Marc
i.
Marc Spector knows three things:
- He could have saved Abdallah El-Faouly. (A message that he is constantly reminded of.)
- He is still married to Layla El-Faouly. He is still married to the daughter of the man he could not (could have) saved. The woman he hid so much from, for so long.
- He is officially, utterly fucked.
Here’s what he doesn’t know:
- The list is too long. Too damn long.
And it keeps getting longer and longer and longer.
ii.
“A knife? Are you flirting with me, Marc?”
“There are no mirrors in the room. I took them down.” As if that explained anything.
His eyes are blown wide and frantic. Marc’s- definitely Marc, Layla thinks. Steven wouldn’t sleep with a knife and Jake would’ve stabbed her with it- knuckles are white around the hilt of the knife.
“Okay,” Layla whispers. As if she expected nothing less.
“Okay, love. Now put the knife down.” She adds as an afterthought, with a quick downward glance to where the knife lay against her cheek, “Please.”
Marc’s eyes shutter for a moment before rolling to the back of his head. Layla can pinpoint the exact moment Steven fronts, she’s seen this happen a million times before.
“The knife, please, Steven.”
Steven drops it without hesitation. “Layla?”
“Hey, handsome. Are you guys okay?”
You guys. She’s still getting used to the phrasing. She’s getting used to the system as a whole.
“I- yeah. Fine.”
“Okay,” she whispers again. “Do you wanna talk about it?”
Steven shifts, causing the bed to dip slightly. He props himself up with his elbows and places his head in his hands.
“Strangest thing, that,” He grins at her apologetically. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “I can’t remember. Typical, innit?”
“Mhm.” Though Lyla has a feeling that Steven fronted on purpose.
Steven pretends not to see the blood coating his palms, his knees.
iii.
Mercy, Jake tells himself, when his knuckles are split open and conscience is just as bloody as his hands. Mercy is our friend and our clutch and eventually will be our salvation, too.
Even so, he can’t bring himself to look away from the bodies.
“You did what you had to,” Khonshu probes, voice rough like stone. “You are my vengeance. And are their salvation, Jake Lockey.”
Mercy, Jake tells himself again. And again. And again.
Mercy, mercy, mercy.
(But the bodies keep piling and heads keep rolling and he can’t help but wonder if he is not salvation but destruction.)
iv.
Heavy rain pelts Marc, soaking him to the bone, but his suit is completely dry. His gloves are dripping black.
It’s dark- midnight, probably- and he’s here. Though he has no idea where here is.
(Again, the list of things he doesn’t know is too goddamn long-)
But the bodies tell him enough. The Scarlett Scarab, Layla, tells him enough; her twin shamshirs covered in grime and reflecting the moon. Marc laughs dryly when she catches him staring. Of course he would front now. Jake runs from emotions like Steven runs towards them.
Layla tilts her head at him. He recovers quickly, shaking his head. “Damn, you’re hot.”
She glances down at her dirty suit in distaste. “Got a new kink, Marc?”
One look at her face and he knows that she knows that he’s lying. His wife nods, confirming:
“It was mainly Jake. I only got two.”
(he knows that she knows that he knows that she already knew- enough already)
“Fuck.”
The rainwater mingles with the blood on the ground. It looks like strawberry milk, the kind his mother would serve as a special treat after Yom Kippur. Fuck.
“What are we doing here, Lay?”
Layla El-Faouly sheathes her weapons and grasps her husband’s face in her hands. She explains to him quietly, gesturing towards Konshu and Tawaret looming on a nearby building. They were rapists, human traffickers. Of course- Tawaret is only interested in hurting the ones who did the hurting first.
Marc’s head pounds. The smell of spilled guts and stringy viscera makes him nauseous. But he steels himself. “Some of them are still alive.”
(Mercy, Marc. Mercy is our friend and our clutch and eventually will be our salvation, too)
& as he works through the moonlight, the rain, the stars, the blood-
Is this what you call salvation?
Layla
i.
Layla El-Faouly Spector knew they were living on borrowed time. Marc is still the Moon Knight; she is still the Scarlett Scarab.
They both knew what that meant.
She feels feral, astral: “Dysphoria is a feeling, Layla dear." Tawaret loves that word almost as much as she hates most men. Layla is beginning to think Tawaret doesn't even know what it means.
ii.
To Layla, they’re like the ocean. Swift and salty and receding. Beautiful and dangerous and safe.
A hellish ocean, at that. Does hell have an ocean?
"Are you so dissatisfied with this life, Layla dear?"
"Is this how Marc feels all the time? Shut up, please, Tawaret."
Does she miss the days when it was just her, and Marc, and the nonexistent (or so she thought) secrets between them? Yes. Hell, she aches for it.
But then there is Steven. Steven, who is sweet and soft and innocent where Marc is not.
And Jake.
She isn't sure about Jake yet- but she knows she trusts him.
"It's not hell if you like the way it burns, Layla dear."
iii.
“Don’t bleed on my floor.”
Jake just grins. Doesn’t even attempt to staunch the blood. So different from Steven, or even Marc.
“Sorry, mamí.”
Already, the wound in his stomach was scabbing over. Layla frowns at the red dripping down Jake’s bare chest. Discoloring (and probably staining) the floor.
“You’re cleaning that up.”
Steven fronts for half a second before Jake takes over again. A flicker of fear and pain, replaced by a mask of calm.
"Fix it." Tawaret whispers. Layla was going to, anyways. But Tawaret loves love more than she loves Dysphoria, Layla dear.
(Truthfully Layla loves love too but she’s not one to admit it)
“You are his salvation, Layla dear.”
Layla El-Faouly fills a bowl with water and hands it to Jake before grabbing a towel and some ointment. He stares at his rippled reflection in the liquid. She wonders if he actually sees Marc there, scattered and distorted, or if it’s all in his head.