's pension? Disability? Or CIA? No."
He had quite a lot, actually. Mercenaries were well-paid and he had done some very pricey jobs. He was damn good at what he had done and did. With or without the armor.
Oh… Steven mumbled again.
Marc busied himself with the fridge, which was luckily, though also woefully, empty. No rotting food or spoiled packages, but also nothing to eat.
"Do you want to stay here?" he repeated the earlier question.
I like it, was the quiet answer after some thoughtful silence.
So did Marc. Under the roof, easy access to the outside, spacious. His. No nosey landlord either.
"The tank has to go, though. Sorry, Steven."
Yes. Yes… I see… and… it wouldn't be fair to the fish, I know.
Marc glanced around, then finally found his alter's eyes in the mirror…
…and Steven was suddenly fronting, caught off guard, and he gasped in surprise. One hand flew out and caught himself at the nearest wooden beam, expecting vertigo to hit him.
"Oh. Oh-kay. Wow. I…" His eyes darted toward Khonshu's silent, watchful form. "Groceries!" he blurted. He immediately wanted to slap himself. "Sorry. Wait. No. Okay."
Marc was barely there, giving him space, probably trying to deal with the sudden normalcy… the new normal…, and Steven felt a slight tremor working through him again. He riffled through his pockets and found he had enough money to make a quick grocery run, maybe treat himself to one of those delicious avocado wraps from the deli around the corner.
Steven stopped just before reaching the door.
"H…how long do I have?" he asked without turning around. "Before…" He stopped. "Do I get a say? I mean, that just now was… a tad upsetting."
He could sense the whisper of the presence, right at his back, so ancient and powerful, yet no longer such an abrasive feel on his skin. No longer a torment. Steven had made Khonshu's case to Marc, had convinced Marc that this was him, them, all of them. Still, he was slightly terrified to be at the front and dealing with the entity, who had such a strong connection to Marc Spector, not Steven Grant.
"There is no ticking clock," Khonshu rumbled.
"Not yet?" he whispered.
When there was no answer, Steven dared to dart a look over his shoulder, saw the tall figure right behind him. Too tall to fit into this place but bending space around him in a way that he did, without distorting anything else.
"This needs time," Khonshu stated.
They needed time, Steven translated.
He chewed on his lower lip.
Then he opened the door and stepped out of his flat, determined to have a normal day. Get groceries, clean up his flat, do laundry.
Laundry! It was surreal. Absolutely surreal!
Because his new normal had included guns and blood-shed, as well as ancient Egyptian deities from another realm.
Now… laundry.
Steven wondered if this was really real or just another dream.
There was a brush of something; something he only ever felt through Marc and in a watered-down version. He didn't see a single trace of the moon god, but he felt it.
Real.
Bloody hell, it was real.
And he was doing laundry after just saving humanity… the world… the realm.
