With no job, but also no urgency to find one or else lose his home, Steven had time.

Lots of time.

He sold the fish tank. He dumped the sand. He removed the leg chain. There was no word for the relief he felt when he could finally get rid of that thing.

Steven scrubbed down the fridge and restocked the necessities. He didn't want to take any chances.

The chaos of his shelves stayed. He had a system, knew where everything was, and his fascination with Egypt was still unbroken. He shuffled some papers around, created new piles, sorted through old boxes, and decluttered a low shelf to fill it with what had occupied the floor for too long to count.

He went on extensive tours through galleries and museums, though he avoided his old work place. He was sure he was by now officially banned and would in trouble with the police if he showed up. He would have loved to walk past all those exhibits, look at what only ever been historical artifacts to him and which now held a deeper meaning.

Steven soaked up the history, stayed days on end in the other museums, talked facts and myths with whoever didn't outright dismiss him as a weirdo. One actually offered him a job position at the Petrie Museum of Egyptian Archaeology, which he shyly declined. There was too much going on, too much not normal, and he knew he was living this life on borrowed time.

What if Marc fronted because of a job? What if he woke up one morning and weeks had passed? Marc had promised, but… there was still this lingering unease.

The offer was still there and finally changed into archive work. Freelance, they called it.

Steven finally caved and accepted. He could spend some time here, do what he loved, geek out over all the ancient texts and relics, until the Moon Knight was called.

It was the most fun he had ever had, aside from being in Egypt.

Marc was there, at the edge of his consciousness, but gave him room. Just like Khonshu was suspiciously silent and invisible as he went about his days.

His life.


He and Layla didn't exactly talk a lot and Steven understood her need to take a step back, reassess her whole life and relationship with her husband, but he also wanted them to realize that they truly loved each other. Still. After everything. After all the pain and yelling and life-and-death… actual death…

Finally he texted her. She told him to get a better phone and finally they used a messenger app that also allowed video calls, though those hadn't been used yet.

According to one of her messages, she was currently in Dublin.

Steven felt a pang of… longing? It came from deep within, not really himself, but Marc didn't surface. He was there, more of a watcher than Khonshu was. He didn't push, though.

Steven let it go. He just exchanged those little messages, smiling at having a friend to talk with.

Layla told him about hunting art thieves, about reacquiring relics or just dropping hints with the right people. She sent him pictures of her adventure tours, of street restaurants, old castles or just… landscape.


He sometimes wondered if any of this might just be another weird episode; a dream. The longer he lived such a normal life, the more the dread rose that soon he would find himself somewhere, unable to remember how he had gotten there. Missing days or more. His mind a mess of confusion, heart racing, sleep-deprived and on the edge again.

That was when he checked the phone and found Layla's messages, her pictures, sometimes a brief voice message.

He would also check an account Marc had given him access to. Proving they were now co-existing. Equals. Stable. Balanced.

And he felt Khonshu's presence, though never too strongly, though it seemed to grow closer when the panic set in. Calming his fluctuating emotions, wordlessly reassuring him that this was real.


When Layla called for the first time, two months had passed.

Two months of a new normal, of no shackle around his ankle, of waking refreshed and feeling good. Two months of working without getting bullied or yelled at.

They talked about almost inane stuff. His work. Her travels. General things.

"Marc's… fine," he told her as the conversation fell into a lull. "Uhm, just so you know. In case you do. I mean… he's… away."

"Giving you the promised space?" she translated.

"I… no… it's… like healing us. In a way. I can't really… it's…."

"I understand," Layla told him, voice warm and soft. "I think I do now. And I wanted to know about Marc, thank you, Steven."

Because she still loved him.

"I kinda… miss him," he stuttered, wondering whether he was trying to reassure her, or himself, or just because he hated the silence on the phone.

She laughed, then sniffed a little. "So do I. Both of you. Maybe even Big Bird."

He chuckled. "Bloody weird…"

And didn't that describe his life just perfectly?


Steven sometimes thought he saw a shadow on the roof or in a corner at a museum, but it was never real. Lately, the ominous presence was more pronounced as time went on, hovering over him, reminding him…

Steven pushed those terrifying memories away, especially when he was alone in the museum late in the evening.

It was eerily like back then.

He hated it.

"Would you stop lurking, you pesky moon bird!" he finally snapped at the shadows, glaring into the inky darkness of one corner.

He was alone in the basement of the museum, inventorying an aisle with countless Naqada ceramics.

Khonshu huffed and leaned out of the darkness, like the monster under the bed from some horror novel. Steven didn't even flinch and he prided himself on that.

"I do not lurk."

"You do! All the bloody time! What are you waiting for? Are… are you waiting for Marc?"

"No. I merely accompany you."

He flailed a little. "What?" Steven's eyes narrowed at the moon god. "You… you're my nanny?"

It got him a snort.

"Or are you waiting for me to get bored? That I want you to offer Marc a job?"

"Maybe?"

Steven exhaled sharply. "What kind of job? Any other banished gods we need to keep an eye on?"

"No."

"Or set free?"

"No!"

The ragged edges of Khonshu's gray cape whipped up in a gust of magical force. Steven grabbed hold of his notebook he used for all his work that was dangerously close to being whipped off the desk.

"Stop that!" he cried.

The winds died down. Somewhere in the depth of the room, something clunked to the ground.

He closed his eyes and suppressed a groan. All the cabinets were closed, there were no priceless artifacts outside to topple or be pushed over. Still, no reason to behave like a two-year-old! Khonsu had emotional issues that not only rivalled Marc's, they surpassed them.

"No other gods then," he summed it up. "But Marc… is needed?"

"The Knight is always needed."

Steven studied the ancient deity, suddenly wondering if they self-actualized. Was his appearance a reflection of… him? That would explain so much, actually. And he had been an outcast for thousands of years, which meant those emotions had festered, taken root, had turned against him, expressed themselves in how he threatened, pushed and demanded.

"The world has its other evils," the moon god added.

Okay, ominous. Really ominous. And yes, Marc Spector was the Moon Knight, the justice and vengeance. It was his job.

"I like my life," he said quietly. "I know it must be boring for you…"

"It is," Khonshu told him, voice dark and slightly growly.

"Oh… uhm… right. It probably is. All the reading and typing away…"

"And it is yours." Khonshu was suddenly there, so close, the crescent moon of the staff hovering over Steven's head. "As it is mine, Steven Grant."

Because Marc was his; his avatar. A claim that was no longer one of servitude or enslavement. It rang so differently and Steven understood the intricacies of it so much better than his alter. Marc was still on a short fuse whenever Khonshu became more… aggressively proprietary, but Steven heard the nuances.

He met the empty sockets that reflected endless time, felt something caress his mind, gentle and caring, so much a reflection of what Marc always felt.

"Your mind is a pendulum," the entity said. "Equilibrium and gravity. Back and forth. Always accelerating, even at rest."

"Uhm, I… thanks?" Steven stammered, confused.

The beak was so close, the presence overwhelming, but he didn't cower. He didn't feel the endless, primal terror of before. It was a lot of respect and slight apprehension, but not because of what Khonshu was, but more of what he would demand of Marc next.

No. No, not demand. That was… the past.

"The intricacies of your mind," the god repeated. "It saved you. You saved me, Steven Grant."

"Marc did."

It got him a head-tilt. "You are the protector."

He barked out a humorless laugh. "No. I'm a lot, but not… that. That's Marc. The Moon Knight."

"You protected him. Always. From pain. A different pain than the one he protected you from."

Steven felt something in his mind, a memory, a sliver of what had happened and what neither Marc nor he could truly recall.

"I didn't understand your importance," Khonshu said in that dark, rough voice. "You have a role in his head. You have a purpose for his mind. I understood almost too late."

He frowned, the memory teasing more.

A white room.

There… on the floor… a doll. Action figure. Whatever. The crude cape. The Moon Knight. Steve felt the urge to reach for it, pick it up.

And he did.

It morphed into an ushabti. A beautiful stone representation of Khonshu, intricately detailed. Ageless, as if it had just been created… and it had.

Khonshu. He held Khonshu's prison in his hands.

It was such a lovely representation of the moon god, so perfect, so small, so breakable.

There was a sudden surge of… Steven had no idea what it was. Like riding a rollercoaster, that free fall, then another sudden ascent, only to fall once more.

In the distance someone screamed… pleaded… begged…

"M-marc?" he stammered, but his voice sounded tiny and alone in the white room.

The stone crumbled and sand ran between his fingers.

And then he was in a dark chamber, with Khonshu hovering above him, with shadowy things lurking, and there was the scream again. Marc's scream. Marc screaming out his anguish and pain, reaching for the god he had lost. He was trying to get to where the sand had piled in front of Steven and he was in agony.

A core of power exploded out of him, so bright and endless, suffusing his body, freeing him, them, the Knight. He saw the Knight's suit, enveloping Marc, caressing the hurt, shaking man, covering the anguished features. It was like an embrace, a welcome. It healed the physical wounds, unable to alleviate the mental pain.

Emotions Steven had no words for touched him, thoughts that he couldn't translate into appropriate words flowed by, and the presence that was everything surrounded his own mind.

Steven blinked, shaking his head.

He was back. In reality. Not just the memory that was weird and frightening, made no sense and still explained so much.

"You freed him, idiot," Khonshu told him with no malice. "From Ammit's jaws. You protected Marc and that gave him that one chance to reach past everything. To reach for me."

"Stop calling me that!" he exploded, then breathed shakily.

The presence was everywhere now and he closed his eyes, felt it shiver around him, touch him, caress his mind.

Terms of endearment, Layla had called it. Laughter bubbled up. For someone bullied all his life, being called an idiot wasn't a fun nick name.

"You are an idiot," Khonshu repeated, the voice in his head without using his ears. There was no sharpness, no ill intent. "Because you are too innocent." And he sounded a little exasperated, maybe close to annoyed. "But you protect fiercely."

Steven bit his lower lip, hands clenching. He might be an idiot, but he was the idiot who had survived against Ammit's judgment. The idiot who was the counter-weight. The idiot who had made Khonshu's case, had sold Marc on accepting this new partnership, on taking on a tactless, demanding, apparently cruel god once more. A god who wouldn't be here today, if not for Marc Spector. A god he, Steven Grant, had looked at and had seen the truth behind all that bluster, anger and rage.

"You are important," Khonshu rumbled, voice deep and resounding in his head.

"Why can't I remember what happened?"

"Because you were both there. You are ready to face what happened, but Marc isn't. You still protect him, Steven Grant. You have since we returned."

He stared at the weathered skull, the ancient energy reflected in the empty sockets. The truth. He protected Marc, wanted him to have time and space, to recover, to heal. Marc had been so accommodating in letting Steven front. There had never been a single push, never a comment, and Steven lead his life… protecting Marc while Marc did the same by staying away.

Steven swallowed as the truth settled in, the emotions clear, the meaning absolutely crystal. They couldn't do this alone, pretending to have walls between them that had shattered a long time ago.

"We're idiots," he whispered.

Khonshu chuckled roughly.

He closed his eyes, shivering with the tender contact. The mind-touch was like a caress, like an embrace. It was almost loving; like a hug. Steven couldn't fight the soft, soft sigh that escaped him. It was embarrassing.

And complicated. Really, really complicated.

Because Marc was Khonshu's. The moon god was interwoven with his chosen, closer than any other deity was with their respective avatar. So much closer and on a level that was unbreakable. Steven was… not Marc, but there was still a connection.

"Stop lurking," he finally whispered, shaken but also feeling so much stronger. "It's creepy. Just… stop it."

Khonshu chuckled. "Deal," he rumbled.