Title: Why I'm here
Summary: One month after Marc's breakdown in London, it's not the Moon Knight's original host that interrupts Steven Grant's ordinary life. Instead, it's Jake Lockley who wakes up in that cramped London apartment – and he's not shy to immediately clue in Steven about their mental condition and the work they do for Khonshu. If Marc knew Steven would be left at the mercy of his murderous alter, he'd be turning in his sarcophagus – but the two polar opposite halves of him strike up an unexpected friendship with each other. By the time Marc comes to, he finds his alters have all ganged up on him and conspired with both Khonshu and Layla behind his back. Really, he leaves them alone for a few weeks and everything is turned upside down. It remains to be seen if this is a good or a bad thing.
AN: Hello my dear readers! Welcome to a new Moon Knight fanfic. For those of you who haven't read "The Chameleon" and "The biggest liar" yet: What are you waiting for? Those stories are already completed (or close to it) and are just waiting for you.
This fanfic however has nothing to do with them and is completely separate. After watching the end of season 1, I was really intrigued by the idea of a third alter being thrown in. I have since read a few comic stories but none of them really characterized either Jake or Steven. So I made up my own version of what Jake could be like, building on what limited information I had. I came up with 3-4 different versions, all of which bore their own story. The Jake in this fanfic is therefore different from the one in my previous stories. He has different information, things he knows and does not know. I changed some details in their backstory and, because in this universe Jake started on the Ammit mission earlier than Marc did, the main plot also changes. Almost the whole story is written from Jake's POV, however there's a little side story from Steven's POV sprinkled over everything. In it he tells his perspective in therapy, a few months after the events of "Why I'm here". I imagined it would be interesting to write a story with just the boys going to therapy and retelling their crazy life, just to have this difference in perspective when a normal person listens to them. But that didn't give me quite enough material so I decided on this format instead and combined the two ideas. So Steven gets to tell a little intro/recap in front of each chapter but mostly, this is a story about Jake.
Please enjoy and let me know in the comments what you think!
XxX
Dr. Leonard Samson sat behind his large, mahogany desk, his fingers drumming absently on the polished surface. His office was on the smaller side, but meticulously designed—sleek, minimalistic furniture, dark, calming colors, and shelves lined with books on psychology, psychiatry, and the occasional philosophical work. The walls were adorned with modern art pieces, abstract enough to provoke thought without distracting the eye. A heavy air of professionalism lingered in the space, mixed with the faint scent of leather and sandalwood.
He glanced at the clock on the wall. Steven Grant was late, but Samson had learned long ago not to jump to conclusions about the timeliness of his patients. There were all kinds of reasons why people couldn't make it on time, some more legitimate than others. He shifted in his chair, settling into his thoughts. He hadn't read much on Steven's case yet—just a brief summary from the intake form. There wasn't a lot of context. He'd listed 'memory problems', 'nightmares' and 'trying to overcome a tiny religious crisis' as his reasons for coming. He was expecting someone who had maybe recently lost his faith but still struggled with a fear of hell or something – though he had to wonder why Mr. Grant would come to him then. Religious trauma was not Dr. Samson's specialty.
The door creaked open, pulling him from his reverie. He looked up, seeing a man standing in the doorway, his figure slightly hunched, a nervous smile stretched across his face. He couldn't be older than his early thirties, with neatly brushed brown hair that fell across his forehead. His clothes were clean and looked new, as did the bag he was clutching to his side. Considering Samson was slightly more expensive than the average psychiatrist, Mr. Grant was either doing very well for himself or had wealthy friends.
"Mr. Grant?" Samson said, his voice even but warm, offering an easy entry into the session.
Steven blinked a few times, his mouth opening as though he were about to speak but then stopping himself. His nervousness was almost palpable—Samson could feel it in the air, like the static before a storm.
"Y-yes, that's me," Steven stammered, clearing his throat. "Sorry, I'm a bit early—no, no, wait, sorry. Late, right. I'm late. I—" He broke off with an awkward laugh that came across more like a squeak than anything remotely humorous.
Samson didn't mind the late arrival. He'd had clients like Steven before—people who found it hard to sit still, hard to settle into themselves. And there was something endearing about Steven's disarming self-awareness. It wasn't the first time someone had been this nervous in his office, though Steven's clumsy politeness struck him as particularly genuine.
"Don't worry about it," Dr. Samson said, gesturing to the armchair across from his desk. "Please, take a seat."
Steven hesitated for just a second longer, as though unsure of where to put his body in the room. He placed his bag down on the floor with careful precision and slowly sat down, like he was trying not to make any sudden movements. His hands fidgeted nervously in his lap.
Samson observed him with a clinical detachment, noting the way Steven's hands kept twitching, his shoulders hunched, as though he were constantly bracing himself for something unexpected. He jumped at every little noise, as if he was actively listening for something that wasn't there.
"Do you mind if we get started?" Samson asked, giving Steven the space to settle in.
"Oh! Yes, of course, yes," Steven replied quickly, straightening up and adjusting his tie, which only seemed to make him more uncomfortable. "Right, uh... sorry. Just a bit... bit of a morning, you know?"
Samson nodded, not expecting much more than that. It was a common response from people who found themselves in therapy for the first time, especially if they were pushed to come here by others. "I understand," he said, leaning back slightly in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. "You're here now, and that's what matters."
The words seemed to ground Steven a little, his shoulders relaxing just the slightest bit. He inhaled deeply, the nervous energy still radiating off him, but it was as though he was trying to meet Dr. Samson halfway—wanting to be understood but unsure how to navigate it.
"Right," Steven muttered, his eyes flicking briefly to the floor before looking back up at Dr. Samson. "So, uh, I guess... I guess we just talk, yeah? About... whatever, right?"
"Exactly," Samson replied, his tone reassuring but professional. "This is your space, Steven. You can talk about whatever is on your mind. There's no rush, no judgment here. We'll go at your pace."
Steven gave a tight, awkward laugh, one that almost sounded more like an exhale than a genuine expression of amusement. "Blimey, I have no idea where to even start..."
Samson didn't rush to fill the silence. Instead, he waited, letting Steven wrestle with his thoughts. He gave him a small, knowing smile, one that was warm without being overbearing. "How about the beginning?" he suggested gently, his tone encouraging but neutral.
Steven's laugh was hollow, like a balloon slowly deflating. "If I do that, we'll have to go all the way back to my childhood, and then we'll be sitting here for years still." His words tumbled out faster now, almost too quickly, as though he were afraid of what might happen if he slowed down. "I mean, I probably should be sitting here next year still, in therapy, if I want to do this right—but it's just... not why I came. Or maybe it is... I don't know. The point is, there's so much stuff I have to tell you just for context before I can even get started on what's actually bothering me."
Samson gave him a reassuring smile. Contrary to popular belief, not every problem had the roots in the childhood of a patient, and even if it did, not always was it necessary to make that the focus of the therapy. No matter how complicated something sounded in ones head, more often than not it could be summarized in a few sentences.
"Alright," Samson said, his voice calm and inviting, "then let's start with what made you decide to seek out help. What has recently changed in your life that made you decide to seek my help? Why are you here?"
The question was simple, but he saw it land with weight. Steven froze for just a moment before letting out a shaky breath, his nervous energy visibly thickening in the air between them. "Why am I here…?" Steven whispered with a pained, slightly despairing look as if those simple words were already threatening to plunge him into an existential crisis. "That's a bloody good question. I..." Steven faltered, his hands wringing together on his lap.
"Well, I suppose it all started two months ago. Blimey, I can't believe it's only been two months, but yeah. I lived in London. In a..." He hesitated, his eyes darting around the room as if looking for the right way to phrase it. "A little studio apartment. That belonged to my—my mum. I thought. But... that comes later." The hesitation was obvious, and Samson noted it.A flat he thought belonged to his mom? There was a story there but Samson merely leaned forward slightly, his voice gentle but firm. "It's okay, Steven. Take your time. You're in control here."
Steven nodded quickly, almost as if the reassurance helped him find his footing. "I had a flat. I had a goldfish! Gus, he's great. He only has one fin, though," Steven added with a quick, nervous smile, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "And I had a job. I worked in a gift shop at the museum. My boss hated me, and I was always late and sick, and I hated her, but, you know, it paid the rent. Or at least, Ithoughtit did."
Steven's face contorted, and he squeezed his eyes shut for just a moment, like he was trying to push back something unspoken. "I... oh, this is harder than I thought."
He looked like he was physically in pain and Samson had to correct his expectations. This was not a simple case of just some recent tragedy that shook this man's faith. Before him sat a man who had seen his whole world crumble down and who was still looking to pick up all the pieces.
Samson's gaze softened further, and he leaned back in his chair, giving Steven the space to breathe. "You're doing great," he said, his voice calm but steady. "It's okay to feel overwhelmed. You don't need to rush through it. We can go step by step, whenever you're ready."
The encouragement was enough to shift something in Steven's posture. The tension in his shoulders seemed to ease just a little. He looked up, eyes wide, his nervous smile flickering again—less awkward this time, as though he were starting to believe that maybe, just maybe, it would be okay to continue. Samson's calmness was giving him something to hold onto, a steadying force in the midst of his own chaos.
"Alright," Steven said softly, his voice fragile but resolute."It was an ordinary day. To this day, I still don't know what it was about that particular day. Maybe... maybe my time had just run out, or something. I don't think I was ever supposed to stay that long."
XxX
Chapter 1 - Morning in London
Jake blinked awake, staring up at an unfamiliar ceiling. His entire body froze, muscles tense, heart racing. He listened, not yet daring to move, cursing himself for already giving away the fact that he was awake.
Warm sheets were under his back. Soft, non-restricting clothing. The temperature was a bit cold but not freezing. The air was clean. There was a faint electric humming in the background—a fridge next door, perhaps. More distantly, there were traffic sounds outside. No voices, no footsteps. He slipped his hand underneath the pillow. No knife. No gun. Damn.
Carefully, slowly, Jake turned his head and relaxed a bit. He was alone in the bed.
Jake sat up and took his first good look around. He was in what looked like a very messy studio apartment. The walls narrowed above, forming a roof. The sleeping area was divided by a filled bookshelf on one side and a cupboard with a fish tank on the other. Beyond that, he could glimpse a small dining table and a kitchenette. A white door to the left presumably led to a bathroom, and another door opposite the sleeping area and a bit to the left looked like the entrance. The place was so small that, with just one look from the bed, he could take it all in.
No noises were coming from the bathroom, but it was still the first place Jake checked. Nobody was inside. He was alone. Jake stood in the middle of the apartment, still in pajamas, feeling... a bit lost.
Where was he? What had woken him up? What day was it?
The last thing Jake remembered was the argument he'd had with Khonshu, back in Cairo. Khonshu wanted to root out the entirety of Harrow's cult but upon further pressing had reluctantly admitted not all of its members were actually guilty of any crimes. They'd settled on focusing on the leader and on securing the artifact he was after.
As Jake stepped toward the window and looked outside at a cloudy morning in a busy city, with cars all driving on the wrong side like the Brits, it was obvious quite some time must've passed. How much, Jake had no way of knowing.
Jake looked around again. There was a mug in the sink, still dirty with dried tea leaves, and dishes from a meal he didn't recall eating. There was dirty laundry next to the bed, and the windows had probably never seen water from the inside, ever. Marc would never leave a place he lived in as dirty as this. The guy was a bit of a clean freak.
Jake's gaze went to the bookshelf next. There was some adventure fiction and poetry in English, as well as French. Most of the books were about ancient history, especially Egyptian history and mythology though. Again, definitely not something Marc would read. For being the avatar of an Egyptian deity, he was remarkably unwilling to learn anything about them. The fish tank, though, was what convinced Jake that this definitely was not a place belonging to Marc. There was only a single, one-finned goldfish swimming in it, but even that was a creature Marc wouldn't be able to keep alive, with how much he traveled around the globe.
Jake's stomach grumbled, and he checked the fridge. But there was nothing edible in there, just bread, salad, veggies, and stuff like that. No beer, no pizza, no sausage, not even cheese. Jake didn't often front long enough to have to feed the body himself. Thus, he didn't usually bother to eat, even if he was hungry, unless there was something available he actually liked. And Jake was very much a carnivore.
He closed the fridge and once more stood there, lost in thought.
Different things could trigger Jake awake. It wasn't always consistent, and it had changed over the years. But lately, there had been two very reliable triggers for him. One: Marc was in great pain or overcome with fear or panic from being outnumbered, overpowered, or about to fail. Those switches were always abrupt, a little disorienting, and usually landed Jake in the middle of a fight for his life. If he came to in costume, Khonshu was usually nearby to helpfully inform him whether it was a fight or a flight situation. His personal default was fight, and more often than not the enemies he was faced with when in costume were of the kind that Khonshu wanted dead so he'd go all out. If he was in plain clothes, Jake would endeavor to merely beat up his attackers, unless he felt his life was actually in danger. Afterward, he'd retreat, giving the body back to Marc.
The second kind of trigger was actually Khonshu himself. Not always, but often, whenever Khonshu appeared to Marc, Jake would stir awake as well. He wouldn't switch; most often he wouldn't even be able to see anything. He would just hear faint noises, muffled conversations, feel the body's movements, and the pain when it got hurt. It was like being stuffed into the trunk of a car. If he concentrated, focused, and fought for it, he could push himself into the "backseat"—still unnoticed but capable of following everything Marc did at the wheel. He could then fight to take control, too. But if he did so without Marc being in some kind of panic, it cost a lot of energy and would weaken him for quite some time. So Jake had to pick his battles, preserving his energy and resting in the mindscape until he was truly needed.
Looking around now, Marc hadn't been in any sort of danger. Jake shouldn't be awake, much less aware. It had been years since he'd just... woken up like this, with nothing but the sun to trigger him awake. He stepped to the window again, scowling at the cloud cover. He would've liked to see the actual sun. It had been a while since he'd last set eyes on it.
Well, Jake couldn't just stay here the whole day. Whoever lived here would be back soon. It might be a friend (yeah right, as if he had any of those), a colleague of Marc's, or even a safe house or abandoned place he crashed in. In any case, he shouldn't spend too much time here.
Jake looked around for a backpack or duffel bag, anything that looked like Marc's where he might've left his clothes. But he found nothing. The clothes in the closet were a good fit though, so he picked a plain gray shirt and some blue jeans. Then he started to look for Marc's phone and wallet. There was one unfamiliar, cheap model on the nightstand. The contact list was empty except for two entries: "Mum" and "Donna." Since Marc would rather die than call his mother, Jake left that phone behind, assuming it belonged to the flat's owner. He did find a wallet in a jacket hanging by the entrance door. It held a bit of cash, a giro card—and an ID card. An ID card with Jake's face under the name "Steven Grant."
Jake's eyebrows rose. It wasn't the first forged ID he'd seen. Jake even used to have one himself. He knew Marc had one, too, from the incident at the dig site that had almost cost them their lives and left them internationally wanted. But Marc only changed his nationality and details like birth date, not his name. This particular alias was unknown to him.
What had happened to make Marc travel to Britain under a foreign alias and then stir Jake awake when there was no nearby danger? What about the mission for Khonshu? Had he already completed it?
Jake pocketed the wallet and did one more sweep of the flat, more thorough this time. He opened every drawer, every cupboard, searched the bookshelf, and even lifted the decoration in the fish tank. He found no golden scarab. It wasn't here. Which meant either Marc hadn't found it yet, or he'd hidden it elsewhere.
What he did find, however, was another phone and a key hidden in a compartment in the ceiling. The phone held a number of contacts that sounded vaguely familiar—underground connections from Marc's days as a merc. There were also two dozen missed calls from someone named Layla. Shrugging, Jake turned off the phone and pocketed it.
There was no point in lingering here. Already an hour had passed, and Marc showed no sign of resurfacing. So Jake grabbed the jacket he'd found the wallet in and left the flat.
Once outside, the first thing Jake did was buy himself a newspaper and a baseball cap. It was ingrained in him to always try to wear some kind of headwear, to at least rudimentary disguise himself when he was out for longer.
The newspaper let him know he was currently in London. The date was April 27—a Monday. Which wasn't very useful at all.
First things first: He had to get into an open but secluded area to call upon Khonshu. Hopefully, the moon god could shed some light on his situation.
Jake took off down the street, heading for smaller alleys and backstreets until he eventually found a relatively deserted square. After making doubly sure nobody had followed him or was watching, he spoke the god's name aloud, hoping it would be enough to summon him even in daylight, even without the suit.
He was not disappointed.
"At last,"Khonshu spoke, every pale bandage quivering with impatience. The god appeared right in front of Jake, his thin frame towering over him and the long beak of the bird skull that served as his head bearing down on him in an almost threatening manner."You took your sweet time, my avatar."
"I'm Jake," he growled, frowning at the god. He was not appreciating the attempt to make him feel small, not in the least. "Your avatar, Marc, isn't here."
The end of the god's crescent-bladed staff met the ground audibly.
"Marc promised me his soul, his life, and all of his being. That includes you. If he is not available to finish the mission, then you will have to."
Jake did not mind working for Khonshu, he truly didn't. If anything, the suit and its powers increased his ability to protect his hermano. But he did not take too well to being ordered around, especially when nobody had ever asked him if he wanted this job. Granted, if he had been asked, he would've happily said yes, but still. It was the principle of it.
"Fine, jefe," he allowed, swallowing the churning anger in him. "What is the mission then? Are we still looking for the scarab?"
"Indeed. The tomb the scarab had been hidden in for millennia was raided decades ago, its contents spread all around the world. Marc had a list of possible leads."
Jake pointedly turned the empty pockets of his jacket inside out. "Well, I don't have any list. I just woke up in freaking London, in a place I don't recognize. Not even a motel, just a flat that definitely didn't belong to your puño. Any idea what's brought him here? Was one of the leads in this city?"
"No. Marc has gotten distracted. You have to find the list, find the scarab before Harrow does."
"Distracted?" Jake asked, narrowing his eyes. Sure, finding the scarab and preventing the rise of Ammit was a big deal, but the safety and well-being of his hermano were more important. It wasn't like Marc to just skip on the god they owed their life to, not when there was so much at stake. "What do you mean by that?"
"That is of no importance to you,"Khonshu claimed imperiously.
"Everything to do with Marc is important to me," Jake protested. "Where is he? Why did I wake up here when he didn't need me?"
"Everything?"Khonshu scoffed."You never involved yourself in the private affairs of your other self. Keep it that way. You need to carry on in his absence. If you too let yourself be sucked into his problems, then what would be the point of having you?"
"I help him solve his problems!" Jake protested.
"Only when the problem is something you can shoot in the head or threaten into submission. You are a blunt tool, Jake Lockley. Know your place. Find the list. Finish the mission. Everything else does not concern you."
With that frustrating non-answer, the god vanished into thin air, leaving Jake to curse at empty air.
Damn.
Jake had already searched the flat for the scarab. There had been no list other than one of groceries. The only thing that vaguely even looked like it might belong to Marc was the ID card and the hidden phone and key. Jake pulled out the key but didn't recognize the logo on the chain. Chances were good Marc had a locker or storage unit or something, somewhere, but Jake didn't even have a place to start. What worried him more than the lack of leads for the mission, though, was Marc's disappearance. It wasn't the first time this had happened. About seven years ago, Jake had found himself suddenly in control of the body too. Marc had been gone for months, leaving Jake in charge. But back then, the problem had been much more obvious and it was, as Khonshu put it, something he could shoot in the head.
Even if this was different, as the god claimed, if something had spooked Marc so far back into their shared head that he gave control to Jake on what appeared to be a perfectly ordinary day, then Jake needed to know what that was. He couldn't protect Marc if he didn't know what was going on.
And so, instead of the key chain, Jake pulled out the phone instead, his only other clue. He turned it on, going back to that contact that had called Marc a dozen times without answer. He hesitated, his finger hovering over the call-back button. As much as Khonshu's words irked him, calling him blunt, in one case the god had spoken true: Jake didn't usually involve himself in Marc's private affairs. What if Layla was a clingy girlfriend he'd dumped? Calling her back might make things worse then. Especially since Jake knew he sounded different than Marc. Jake didn't want to reveal his presence to someone Marc didn't trust.
Jake was still thinking when the decision was made for him, and the phone in his hand started ringing. Layla was calling again.
Jake took the call.
"Hello?" he said, careful to pronounce the word cleanly, without a hint of his usual Spanish accent.
"Marc? Oh my god, you're alive! Are you okay? Where are you?" a woman's voice, presumably Layla, asked him frantically.
"...Fine. All things considered," he answered vaguely, avoiding her question about his whereabouts.
"All things considered?" she echoed him. "What does that mean? You— you just vanished, and then you sent me those papers and you're not answering any of my calls— what is going on?"
Papers? Jake perked up. Could it be that Layla had the list?
"What was in those papers?" he asked.
"What was...? Are you joking?" she asked angrily.
"No, just making sure you got the right package," he said tensely.
"Well, unless you're married to another Layla El-Faouly, yes, I think I got the right package! Seriously, Marc! If there was a problem, we could've talked about it. But divorce? And... And you couldn't even tell me in person? You better have a damn good excuse for this shit!"
Jake felt like his stomach just dropped to his knees.
Marc had a wife?! Since when? And why were they divorcing?
A terrible suspicion overcame Jake. Was it because of him? Had he done or said something to this woman he didn't know, maybe in passing somewhere, not having recognized her? Marc deserved all the wives he wanted; he deserved a fucking harem as far as Jake was concerned, and the last thing he wanted was to be the reason he denied himself happiness. But it didn't sound as if Marc had given her a reason.
"...I do think I do, actually," Jake said, his heart beating wildly. He had to fix this. Whatever it was, he had to find out. If it had nothing to do with him, if this Layla was truly someone Marc didn't want to see again, he'd scare her off and make sure she left him alone. But if he was somehow the reason they were splitting up, he had to fix it.
"I'm in London. Where are you?"
"London?" Layla echoed incredulously. "I... I'm in Cairo, still. What are you doing in London?"
"Long story. Not something I can talk about over the phone," he replied.
"Okay. Okay, I can be in London by tomorrow. But you're alright? There's nobody trying to kill you or anything?" Layla asked.
Jake gave a short laugh. "I want to see the fool that'll try."
A short silence.
"Marc? You sure you're alright? You don't sound like yourself."
"Not over the phone," he insisted again. "Look, just meet me tomorrow at 12 at the London Eye. Don't miss it. I don't know how much longer I can stay here." He ended the call before Layla could grow more suspicious about his voice and turned off the phone for good measure.
Now he just had to make sure to remain in control for the next 24 hours.
Jake spent the remaining day visiting every public locker, baggage drop, and storage facility in London, looking for a place that fit the key chain he'd found. And indeed, on his fifth try, he struck gold. There was a storage container with everything a wanted criminal might need: several forged IDs in Marc's name, fresh clothes, a cot, cash, and (good boy) guns. In a side pocket of the duffel bag, he also found a note in Marc's handwriting with a list of people, places, and what looked like the names of museums. There were fifteen names in total, with over half of them already crossed out. The next one closest to Jake now was all the way down in Munich, Germany. He could catch a plane and be there within a few hours. But finding out what had happened to Marc was more important. Jake decided he'd wait to meet Layla before he went traipsing around the world.
So he merely grabbed some of the cash and one of the ID's. Reluctantly, he left the guns, figuring it would be better if they stayed at a place Marc knew to look for them and left the storage unit. It was almost evening by then, and he was growing really hungry, so he stopped at a McDonald's for a few burgers.
That was the first time since he woke up that Jake started to feel that familiar pressure behind his temple. Jake didn't know whether to be relieved or annoyed. Relieved that Marc seemed to be back, but annoyed about the timing. Once Marc pushed him down, there was no telling when Jake would surface again, and he would almost certainly miss his meeting with Layla.
Jake didn't usually fight to keep the body. It was Marc who gave it to him when Jake was needed, and he didn't demand it back unless the danger was over. Jake didn't have a life to live on his own, no friends, not even enemies. He was only here for Marc. But this time, he was worried, and he was honestly not sure that whatever Marc was doing was really in his best interest. And so, for the first time in maybe ever, Jake did not budge, and he grit his teeth when the pressure rose to a headache and he mutinously took another bite of his hamburger and did not step back.
And then, the weirdest thing happened. Jake's reflection in the metal holder of paper towels on the table started to move on its own. And it talked.
"Oh my days. What is happening? W-Where am I? Why can't I move? Is that... Am I eating at McDonald's!?"
Jake blinked, confused at his strangely nervous-looking mini-self in the reflection. He was no stranger to odd things going on in his mind, and the novelty of talking to things others couldn't see had faded after his fifth or so job as Moon Knight. But this was new, even to him.
He narrowed his eyes at the apparition. That… That wasn't Marc. The posture, the accent, those nervous eyes…
Who the fuck was that?